to the far off shire, over the severn bridge and through the brecon beacons to builth for the angling writers weekend. super furries ‘mountain people’ on the stereo. memories and mushrooms everywhere, the unicorn’s caravan over the next ridge. rumours of bob’s brother and wild carp at llandrindod. dual language signs, dark skies at noon, your welsh novel on every shelf, small towns with methodist halls full of brechtian auctions. pints of brains. the next morning an early escape to the wye, stretching away into infinity, a tree lined river vanishing into mist, the longest aisle, each swim the oldest pew. autumn rain filling salmon pools, trees dripping in ancient woods and the calls of wrens, woodpeckers and jays. the water from the deepest springs, to wade in it is enough, to put a float through it is overwhelming. james of ealing never made coarse rods for the wye, it was a salmon river until only a few years ago and now it is being opened up like the midwest. so its the kennet perfection, my battered rapidex and a john richardson avon. shoals of dace, each fish touching a pound, like a silver hoard from under the stones.
a voice in the trees, and terry thomas arrives, the king of caerleonï¿¼ï¿¼ï¿¼ï¿¼,
the man who was taught at school by clive gammon and is now his closest friend. we fish for chub in the dusk and lose a monster in the roots of a magic tree.
merlin on the birdtable