I’ve got something of a confession to make. I very rarely actually go fishing myself, just for the fun of it.

I didn’t leave teaching at Norwich School 30-odd years ago to live the life of a 'professional' fisherman, but in one guise or another, that’s how it has pretty much  turned out to be.

Normally, I’m guiding, doing something around TV, tackle testing, consulting environmentally or taking photographs, but yesterday morning the glorious May sunshine inveigled me out onto the river bank, nymph rod in hand. I was out of county, leaning on my shovel, as it were, and I thought, why not? Go, JB, go.

I chose a long, sinuous glide, around five feet deep, and I started at the head, working downstream with a 10ft 4wt fly rod, 4lb breaking strain point and a single shrimp pattern on the end. I began around 9am and I finished well in time for lunch. There wasn’t much showing on the top, hence my choice of fly, so I figured the trout would be feeding deep. It was non-stop action.

Fish after fish came my way. Grayling, dace, chub and even two barbel, one around 9lb. Of course, these fish were all out of season and I take no pride in their capture as I was trying to actually avoid them, not catch them. The stretch is famed for its trout and three or four came my way to encourage me but, in the end, I cut the session short out of embarrassment, concerned I was doing harm - though all the 'coarse' fish were in splendid condition I have to say. I only mention the event to underline some of my old and unswerving beliefs.

First, I have long said that coarse fish eat invertebrates habitually and pellets and boilies rarely, on natural waters that is. I saw long ago in Eastern Europe how fly anglers there catch mixed bags of every river fish that swims and find as many roach in their tally as they do trout. Moreover, they value every fish that comes to the net and make no distinction between 'game' and 'coarse' like we do in class-ridden Britain. They might prefer a trout because they can eat it, but they praise a barbel to the skies equally. Isn’t their angling life more varied as a result? Isn’t loving all fish a blessing, richer than pursuing a single species with a blinkered obsession?

Second, once again, I have long said that a particularly English trait is to fish heavy. An imitation shrimp or nymph enters the water like a whisper, whereas a blooming great feeder goes in like a depth charge. A fly line lands like a spring breeze, whereas a bolt rig thuds down the water column like a missile. Make no mistake, when we are talking wild fish, half the time we have scared them half to death with our very first cast. And think, what was the test curve of that fly rod? A few ounces perhaps? Walk along any barbel river and you’ll see rods of two, even three pound test curves in action. And, mark my words, I landed both those barbel in short order so there was no question of playing a fish to exhaustion, or of course, I’d never contemplate the exercise. It’s my unshakeable belief that you can scare a wild fish by simply looking at it and fishing as light as you can reasonably manage just has to be a prime consideration every time you put up your gear.

I take some credit for helping to introduce the Czech nymphing technique to this country through my articles 25 years ago. The concept of a team of nymphs allied with a strike indicator, float to me and you, was relatively new then, but times have moved on in the fly world.

Yesterday, I had abandoned the strike indicator and was fishing what I understand to be the 'French leader' method. Or was I 'Euro-nymphing' and didn’t recognise the difference? Either way, just watching the line and waiting for it to twitch or tighten did well for me. To add to the confusion, we now have the growing interest in Tenkara, the Japanese approach that involves nothing but a fly at the end of a long piece of line and not a reel in sight. Greatly intriguing but after those barbel that made bonefish look limp, I think a little line in reserve would put my own mind at rest.

I guess for me the lesson is this. What a wonderful river. What a fabulous morning. What pristine fish, caught out of season or not. All work and no play makes JB a dull boy indeed. I need to get out more...