In the last week or so, I’ve fished a tiny brook a couple of times and caught perch, chub and a pike. It’s a jungle, with barely room to raise a rod, but it’s a delight to find wild fish thriving in the unlikely setting.
As a boy, I used to stand on the bridge over a local brook, too polluted to support life, and wish it held fish. It occurs to me that that disappointment feeds my pleasure in finding this brook, fifty years later.
“The child is father of the man”, said William Wordsworth. Would anyone else say that part of their current fishing chimes with something experienced in their youth?
As a boy, I used to stand on the bridge over a local brook, too polluted to support life, and wish it held fish. It occurs to me that that disappointment feeds my pleasure in finding this brook, fifty years later.
“The child is father of the man”, said William Wordsworth. Would anyone else say that part of their current fishing chimes with something experienced in their youth?