Fisherman’s Blues, by Liam McNevin
A fishing rod in hand, he paid homage to the weir, the waters roar and birdsong. Dressed in jumper and old jeans, he cast in repetitive motion. A flick of the wrist and now the line probed pools on the far side, ceased and began again. Is that difficult to do? I asked. The fly on the line? he replied, and put on a display maintaining there was not much to it, then said They won’t be biting, some days are like that. The two of us remained there, easy in each other’s company. What he was doing rubbed off on me for I thought: I get it why he’s here! To step away from the routine of everyday and let his mind wander at random. It would be nice to nip a fish along the way.
For enquiries please contact: email@example.com