New beginnings

The river trout season is almost upon us.

I still lie awake at night, keeping my fingers crossed that the day will dawn fine and the river will be fishable.

For the past 12 seasons or so, I’ve spent the day with my friend Perry. We’d fish the little stream that ran through his farm, taking it in turns to make a cast and discussing a memorable fish we’d caught from a pool.

We’d often hang a nymph off the back of a dry fly, but sometimes a trout would come out of nowhere and eat the dry. The take was savage, and sometimes we’d miss them, but we’d still manage to laugh about it.

The day wasn’t about how many fish we caught; being able to stand in a river once more was enough.

We’d send each other pictures we’d taken once I got home and say how lucky we were to be able to fish together.

My wife once said she was pleased we’d found each other.

This year will be different, though.

Perry had been ill for a while and, sadly, he died on Christmas Eve last year.

I was devastated. It made me question many things about life, but I knew fishing without him was going to be difficult.

He had lived a fish-filled life and, aside from his success in his day job as a member of the rock band The Cure, he loved fishing deeply.

I read a eulogy at his funeral and talked about the many fishing adventures we’d shared.

This year will be different. I still plan to fish that wonderful little stream, and Perry’s wife, Donna, is going to come along.

We’ll talk, and perhaps we might even catch a fish.

If I do, I’ll look skywards and smile.