You would think that after some 40 (alright, 50-something) years in this sport, you had exhausted options. Nonsense. Every new cast, on a new day, is a new start. It is lovely to realise ambitions. I have not caught a steelhead and I have not caught a char. Windermere, the Northern Territories and Iceland aside, where else is there?

Recently, a  chance meeting in Robjent’s of Stockbridge (where son, Alex works) with Gillian, the delightful owner of Rockbourne Trout Fishery just outside of Salisbury, had me intrigued. “You must visit and try to catch one of our char,” she said.

Char? Arctic thingies? Yep. They have been stocked at Rockbourne and are doing well in the chalk lakes there, albeit proving a little elusive. So today (Sunday) I toddled over.

Set amid the increasingly cold temperature, an argumentative wind, and a backdrop littered with russets, sienna and purples, it seemed all so very unlikely. I was advised that bright colour of fly pattern was de rigueur – a bright Chartreuse Midge with a bead head was offered, as being the right medicine. Somehow it looked incongruous, but when in Rome, or the Arctic (or Hampshire for that matter). Off I sauntered feeling more like Captain Oates than a fisher in Hampshire.

Not a lot happened for the first hour or so. I tried this lake and that, eventually settling on Longacre. I've always like this lake and every cast had me reminiscing of times spent there, with the legendary Bill Sibbons. Then I saw some flashes in the water, sort of white epaulette subsurface flashes. Weird. I peered closer. Something sinewy was clearly attached to the waving flashes of white. A fish-like thing. Straining through the winter murk is every small water hunter’s nemesis. It really is as though nature has turned off the lights, even yellow or amber hi-vis polarised glasses barely strip away the gloom. But the shapes began to become whole, sliding between roots, decaying weed and discarded leaves littering the lake floor.

Lord! the fish spooked easily. The tangle of them (sorry, I don’t know what the collective noun is for a cluster of char … a cup?) swirled, whirled and regrouped and become a piscatorial knot again. I lengthened my leader, snipped off the bright chartreuse fly in favour of bright orange, and ambushed the cluster of shapes. Frankly, there was not a huge amount of subtlety involved. I spotted a mouth or two, pitched my fly to that level, jigged my fly and basically riled and upset the shapes. A fish lunged at and nailed the fluttering orange bead head.

The fight was awesome, back and forth, with the fish trying to dive into anything that looked bristly and uninviting. After this pretty argumentative fight, the char folded into the net. I was (I am still), overjoyed. Another milestone passed.

The thanks though, should really go to Gillian and Rockbourne for stocking these fish. Odd, I grant you, but a very welcome addition to their renowned rainbows. A lovely way to light up the winter gloom.

A sort of fly-fishing wassail, I suppose.