It's not supposed to be raining and it's coming down in stair rods. I've reached that saturation point when you can't really get any wetter. It sounds weird but it's almost a cosy kind of feeling.
The rain drops are such pretty ornamentation, bejeweling the rocks and the leaves and the rim of my cap. They change the atmosphere of this place, dampening the other sounds of the river and releasing the heady scents of soil and vegetation. A still closer intimacy is brought to the tiny little stream as we huddle under a drooping canopy of willow and alder in summer leaf.
Big raindrops now, splatting down on the surface, breaking up the glassy glides so that I think we may become less visible to the trout, otherwise easily spooked in the low, clear summer flow. There is a low distant rumble. We listen intently and figure that it's just a farm wagon passing over a steel cattle grid in the lane a mile away behind us.
So we fish on, hoping for a take. We're fishing…
The rain drops are such pretty ornamentation, bejeweling the rocks and the leaves and the rim of my cap. They change the atmosphere of this place, dampening the other sounds of the river and releasing the heady scents of soil and vegetation. A still closer intimacy is brought to the tiny little stream as we huddle under a drooping canopy of willow and alder in summer leaf.
Big raindrops now, splatting down on the surface, breaking up the glassy glides so that I think we may become less visible to the trout, otherwise easily spooked in the low, clear summer flow. There is a low distant rumble. We listen intently and figure that it's just a farm wagon passing over a steel cattle grid in the lane a mile away behind us.
So we fish on, hoping for a take. We're fishing…