A couple of months ago I turned 62 and as I cast my fly into the calm margin of a favourite dam called "Wordsworth Water" I recollected on one of my very earliest memories. In fact my memory before this event is almost a void so I guess I was about 4 or 5 years of age. Malcolm's Uncle Brian had taken him and me fishing That day determined so very much of my later life. I caught a small freshwater fish by the name of "Perch". Looking back I can still recall the exact fishing spot where I stood. The pond in which the 3 inch fish surrendered its life was no more than 40 metres wide and less than half that across. The fish was caught on a worm. I can plainly see the bars running across its body, I can feel its spiky dorsal fin pricking my hand and I remember distinctly that it had swallowed the worm and hook. Most of all I remember my happiness on that evening … and, later, the fishing adventures that Malcom and I shared over the following 24 years until we drifted apart … I moved to South Africa which became my home. My days as a boy and young teenager and early adult were almost all fishing days. Malcolm* and I fished in the rain, the dark, the sun and the wind. We just fished … for the love of it. And, speaking for myself, ...
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