When it 'clicks'.

Cheap baked beans are mopped up with crisp hash browns, a large mug of tea washing it down. Thunderstorms have pushed us from slate quarry climbing into the refuge of Llanberis' cult favourite café, Pete's eats. Dawdling in procrastination, a message pings up on my phone. Nick Hart, he's wished us well to give his beat of the Exe a crack later in the week but warns that things won't be easy. Something to be grateful to the rain for at least; it's much needed to bring the water up from the glassy bones that it has been lying in, the fish vulnerable and all too easily spooked.

A short dip in the Dyfi regains some vigour to limbs as we make the pilgrimage south, catching up with Ben on the way- a man of impeccable character but living far too distantly. Without such a welcome distraction, M4 traffic may have later driven me to utter madness. 'Plooosh', a large ring cascades from the pool below the bridge, a solid bar of silver sea trout glimpsed to be responsible. A most welcome sight after such heartache over the struggling migration of salmon on the Exe, a much discussed issue with Stuart and now recounted to Ben.

After many hours, hobnobs and cups of stale instant coffee, we've arrived for our annual pilgrimage at the Exe Valley fishery, dipping into our waders and into the clear river water. Many hours have been spent in this very river over the last month, working with the Westcountry Rivers Trust on their annual fry electrofishing surveys. But today is about fly fishing, no distractions. Loading up my waders for the day, camera, flies, car key, phone... I hesitate. This small device could be a great tool for emergencies and make sure that we stay in touch with what the others are up to in our absence. And yet it is a sucking distraction, available to the whims of everyone and anyone who might want to drag one from the bliss of the river and into the tangled maze of everyday goings on. Anxiety wins out, the phone is packed.

The mist hangs low and, quite pleasantly, there's not a breath of wind as we begin making our first tentative casts. A pool is shared and we both get the day rolling with some naughty escapee rainbows, colours amplified and vivid from the rich taste of wild freedom. A buzz from within my waders. Optimistic and glad, I check to see what the outside world has to say. Just like that, I'm drawn into the void of care as a message knocks me off guard, not knowing how this has come or hoping to know how to respond. The phone weighs tenfold as I trudge now upstream.

A large grayling is spotted just above the riffle I'm standing in, and I fumble to tie the New Zealand dropper shorter below my large buoyant sedge. Dad watches on eagerly, a couple of short false casts to mobilise the package and the three weight line lands just a couple of feet too far, spooking the grayling and blowing my chances. The next few hours pass much the same, few hatches and fewer rises as drizzle kicks in and only the occasional fish on the nymph. Lunch is a despirited affair of hobnobs and three bananas, considering how to make more of the afternoon.

The day passes much the same. 4pm comes around and I'm unpicking the umpteenth knot from my leader, symptomatic of the cares gripping my hands and causing an unsightly tailing loop. Just upstream in a favourite run, a gentle sip with a small bubble is left behind. I don't know what it is, but looking at the grey form responsible belies the character of a beautiful grayling, it just has that spirit about it. Once again, I cover the fish with a simple tungsten nymph, thrice, each time refused.

The grayling keeps rising. Further casts are futile, he'd have taken my sunken offering by now if he had the mind. Care now slips away as I study closely the dancing form in the water. Sat below a bush, it appears to be sipping gently away at tiny falling aphids, hence the ignorance of the large sedge on my duo. A size 18 F fly, a simple yet fittingly delicate presentation, is tied onto some 7X tippet. The first two casts are a foot too far left, the focused fish ignores them and continues to sip at tiny offerings. The third cast is just right; two feet ahead and a few inches to the right. Breath is held, the fly drifts gently along the glide towards its target. Small and hardly perceivable, all intent is fixed in these short seconds on it's meandering dance downstream. The grayling fixes its gaze, clocked on the target. With a lazy lift of the head, the current draws the fish upwards, as it flicks to the right with a gentle sip. I can hardly believe it, but an automatic flick of the wrist sets the hook.

In this moment the world just seems to make sense. A spirited and joyful fight sees an 11'' grayling landed, but truthfully if the hook popped before the net I'd be no worse off. I'd glimpsed, understood and connected with something so beautiful and natural in the river, a validation of my place here. Next time the phone will stay in the car, nothing is really that urgent anyway.