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A Word of Advice, Son
by Mike FitzGerald
"A word of advice, son. Dinny pit yar light on in the wids, ya
light yersel
up like a bloody beacon."
I dropped the cleek behind me, hoping it hadn't been seen. Their hunting
lamp
was right in my face. I was ready to bluff my way out of it but there
was no
need, they were after the salmon too and wanted to get on with it. They
slipped upriver as quickly as foxes, leaving me blind after their
torchlight.
I fumbled through the moss for the sharp cleek then trotted back in the
poachers moon, shaken but unharmed. Spilling out the hairy edge of the
wood,
the brightness was astonishing; you could have read a small bible. You
can't
see colour in moonlight but on a night like that you think you can. The
frost
was clearly enjoying its freedom, grasses moved into threads of glass
and
shattered underfoot, breath was thicker than chimney smoke. There was an
audible buzz in the air, pure excitement. Thin ice was creeping out on
top of
the water from the edges of the bank. When it caught the light there
were
hundreds of eyes looking at you, maybe frogs, maybe salmon? No, just
ice,
alive ice. Two miles away a car weaved its way up to Stichill, you could
hear
the caution in its engine. It was going to be a hard one.
A heavy smack in the swollen water shot across the orchards, no way was
that
a trout. They've arrived, definitely they've arrived, all the way from
the
dark Atlantic, through the grey North sea, Tweedmouth and Berwick, past
the
Geordie gill nets and trebles, unflinching past the well placed flies of
the
upper beats and hovering patiently at Edenmouth for the rains to start.
Now
the river was high enough and they were here, the strong ones, silver
bars,
blue in the moon. I could be a part of it if only I could take one. I
wanted
to be inside those stories, not just a listener. The trout seemed to
know
they were second prize now, I'm sure they showed themselves more freely,
like
mischievous children behind a locked fence, using my obsession to tease
me.
Trout were out of season until the spring and the grayling are too
sluggish
to take seriously, just light relief through the winter, a chance to use
the
new Christmas tackle.
There was a long gravel bed under Lodge Bridge, a good lye were a strong
tail
could scoop a trough for its eggs. I was taking the long route,
following the
edge of the copse, taking it slow. I wasn't going to be shamed a second
time.
Stopping every couple of minutes to listen, you would hear a person long
before you saw them on a night like this. If the wind picked up you
could
pass a person in the dark very easily but as it was, as still as a
painting,
you could hear every leaf and every cough. You stay clear of the rapids,
they
are too noisy to be safe, it's the thick heavy pools you fish, slipping
into
them in slow motion, wading across them like a cartoon giant. Then you
burn
the water. That is what they call it up here. They used to do it with
flaming
torches and rags tied around their faces, there is a photograph, and it
is
amazing. A flash in the dark and these frozen poses, caught red-handed
with
fire in one hand, a spear in the other, doing this thing at night while
everyone sleeps. Any boy would be taken by this, it was the furthest you
could go, pure magic.
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