FEW things are more delightful than to be down by a lakeside during those short weeks when the mayfly is ‘up’. The lake is dotted with small boats containing people who should be at the office but are out sick, dapping for the trout that go berserk after the mayfly. I remember once being down by a lakeside and encountering a cloud of mayfly all engaged in their brief but frantic courtship. Suddenly hundreds settled on my car, covering it all over, and one even landed on my finger, which could hardly have been mistaken for a mate. I don’t know what the poor thing was thinking. #
When the mayfly is ‘up’
