I discovered the joy of fly fishing many years ago now. This witless contest between the rubber clad, cold footed angler and unthinking trout or salmon. It was never and should not be a sport. Rather it is a philosophy. The piscator. Silent, feet in the cold water of a river stalking your unthinking prey. Stoicism, cynicism and wonder abide for the fresh water fly fisherman where stillness, silence and nature are all you have in vision and in thought. Imagine a monastery of reeds and grass where the prayers of those interned there are for the beauty of nature, the calm slack times, the silence, other than the river rushing and gurgling, the birds in the sky, the shy creatures treading on twigs on the forests behind you.
It is also good if you catch the odd trout or salmon and have a barbecue and some spices with you.
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