My first fishing outing of 2026 was on Threipmuir Reservoir—and the weather wasn’t exactly for the faint‑hearted. From the moment we arrived it felt like one of those days where you’re fighting the elements as much as you’re trying to catch fish. The air had that sharp, biting edge to it, the kind that seems to slip straight through layers, and the wind had no intention of easing off. Squally showers rolled through in bursts, rattling across the water and leaving the banks slick and cold.
With conditions like that, I set up with a three‑fly cast to cover a few options and give myself a chance of finding something that would move a fish. On the top dropper I tied on a Loch Ordie, with a Cormorant on the middle and a Bibio on the point. For the line, I went with my Slowmo sinking Vision line partly to get down into more consistent water, and partly because expecting fish to be cruising the top in that wind and cold felt wildly optimistic. It was very much a “do the basics right and keep working” kind of session.
As we pushed out, I started to question my sanity the wind was seriously unpleasant. The boat would swing and drift, and every cast felt like a negotiation with the gusts: time it wrong and your line would get slapped back at you; time it right and you’d just about squeeze out a decent presentation. Before long it became a simple test of endurance: how long could we last before we lost all feeling in our hands? Even little jobs changing a fly, tightening a knot, clearing a tangle took twice as long when your fingers were stiff with cold. Still, full of optimism (or stubbornness), we kept casting more in hope than expectation trying to stay focused and fish each drift properly.
About ten minutes in, the unexpected happened. Totally out of nowhere my line went tight, and suddenly I was connected to a fish. In weather like that you can go a long time without any sign of life, so that sudden pull felt like a small victory in itself. It wasn’t big, but a fish is a fish especially on a day when you’re half convinced you’re just practising your casting into a gale. I kept steady pressure on, brought it close, and slid it into the net: a lovely little brown trout of around six inches. Small, perfect, and full of attitude. “Great start,” I thought… and, as it turned out, that was the only fish of the afternoon, which made it even more memorable.
Even with just the one trout, there was another highlight that made the trip worthwhile: watching an osprey hunting for its dinner. Seeing one working the water is something else fast, purposeful, and completely at home in conditions that had me feeling miserable. It would hover for a moment, adjust in the wind, then move on with that effortless confidence only a proper predator seems to have. I was genuinely excited to spot one so early in the season, knowing it had made the long migration back from Africa to the cold, wet Scottish spring. That alone put my “bad weather” into perspective. In the end, the cold got the better of us and we called it after about three hours. There’s a point where you stop “toughing it out” and start losing concentration, and once that happens you’re not really fishing properly anyway. We headed in with frozen hands, damp sleeves, and that familiar ache in your casting arm that only comes from battling wind all afternoon. On paper it was a hard session tough conditions and a single wee brownie but it still felt brilliant to be back out again, resetting the year with a first fish and a reminder that early-season trips are rarely comfortable. Here’s hoping the next outing comes with a bit less wind, a touch more warmth, and a few more takes to go with the memories.