by Nick Small.

How cool, the Intrepid Black Prince.
Along with his trusty mount, a seven foot, lime green fibreglass wand, and a Hi Ho silver line, he whisked me from Teesside’s streets to Leven Bank, beneath the weir, and to the bottomless Blue Lagoon.
An uncouth youth, introduced to hitherto unknown aristocrats: silver dace, gudgeon, bullhead and bream; to the freedom of bikes and mates, and long grass and maggot fights.
And then, whipping a red spotted golden Mepps across the chill Glen Nevis stream, to connect me for the first time with a small, but perfect, trout.
Not a rich sophisticate, the Black Prince. No more form than function, he was plain, cursed and derided. But to me, he was, and always will be, a legend.