Thoughts about fishing

Anne has often suggested I take up fishing - she has two ideas of fishing in her mind -

The first idea involves fishing for mackerel on a tough little boat, thrown about on green icy waves - the boat will have set off from a quay strewn with nets and piles of plastic fish crates - spilled oil or petrol will colour puddles of sea water on rough stone - a grey sky will hang over the small port - burly men with bright eyes will huddle on the deck -

A number of times, for example, when I was in Portree, or in Swanage, I've half imagined she'd arranged to have me kidnapped, so that I might be forced to fish for mackerel -

Anne's second idea of fishing involves me sitting on the bank of a tranquil river, winding through water meadows - high reeds wave around me - the river flows past me, with mayflies swirling above its surface - A church tower is outlined against a summer sky -

I have to own up, and say that the second idea of fishing is much more to my taste - I can see myself thinking - or reading - I might, for a moment, feel myself dissolve into the air -

There is, however, a third idea of fishing - I saw these two fishermen on the beach at Eastbourne - they'd set up their rods upon the shingle - the fishing lines curved out into the waves - spray and salt filled the air - you would sit, under the sky, hearing the sea move upon the shingle - your hair blown about the wind - you might forget, as these two men may have done, all your meanesses and sorrows -