You know, Nicolas didn’t just stumble into fishing—it’s in his blood. Funny thing is, it wasn’t some gruff grandfather who handed him a rod. No, it was his mother and grandmother, knee-deep in the Hérault’s currents, showing him how to read the water’s whispers. Thirty-five years later, he still hears his grandmother’s voice when the Tarn’s evening light turns gold—something about patience and the way mayflies dance just before dusk. (Though, between you and me, she might’ve made that last bit up. She had a flair for drama.)

Fly fishing? For Nicolas, it’s less a hobby and more like breathing. Dry fly presentation? Absolutely obsessed. Took him three seasons to stop slapping the water like it owed him money—now he’s all about that delicate drift, watching how a #18 Blue-Winged Olive rides the seam just so. And don’t get him started on insect behavior. The way olives hatch differently in the Hérault’s limestone streams versus the Tarn’s granite pockets?

 Maddening. Also, why do fish ignore your perfect cast until you’re mid-sneeze?

Here’s the thing: Nicolas almost took a detour. Studied science, dabbled in social careers—even got a fancy degree in Outdoor Activities Management. But the rivers kept calling. Remember that April morning when the air smelled like damp earth and the trout were rising to nothing? Yeah, that’s when he cracked. Joined Creps de Montpellier’s training team, molded future guides, all while thinking, Why am I teaching this instead of doing it?

So now? He’s out there. Guiding folks through the Hérault’s hidden bends, pointing out where the grayling stack up under the alders (locals call it “the shadow buffet”). Brown trout? He’s got a sixth sense for their lies—probably from all those childhood hours spent face-down in the current, getting sunburned.

Pro tip: If you see him squinting at the sky, muttering about cumulus clouds and barometric pressure… just nod. It matters. Or maybe it doesn’t. But that’s fishing for you.