Here, fishy, fishy, fishy

It’s just a hazy memory now.

I was lying on a blanket, spread over a patch of grass underneath a shady tree. My auntie was sitting near me, unpacking sandwiches. Uncle Robert was down by the riverbank, trying to catch some fish.

Whenever I look back on that idyllic April afternoon, it has taken on a dream-like quality – like some kind of romantic movie flashback.

I can still remember having had a bacon and eggs breakfast that didn’t agree with my stomach before we went driving around the Scottish highlands – and vomiting every 5 minutes. Accompanying Uncle Robert on his fishing trip to Scotland didn’t seem so attractive at the time.

Uncle Robert was very passionate about fishing, particularly fly fishing. Thankfully, he doesn’t make a habit of wearing fish t shirts. He’s got this little box of flies – hooks with different kinds of hairy or furry attachments in various colours – that he uses to bait fish. I’m sure you can see these in a fishing magazine or something. They apparently pass for living bugs. He even has a fly that has a lock of auntie’s hair on it! I’m not sure if that’s a sweet thing, but he claims to have caught fish with it.

Fishing ain’t for me, though. I won’t be able to stand still, just waiting for fish to bite. I’d rather do that than hunting, however, even if I’m offered hunting t shirts.

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