He descends into the small valley, rust coloured high grasses one one side and a field of lavender on the other, the ridges edged by a mottled drystone wall and a line of oaks and yews outlined against a chalky sky. He sets up in the shadow of the cobbled bridge and pulls out his line on a fence pole. He watches his fly float down the crystal currents and sees the brown and grey and blue stones warp in the bulging waters. He casts back out and does so time and time again for ten minutes until something bites. A trout, flexing its strong body, comes leaping from the brook into his net. He opens the end of the cylindrical glass tank and is careful not to let any of the water spill as he slides the trout into the container. He locks the top, packs his gear, and heads back up the valley carrying the tank by its handle. Later, at the party, another man compliments his trout. ‘New trout?’ he says. ‘New trout,’ he replies.
Paddy Dobson
8th May 2021