In May, what must a mayfly think? Does it wait calmly for the tender moment of copulation, or itch to get on with it? I pondered these mysteries, more pressing than they might appear, on a river in the Cotswolds, a part of England touted for antique shops more than trout.
The River Windrush was roily, no mayfly in sight. Rain had fallen for weeks, reported my host, Charlie Shields, peering down from an old stone bridge. Charlie, though American, has a cottage here, partly for fishing. He’d soaked in that rain those weeks, but I’d just now arrived from Florida. For years I’d flown over to hit the green drake hatch—what the experts hereabouts call “duffer’s fortnight”—but managed always to miss it. So here I was again, too early.…
