We walk down the bank, passing several anglers standing in the middle of the river in their chest waders, until we find an empty stretch. Mayfly are swirling about so we all tie on our best imitations. But why would a fish go for mine when there are so many real ones on the surface of the water? It’s all to do with the skill of watching for a rise - the sign of a feeding fish - and then landing your fly, without the faintest ripple, slightly above the rise if it’s a grayling (it swims diagonally to the surface) or directly above for a trout.

Already my husband and I are at a disadvantage as we only have thigh waders so even with our longest casts we can only cover half the water. The technique here is more akin to reservoir fishing: you stand still, wait for a rise, and then cast assiduously at it. And after a few flicks, and a few furtive glances at Beber and his brother, I realise that my casting is definitely not refined enough to fool these canny fish. Still, all fishermen live in hope and I continue, drinking in the scent of the acacia blossom and the sound of the crickets as I stand in my allotted spot.

The rises all seem to be just out of my reach so I just cast anyway. After a while my non-neoprened thighs feel icy – the water comes from the deep holding pools above the barrages at Argentat – and I decide to move on down to faster water where I can fish with a wet (submerged) fly and keep moving. But there too I run into trouble with the depth.

Time to explore further downstream so I clamber back on the bank and find myself at the edge of a grassy meadow where I stretch out and watch the artistry of our French companions as they unroll immaculately straight lines, far across the water. They have a patience that I sadly don’t share. But I expect that when eventually they do catch a fish, their sense of achievement is even more intense.

Suddenly there’s excitement. There’s a big rise close to where Beber, who is now taking stock on the bank, has spent the last two hours fishing. He gallantly invites Pierrot to go for it and within a minute, the line straightens, the rod bends, and the fish is hooked. Our friend Chris joins him with a net and they bring the fish in for us to admire: a handsome silvery grayling with a blue-tinged back, about 20cm long. Honour saved. I take a photo of the first grayling of the season, and they release the fish.

It’s past six and we return to Maryse’s for a post-mortem and a beer. We visitors agree that even though we didn’t have much – well, any - action, it’s been a great chance to practise our casting technique.

Back in Sarlat the non-fishers have booked a table for us at Le Quatre Saisons where we dine like kings. The next day we fishers join the others in some lounging by the pool followed by a glorious drive through the Perigord to the hanging gardens of Marqueyssac on a bluff overlooking the Dordogne.

These recently restored gardens, planted with hundreds of box hedges hand clipped into a swirling tapestry of organic shapes, ooze yet more French artistry. There’s still time for a leisurely lunch overlooking the valley before zipping back down the motorway for our early evening flight. Now that’s what I call a well balanced weekend.

www.secrets-of-trout-fishing.com

Villa holidays in France, with fishing trips arranged, can be booked through French Affair. The cost of permits varies according to the region, and number of days. http://www.frenchaffair.com/ or call 0207 381 8519.

On the upper reaches of the Dordogne, professional ghillie Jean-Pierre Coudoux offers fishing tuition and guiding, from May to November. Contact him on 0033 555282635 or email jp.coudoux@libertysurf.fr

Le Quatre Saisons, 2 Cote de Toulouse, Sarlat 0553294859
Jardins de Marqueyssac http://www.marqueyssac.com/ 0033 553313636