A ‘how did you weekend go?’ chat with a work colleague turned briefly to some success catching several trout using a kit-build fly rod. “How did you cook them?”, he asked. “Oh”, I replied, “I put them all back”.

A long moment’s silence.

“Um, then why do you bother?”

It was my turn to hesitate as I pondered how to answer. I bumbled that it was a good question, that I thought the same thing when I started out, hard to explain….

Firstly, it is impossible for a non-fisher to understand how utterly addictive flyfishing can be. The challenge of outwitting a particular fish with all its hometown advantages provides a particular dopamine hit.

Mastering the art of fly fishing is a lifelong pursuit. There are so many variables that it is impossible for all but a few to reach guru status. There is always something to learn – new water, new species, new techniques…

“If I fished only to capture fish, my fishing trips would have ended long ago”. So is the quote from historic fishing figure Zane Grey. Fly fishing has a sense of mindfulness. To do it well, everything else in the world fades to the background, and the focus shifts completely to the natural world. A small insect breaking through the water film, a breeze over the right shoulder, visualising the current beneath the surface, spotting a shifting shadow in the depths. It can be magical, meaningful, and mindful.

At first, I caught so few fish that I tended to keep them for the pan. I can’t quite pinpoint the moment when I landed a brown trout, admired its sleek profile and dappled, camouflaged coat and understood that this one needed to be released to continue to grow, and spawn progeny in its image.

And finally, a practical aspect. I still have some fillets in the freezer from winter fishing on the Tongariro – that time of year where ‘harvesting’ trout is more common. Only take what you need, and I needed no more.

The result? My workmate continues to be bemused and bewildered by this pursuit so intrinsically understood by those it bewitches.