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The boy, the bull, the mouse, the key and the cat

I've meditated before on how fishing brings out the boy in me. Indeed, that one of the main reasons I still enjoy it is that it allows me temporarily to recapture what it felt like to be a boy. Most things change over the years, but the struggle of a small fish on the end of a line remains intact. Remarkably intact.

So I fished the river, mimicking Ray's technique of finding a deeper slack on the nearside bank and just dropping the bait into it. Caught a couple of nice roach, watch the tiniest mouse I've ever seen snuffle along the bank, and kept a wary eye on the large bull as it led the herd slowly across the field behind. (The previous outing I'd noticed that the herd finished up at the far end of the field, nearer the road by dusk and I watched carefully this time to make sure they did the same.)

Packed up just after 5.00pm. Strode across the field, got to the car, dumped the tackle, fished out the keys, feeling with my thumb to see which was which, felt the metal just 'give' like marzipan, and then just stood there laughing with a half a key in my hand.

Could have been much worse - key in lock, key in ignition, pouring with rain etc. So all in all, it worked out OK. Ray came and delivered a spare key and I had 45 minutes out in the night, sat on my basket just doing nothing. Lovely. At one point a black shape trotted up the lane and stopped opposite me. I shone a torch and it was a farm cat. Probably after that mouse.
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