Yet another year, home renovations occupy our minds just as the summer fishing season is at its peak. My wife and I are at the starting gates of a complete overhaul of our kitchen, living room, and hallway, and now we need to push ourselves to clear everything out of these spaces. However, it never crossed our minds to skip our annual trip to our moorland lake. Instead, we planned to work later into the evenings during the week to prepare for the construction. The fishing gear was already packed in the roof box, so all we had to do was prep the cooler with food for the weekend before heading out of town.
After a few cups of coffee and a chat on Saturday morning with the landowners—covering everything from free-roaming livestock and fishing to forestry and tales of the farm’s former inhabitants dating back to the settlement—my wife and I headed for the hills. Once we reached the lake, we set our sights on a certain cliff on the eastern bank. Last year, we had an enjoyable evening there in a howling gale and felt we had discovered a prime fishing spot. Now, we intended to confirm that find. There had been a southeasterly wind on Friday, but now the wind had shifted and was blowing from the southeast. It wasn’t nearly as strong as it was a year ago, and casting a fly was no trouble at all.
I left my wife by the cliff on the eastern bank and continued along the shore, eventually heading west along the southern bank. I hadn’t been walking for long when I saw a fish dart out into the lake, spooked by me tramping along the edge. I grabbed the nearest rod and hastily cast a lure after it. As I retrieved, he struck right by the bank. It turned out to be a two-pound brown trout. This fish was rather thin, which concerned me; I wondered if there wasn’t enough food for the fish in the lake.
I continued westward, passing the islet where the Great Northern Diver nests, until I reached the skerry on the southern bank directly across from Réttartangi. The water level wasn’t very high, so I was able to wade out onto the skerry and cast in all directions. Twice a trout struck, but I lost them both. I then tried casting a lure from the skerry and managed to land a one-pound brown trout.
My wife had remained steadfast by the cliff the entire time. When I returned, famished, I saw that she had had no reason to move. Lying by the bank were four beautiful brown trout, weighing between 2 and 4 pounds. While I munched on a welcome smoked-lamb sandwich and drank hot cocoa, she told me the story of the four trout. Time and again, she had seen fish chasing the lure, and every so often, large, beautiful fish jumped right in front of her. There was clearly a good amount of fish there, and they weren’t far from shore at all. Naturally, I cast my fly into the calm patch and soon managed to land a decent brown trout. At that point, we were quite satisfied, so we decided to head back. The fishing had gone so well that we looked forward to a cozy evening at our lodgings, chatting about fishing and strange livestock laws.
On the way back, however, I couldn’t resist making a few casts at the rocky bank between Lómavík and Breiðavík. There is often fish there. I cast about ten times, but without success.