Andy Richardson: Elusive trout sent this fisherman on the hunt for a takeaway

We were coming towards the end of a happy and creative project. All we needed to do to complete his book was take photographs of him fly fishing; a favourite Sunday pursuit. And so we checked diaries, sought out opportunities and made arrangements. This was to be the climax of a lengthy project and so he pushed the boat out, entering himself in a competition with two dozen of the region’s finest fly fisherman. What could possibly go wrong?

Well, pretty much everything, as it happens.

He sent me the postcode to a lake somewhere near Birmingham Airport that was stocked with trout up to 14lbs in weight. The lake was generously stocked and he’d have little difficulty bagging a netful. I set off early and parked beside the lake.

“Where are you?” came the text message, 30 minutes later. It turned out there were two lakes, one for sailing and another for fishing. And like Rod Stewart on a 1975 song-writing day, I’d gone to the wrong one. We weren’t sailing. We were fishing.

I pulled up just in time for the start of the competition. Other competitors had arrived earlier to feast on the complimentary bacon, sausage and egg breakfasts that had been laid on. But then some of them got a little bit too hungry and polished off sustenance intended for others. And so, a merry band of glutinous fishermen and those with grumbling, empty bellies congregated for the grand draw. A man with Brummy vowels stepped forward like Sepp Blatter at a FIFA draw and offered them a bag of balls. “Pick your peg.”

My friend choose number 24. And, curiously, there wasn’t a peg with that number. The guy in charge had, presumably, not been particularly hot at maths and had placed the pegs as follows: 22, 23, 25, 26, 27. Nice.

My friend managed to squeeze in and settled down to harvest trout. Nothing. Nada. Pip. The trout evidently knew he was being photographed for a book and decided to sink to the bottom. Elsewhere on the lake, fishermen toiled with muscular fish that were landed in nets as my friend changed his fly and grew increasingly exasperated.

After a fruitless hour, it was time to move to a new peg. He’d been allocated number 12 by the guy who was rubbish at maths. And perhaps it ought not to have surprised us that another man had also been allocated number 12, leaving my friend high and dry and without a peg to fish from.

“Don’t worry, take number one,” the leader told him. So he stumbled around the edge of the lake, weighed down by kit, to find another guy fishing from that, too.

“I’ve missed my breakfast, I haven’t caught a fish and I haven’t been given a peg. I think I’ll just go now and get drunk,” he said. But worse was to come.

While he’d been sent to the best side of the lake, the absence of a peg meant he had once more to make do with a perch beside trees. And the trout were damn sure they weren’t going anywhere near him. In an act of wilful and brilliant dissent, they’d all swum back to the other side of the lake and into the waiting nets of rivals.

As the minutes ticked past, my friend gave up hope of winning the competition. “I don’t care anymore,” he said. “I just want to catch one fish.” He didn’t. As the whistle blew, he’d managed to catch as many fish as he had bacon and egg sandwiches. None. His kit was soaked, he’d been bitten by gnats and his pals were crowing about their prowess.

The luck of the draw hadn’t favoured him and our three hour photo session had turned into a pleasant morning during which we’d put the world to rights and eaten more rambling and wild autumnal blackberries than we had fish.

Of the two dozen or so fishermen, he may have been the best-known, best-equipped and most likely to be cooking a fish supper that evening – but he was the only one who’d had to settle for a takeaway.