The wind howled like a banshee, raging down the valley. Subsiding slowly as dusk approaches, the air is finally still.
I quietly make my way up the river. I hear the ‘pop’ of a trout breaking the surface and freeze like a deer in the headlights while trying to locate him.
Him becomes them. I pick Mr Big (well in proportion to the other 2), and cast and mend, cast and mend.
Bugger. Rest the pool. Cast and mend, change flys, cast and mend. It becomes hypnotic.
I suddenly notice I’ve lost the light. I pack it in, and as I turn to leave there is a ‘pop’ off the surface again. Who says fish don’t have a sense of humour….
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