The Great Mayfly: A Day at Threipmuir

It was June 2018 when I arrived at Threipmuir Reservoir, a place that always seems to hum quietly with expectation. The air felt alive thick with pollen, possibility, and the sort of optimism that only a day outdoors can inspire. The forecast promised overcast skies and a gentle breeze, which felt like nature offering its approval. I took it as a good sign.

I was on the water by late morning, fuelled largely by hope and an underwhelming breakfast of soggy toast and lukewarm coffee. At the time, this didn’t seem especially relevant. In hindsight, it was a strategic error of the highest order. Had I known what the day had in store, I’d have arrived fortified with something far more substantial like eggs, bacon, or perhaps a box whole of Weetabix.

The first few hours were quiet. Too quiet. I drifted along, waiting for something anything to happen, filling the silence with increasingly philosophical questions. Was I being impatient? Was I missing something obvious? Had I somehow offended the universe before breakfast? The calm gave me plenty of time to overthink, and confidence slowly ebbed away.

Eventually, I decided to change position, guided by memory and a vague sense that this part of the water had a reputation for sudden drama. I simplified what I was doing, paired things back, and settled in to wait again. This time, though, the stillness felt different—less empty, more like the pause before a curtain rises.

Just as doubt began to creep back in, a group of gulls swept low over the surface of the water. They moved with purpose, skimming and circling as if responding to something invisible beneath the surface. It felt like a signal not a grand omen, but a quiet nudge that said, pay attention.

And then, without warning, everything changed.

The calm shattered. The water came alive. What had felt dormant moments earlier suddenly erupted into motion and energy, as though someone had flicked a switch. My quiet patience was replaced by frantic excitement as one moment blurred into the next. There was no time to pause or reflect only react.

For the next few hours, the action barely let up. Each success brought a rush of disbelief, followed immediately by another interruption demanding attention. Any thought of checking the time or calling it a day vanished completely. I was fully absorbed, caught up in the rhythm of the moment, grinning like someone who knows they’re going to be talking about this later.

By the time things finally slowed, the day had taken on that warm, slightly unreal glow that only comes after an experience you know won’t easily repeat. I’d lost track of numbers, time, and most other responsibilities, and I didn’t particularly care. What mattered was the feeling the sense of having been present for something fleeting and special.

I did, however, come away with a few clear lessons. Pay attention to the small signs. Be patient when nothing seems to be happening. And never underestimate the importance of a proper breakfast when the day shows even a hint of promise.

So if you ever find yourself at your favourite Stillwater or anywhere, really on a day that feels quietly full of potential, stick with it. Watch what’s happening around you. Give the moment time to unfold. You might just find yourself in the middle of a story you’ll be telling for years