Bog Myrtle & Peat

Summer continues to crash and burn with every passing day. As if from nowhere, a flock of lapwings has appeared in the fields by the river, and they flop lazily back and forth across the landscape, accompanied by teams of starlings and rooks. None of these birds were here ten days ago, and the lapwings’ calls provided a beautifully chilling accompaniment to a late night expedition to catch a sea trout at the weekend. Their wingbeats thrummed overhead, and a few late night mallard whistled to and fro against a mass of stars.

For the briefest moment, I had a sea trout on the line. Bats flickered along the water, and the rod bent dangerously to the bubbling tune of water beneath our bridge. I caught a flash of iridescent silver, then the line went slack again. The finnock had come when my mind was elsewhere, and as I tried to cast again, I caught my fly on a willow tree. It is a pattern of negligence and over-enthusiasm which characterises all my fishing exploits, and it was made all the more frustrating by knowing how close I had finally come to success. The lapwings continued to call in the gloom, and I correctly guessed that I had missed my chance for the evening.