“Never mind, Charlie. You almost caught him,” I kindly reminded him as the dead fish floated away.

“You guys don't believe I was going to pretend that I had caught that fish?” asked Charlie, hiding behind his 10-weight. Pliny just laughed and quoted Andrew Lang, “'The spectral fish come and go, the ghosts of trout flit to and fro.'” By now the sun had all but set and Bragger spoke earnestly to Charles.

“Go on Charlie, have a throw. Try a couple of casts.” He rigged his 4-weight with floating line and 4X tippet. To this he added a favourite fly, a floaty, fluffy kind of peacock thing tied on a 16 down-eyed shortshank.

“Just sort of float it out. No need to cast across the lake. Concentrate on lightness and accuracy rather than distance,” said Bragger patiently.

With two whips he laid out 25m of line and the fly settled gently on the water right at the edge of a weedbank. A familiar vee cut the water where a cruising fish turned to intercept the offered morsel. Bragger turned to Charlie beside him and thrust the rod into his hands. Charlie had gone fishless all day and, principle or not, there was no way he could ignore the wave cutting towards a fly attached to a rod he was holding. Dropping his nice new 10-weight he tensed to meet the imminent take.

“Gentle, Charlie. That's a big fish and your tippet is thin,” reminded Bragger as the fish turned with the fly. Charlie set the hook and the game was on.

It is a fact that Charles Normal is an angler of renown. Despite his disbelief in fragile tippets he fought that fish around the lake. Run after run stripped line from his reel, but each time Charlie skillfully worked the fish till it lay exhausted at his feet.

“Pure fluke,” he said disdainfully, as I netted the 8-pound trout. “The fish must be sick,” he said as I released the exquisite rainbow hen.

All of which did nothing to stop him flicking his fly out towards a cruising fish close in. No sooner had his fly touched the water than it was engulfed. The trout sped off and, gaining the sanctuary of weeds, skulked in the cover. Charlie turned the air blue. He cursed the fish, the rod, the weeds and the lack of 12-pound fluorescent bass line at the end of his leader. Mostly his deprecations were directed at poor old Bragger and myself. To hear him tell it, his predicament was entirely our fault. Had we not deprived him of his 10-weight, why, he could have just winched that old fish out of there.

“Had we not deprived you of your 10-weight, you would still have been wondering where the fish were,” said Bragger, losing patience. “Just keep a gentle steady pressure and be ready for the run.”

Sure enough, the fish eventually moved and was soon swinging from the scale. “Ten-and-a-half pounds,” sang I.

As Charles lifted his line for a third cast Bragger stopped him.

“Better replace your tippet, Charlie. You've caught 18 pounds of fish on that one and it has earned retirement.”

“Wouldn't need to do that with my 10-weight,” said Charlie petulantly, as he allowed Bragger to snip off the old frail end. In no time his tippet was reconstructed and into the falling gloom he sent his fly. The tiny hook settled into the surface film and was soon lost to all but the keenest sight.

The wind had fallen clean away, leaving the water glassy and still. Charlie was all for skeetering the fly back in at about 8 knots, but we prevailed upon him to leave it out there, still, except for an occasional twitch. A puff of air arose over the water and in the riffled surface the fly was lost.

“I can't see anything,” whined Charles from beneath a blanket of mosquitoes.

“'Leave us your rod,'” muttered Pliny in the dry grasses. “'This is not thy profession. Thou must hunt after conquering of realms and countries.'”

“Isn't that from Plutarch's Life of Antonius?” I asked, proud that I knew.

“A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,” old Plinius admonished.

I stared off at where memory said the fly should be, and though seeing nothing, some instinct made me cry out, “Strike, now!” Charlie set the hook as a swirl and splash announced the take. He was into his third fish in as many casts and beginning to be unpleasantly smug about the whole affair. By the time the fish of 6,7 pounds had been netted, night had taken a solid hold. Charlie, however, took a good deal of convincing that we should call it a day.

“Last cast,” he insisted.

We both ducked as his line whined overhead in the dark. Divine justice had him soon snagged on his back cast and he had to break off. We prevailed upon him to pack it in and endured his unbearable high spirits all the way back to camp.

“Must get me one of those itty-bitty little rods,” he said over and over.

When last I saw him, he was scuttling around town trying to locate a one-weight rig. “Are you sure they don't make zero-weight?” he asked, hefting a delicate little river rod in a tackle parlour.

“They do, they do,” I assured him, but for the rest I kept my peace, remembering Pliny's final words to me at the waterside. He had quoted the Bishop of venerable Durham itself, saying “'Nil illegitmi carborundum.'”¹

And what that means is as plain as the nose on your face.

¹ Translation: "Don't let the bastards grind you down."