Whilst for most river fishers the grannom hatch is a thing in the distant memory – April 12 is a date that most grannom devotees ink into their diaries as the onset of the hatch – ours, up here on the edge of the Scottish Highlands, is somewhat later. In fact, it's about now.

So, last night, about 9.15, I pick up the rod and within ten minutes I'm at the riverside, studying a blizzard of tiny grannom caddis drifting upstream. These are the adults, the result of daytime hatches and a sign that egg-layers or 'cripples' might be on the water.

Yep. I watch a fish rise consistently, sipping every 30 seconds or so. Then another 20 yards further upstream, again just off the edge of the flow, under the outermost leaves of the trees. And that's the problem. They are both under the trees on the far bank – reachable, just, but to get your presentation right at 25 yards is asking a lot. I know, because I spent an hour two weeks ago doing exactly this. It was a tough challenge, but worth it ... in the end: a beautifully marked pound-plus brownie. But yesterday was a hard day in the office, so I declined the challenge, and left these teasers to it – they'll always be there another day. Besides, something was gnawing away at me. Let's call it 'being under the influence'. When you edit a fly-fishing magazine you have to read articles in depth at least three times in finite detail. As a consequence, often I get inspired, encouraged, convinced or indoctrinated by what my contributors have written. Some of them, sometimes, certainly influence the ways and the styles of flies I fish. Recently, Jeremy Lucas' articles have wielded an incipient influence over me. The current piece I'm reading is is on presentation (you'll have to wait to read it, it's scheduled for the August issue). This, coupled with his leader-to-hand articles, was responsible for me ignoring the fish on the opposite bank last night and heading upstream, casting a very short length of line (2-3 yards) with a long (15ft) leader and a tiny Grannom Adult dry (Oliver Edwards' recipe). The argument was simple: if I had been fishing on the opposite bank, I'd automatically want to cover the very edge of the river, two feet in front of where I was now standing, so why not believe that there would be just as many fish sitting close to my bank as those I could see rising confidently on the opposite side? It's commonsense, really. So long as I kept low, below the skyline, and moved quietly I could pick-pocket my own bankside margins all the way upstream, much more accurately, quickly, and effectively than I could by aiming at lies 25 yards across a fast river flow.

Now, this is a hard-fished pool, and these wild trout are no mugs, but I was astonished by the results. Many of the takes to the dry were almost under the rod-tip - a huge difference to normal when most of the fish I take from this pool are hooked over 20 yards away or more. And six fish in half-an-hour? Rare. Very rare.