For the beauty of the gesture
At Goudet, the Loire pulls out all the stops. Boulders, rocks, you name it! Devastating rushes and gullies, where the nymph could officiate if only the path of the water wasn't so tormented. Then, all of a sudden, a deep, mysterious chasm, as long as a day without bread. The river takes on a languor conducive to its residents. The water column turns dark. Like a two-way mirror, the surface becomes a reflection of the sky. Seeing without being seen is the motto of the fish community. A smoothness from which the fly fisher can expect nothing. Except for the simple pleasure of casting the most academic of casts, a beautiful deer-hair sedge over there, under the foliage, flush with the other bank. In short, the beauty of the gesture.
The banks of the Loire in summer
Did Robert Louis Stevenson and his modest donkey enjoy a swim in Goudet in 1878? Before setting off on their Cévennes journey, they stayed at the Hôtel Sénac, run at the time by Régis Sénac, an authentic champion and fencing master. Today, the hotel has become the Hôtel de la Loire, a beautiful building overlooking the river. I've been there before, but I've switched from foil to fly rod.
One hot afternoon, I mingled with the families of bathers who crowded the sandy beaches below the château. Sitting on a large aspen log, I could see the polychrome church steeple. While the big flat was shaken by swimmers' dives, I watched young children playing grippeminaud, then the cliff edge on the village side. With its slow currents licking the few brooms clinging to the rock, I found its profile and cut to be ideal for holding a few venerable fish. But there was nothing to show for it, apart from this poplar shoot, planted there in the middle of the water in the vein's spillway.
As vacations go, when it came time for aperitifs, pizza and barbecues, the waterside entertainment died down. I also sacrificed myself to the rituals, generously served at the hotel. As long as a final evening stroll seemed beneficial. I returned to the beach, deserted and calm. At the end of the strand, the barely leafy stem was still struggling against the flow. It bent, but didn't break. In its wake, and despite the speed of the current, I suddenly had the impression that a fleeting snout had scratched the surface of the water. My conviction was confirmed when the gobbling happened twice more. I went back up to the bedroom and hastily equipped myself.
When I returned, the light of dusk had covered the great chasm. In spite of the invading half-light, I advanced into the wave up to my suspenders and counted not one fish, but three. One in front of the rod and two behind, one on the right and the other on the left, in squadron formation as it were. I caught all three trout, not without difficulty, given the discomfort of my position, but also because of the selectivity of these wild fish. A small sedge with a hare's ear body covered with a tuft of deer hair finally convinced them. But where did you think the most beautiful one was, the one over a kilogram?
