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Death of a Fisherman

Everybody who fly-fished the river knew him. His old pick-up with camper would be parked at the side of the road and John would be inside waiting for the evening hatch. He was always happy to have a visitor, to chat for a while before he started fishing. There would usually be dodgy coffee, made with river water.

John was an old school fly fisherman – he loved his long bamboo rods and his tiny wet flies. He’d tell you the right way to fish, even if you didn’t ask.

The camper truck won’t be parked by the river any more. John passed recently, at a trout stream of course. Last evening the usual cranks who haunt The River got together streamside, along with John’s daughter, to see him off. It was a lovely evening and a fitting tribute.

Tight lines John P. RIP.


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