The workday was drawing to a close on a Monday. I looked out the window and saw the trees on Álfhóll bathing in the sunlight. The leaves swayed gently in the mild southeasterly breeze, and the children playing on the hill were clearly warm. An uncontrollable urge flared up within me to rush off for some fishing at Lake Þingvallavatn. I called a friend of mine who was up for the challenge, and an hour later, we were on our way.
This time, Vatnsvík tempted us, as we had heard there were decent fishing spots there. For some reason, neither of us had ever fished in the bay despite many trips to the lake. However, it turned out that Vatnsvík will have to wait for us a while longer, as we chickened out of fishing there. Both of us were carrying light gear, and the southeasterly wind—which was much stronger at Þingvellir than in town—deterred us. Instead, we walked down to the water midway between Hlíðarkrókur and Arnarfell.
The first flies settled on the water around seven o’clock. My companion opted for the ‘Krókurinn’ fly, while I chose a Pheasant Tail. I noticed my fishing partner was fishing in shallower water than I was, as he repeatedly snagged the bottom. After a few casts, however, it wasn’t the bottom tugging at his rod, but a handsome snail-eating Arctic char. He managed to land it, and subsequently landed three more char. Meanwhile, I frantically swapped flies and lost quite a few of them. I only managed to hook a single ‘murta’ (small char), but that’s just how it goes sometimes.
When we headed home half an hour before midnight, an absolute ‘cream-calm’ (rjómablíða) had settled in, with the temperature at ten degrees.