“You can’t catch what you’ve just scared sh**less,” says Jim Williams, rather bluntly. He’s my flyfishing instructor and I’ve just thrown a rather heavy-handed cast, sending a mini tidal wave down the river, scattering anything with a heartbeat. Until last month I had never held a rod. But here I am, standing thigh deep in the Bybrook River, in the middle of Wiltshire, trying to catch my lunch. Blame (or congratulate) the Manor House Hotel in Castle Combe, near Chippenham, which has just launched flyfishing courses.

And get this, it’s not boys who are taking them up on their offer, it’s girls: older hen parties in search of something more challenging than watching Chippendales; golf widows who would rather learn something new than steam away in the spa while their men carve up the hotel’s course. In fact, women are being drawn to flyfishing in increasing numbers.

“It’s one of those sports that women and men can do on a par,” says Williams, who runs the flyfishing school with fellow instructor Tom Hill. “In fact, you could say that it’s an advantage. One of our most repeated sentences is: ‘Not so much power.’ We tell male guests, you have to leave the testosterone in your room.”

Women are easier to teach than men, apparently: we have more finesse and we pick up the technique quicker. “I can tell a guy to relax, but as soon as he’s got a rod in his hand it’s like he’s trying to throw a javelin at the Olympics,” giggles Williams.

Hill and Williams have taught more women than ever before in the past year – always one-to-one, incidentally; it gets messy with more.

“I had a husband and wife with their kid the other day. The husband sat on the side playing with the baby while his wife fished. She caught 11 trout,” exclaims Williams.

It’s not as elitist as I thought, either. The yearly rod licence costs £23, which allows you to fish anywhere in the UK. Then there’s the fishing permit. The cost depends on the river, of course; the Test, near Stockbridge in Hampshire, for example, can cost up to £149 a day but it’s a fraction of that on other rivers.

The gear is surprisingly cheap, too. You can buy a relatively good rod for £80, or spend up to £500 if you’re feeling flush. The rod I’ve borrowed from Williams cost £200 and is made of carbon fibre with a cork grip. It feels as light as a feather.

Williams flips open a small plastic box hidden in his commando-like rucksack containing curious gels, powders and clips. Inside are beautiful jewel-like creatures: some shaped a bit like shrimps, others like tiny frogs. These are the flies. Some are for floating on the surface (the dry flies), others are for below the surface (nymphs, streamers and wet flies), depending on the conditions and what you want to catch.

But Williams is tying on what looks like a small piece of white wool at the end of my line. “It is wool, you’re right; because you’re practising on grass first – you’re not taking my eye out,” he says. Though there’s a good chance I will if I carry on at this rate; I feel like a dominatrix with her whip.

“The grip should be no harder than squeezing a tube of toothpaste,” he cautions, clocking my clenched fist. Apparently it can take anything from two to four days to master a half-decent cast (and to relax fully) and many more days to perfect it. “But when you do get it right, it’s a Zen moment,” he sighs.

Actually, it’s surprisingly therapeutic, once I’ve stopped thrashing the rod around. I’m learning the overhead cast first, one of two fundamental flyfishing casts (the other is the roll cast). It’s easier to learn on grass and it gives you an idea of what you’re in for, later on, in the water.

But it looks so easy when Williams does it, just an elegant flick of the wrist and the line snakes through the air like a giant lasso. “It’s the application and the technique that’s difficult; there’s much more that goes wrong than right,” he says.

You don’t say. It’s a bit like patting your head and rubbing your stomach at the same time. “Less is more,” coaches Williams, when I thwack the grass yet again. “Take your time, nice and gently, let the rod do the work for you.” Then I get it right – my first perfect cast. And it is a Zen moment. The fly flutters down on to the grass like a thistle landing softly on water. “Beautiful,” exclaims Williams, eyes shining. After another couple of decent casts (and 20 more rubbish ones), Williams says that I’m ready to try the river.

And we’ve still got our lunch to catch. If we’re successful, the Manor House Hotel’s new chef, the affable Welshman Richard Davies, will bring us a barbecue to cook it on. If we’re unsuccessful, he has a hamper packed full of locally produced goodies.

We start by the bank first. On one of the few bright sunny days in August, with the gentle splosh of the fly hitting the surface as the river meanders slowly by, you can see the attraction. Williams actually looks after this stretch of river himself. It has taken him a year to get it to where it is now: crystal clear and teaming with wild trout.

Not that any are coming in my direction. “It’s not the best time of day and the sun is too strong,” says Williams. The trout are hiding at the river’s edge, but every time I cast in their direction I hook the fly on a reed, which takes some untangling. Then I spot two waiters striding across the lawn with our hamper.

Whatever focus I had is lost to frustration and hunger. (Williams carries on. “Time without a rod is time wasted,” he says.) Though it’s amazing what a ham knuckle, chicken and caper terrine, homemade piccalilli, local-leaf salad and a glass of Pouilly-Fuissé can do for the confidence. I don my waders after with pride – no matter that I look like CBeebies’ Makka Pakka.

If you move in slow motion, you can get up surprisingly close to the fish. We spot a trout near by and I cast my line but, as soon as the nymph sinks, it’s spooked.

“The most important part of river presentation is getting the fly to land correctly,” whispers Hill, who has taken over the afternoon session.

Then it pulls, and it feels like a shark. I reel it in quickly as it jerks and wiggles, but when it surfaces it’s only about 5in (anything more than 10in you can eat). He unhooks the fly and lets the fish go and my time is up.

“It’s not you; there’s just not enough fly life to make the fish rise today,” he says, generously. I’ve only booked for one day so that’s it for me, but I’ll be back.

A night at the Manor House Hotel in Castle Combe starts from £199, half a day’s fishing, including instruction, starts from £150. Packages available at www.exclusivehotels.co.uk, 01249 782206

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