Copyright Oggbashan September 2020
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
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Some of my friends think I'm an incompetent fisherman. Others are more direct. They say I'm not a fisherman at all.
Sometimes I go to our local beach and cast a line into the sea at high tide. When I do, I erect a small shelter in which I can sit on the ground sheltered from the wind and rain.
But my favourite spot is on the bank of a local river. I have a season ticket as a life member of the local angling club that has the rights to fish over several miles of that river. I have leased some of those rights to them so my membership is for life and free. Most don't go far from the public car park but my friend Alan is a tenant farmer on the farm I own. It extends for a mile of river bank. He has given me a key to a field gate. I can park my car inside that gate and walk about one hundred yards to the river.
At the bank there is a small grassed area that he and I use. Over one hundred years ago it used to be a mooring place for barges delivering or collecting from the farm. There is deep water right to the river's edge. At the edge of the field is a cattle trough with an attached tap. Beside that trough he has put a toilet cubicle with a chemical toilet. He and I use it, and anyone who walks the towpath can use it too. Very few people make it that far from the public car park so the toilet needs emptying about once every six months. He has also placed a small shipping container nearby. I keep my folding chairs, tent and other things in there. Only Alan and I have a key.
He and I, with his farm machinery, had excavated a soak away for washing up water.
From April until mid-October, he and I erect the large tent and equip it. It is a metal framed ex-army small marquee designed for use all year round. Inside I have a table, my folding chairs, a camp kitchen with a two-burner gas cooker and for the rare times one or other of us sleep in it, some sleeping bags. All that can be packed away in the shipping container. If it is raining too hard when we arrive before the marquee is erected, we can sit in the shipping container's doorway.
I sit under the awning of the tent with my rod extended over the water. While there I watch the water birds and the aquatic life including a water vole and otters. I find just sitting and watching relaxing. Sometimes I don't even bother to get out the fishing rod out or if I have, don't bother with bait. It is just a quiet and relaxing place to be. I used to come here when my wife was busy with her own activities but since she died three years ago I have come more frequently. I suppose I ought to socialise more, but I don't feel like it. Too many older widows seem to regard me as a challenge.
When I have parked the car, I unload a four wheeled hand trolley to carry anything I might want such as a packed lunch, a cool box of beer, and a book or two to read. It is usually a light load but is easier than carrying it. For the tent or any larger load, Alan brings it down with his tractor. What used to be the access from the mooring is still a raised track way but too uneven for my car.
The angling club know I go there and some of them are jealous. It is too far for them to walk carrying their equipment. It might be a good place for fish. I don't really know. Being a fisherman is an excuse to sit quietly. I don't really want to catch any fish.
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This Wednesday I arrived at my tent early carrying several bottles of milk in my cool box. Today my pensioners' group are going to be walking along the towpath from the public car park to a riverside public house about five miles downstream. They will pass my tent twice, on the way there and on the way back. I cannot contemplate a ten mile walk. Their more usual outing is a total of three miles. I can just about manage that. I have said that the toilet will be available and I can provide coffee if needed. They have a walk on a Wednesday twice a month.
I was looking forward to seeing them. Many of our pensioners' group behave as if they are older than they actually are. I would like to go on the longer walks with the more active ones but the shrapnel still in my right leg from the Falklands War makes even three miles a struggle. But sitting on my chair, sheltered from the sun, wind or rain, watching the wildlife is bliss.
Over the last week, every time I came, I brought a few stacking plastic chairs which I put in the shipping containers. Now, apart from my two folding chairs, I have another dozen plastic chairs so that my friends can sit down. I don't expect more than ten and probably eight because the weather forecast isn't great. They set the dates of their walks months ahead. How many turn up depends what the weather is on that day. Although all the more active walkers have effective wet weather clothing, walking miles in driving rain isn't attractive.
I thought they would arrive in about ten minutes. They usually leave about a quarter of an hour after the due meeting time to allow for those held up by traffic. I looked outside. Although it had been a warm sunny morning it was threatening to rain. If it did, they might stay longer with me until it passed. I had a full kettle on each gas ring. I could make coffee or tea for a dozen if there were that many.
About five minutes before they arrived it started to rain hard with the raindrops bouncing off the river. They arrived at a jog with their waterproof outerwear streaming. There were seven of them. They stood under the awning at the front of the marquee and stripped off their wet weather clothing. I had expected rain so I had strung a line with some coat hangers. They hung their coats up to dry, wiped their feet on the mat and entered the main marquee. Their coats might dry quickly because despite the rain it was still warm.
"Is that all of you?" I asked.
"No," said one of the men, "Moira is coming with two helping her. She's much slower than us."
I was about to put the kettles on, but I was impeded. All four women wanted to give me a hug. That was pleasant. While they were hugging me one of the men was looking around the marquee. Two of the men turned the gas on under the kettles.
"A carpet on the ground, a cooker, a settee? This is a home from home, Mike." Graham, the walk leader, said.
Technically it's not, Graham," I replied. This is a tent. I can only sleep overnight in it for twenty-eight days in a year although no one is likely to check."
"And do you?"
"Not usually. Perhaps seven nights a year at most."
At that point Moira arrived, almost carried by her helpers. She was grey-faced with pain and her lightweight coat wasn't fully waterproof. I helped her to take it off but she was still wet underneath. I dried her as best I could with a towel but she was still soaked through.
"Moira, I have a track suit. Would you like to change?"
"Yes please, Mike. I'm dripping wet."
She was. Two of the women helped her to strip and, dried her down with their backs shielding Moira from the rest of us, and dressed her in my track suit which was far too large and baggy on her. She was sat down on my settee and a cup of coffee was put in her hand, I sat down beside her. The women hung Moira's clothes up to dry.
"Are you, OK, Moira?" I asked.
"No, Mike. I'm not. I'm dry, thank you, but I overestimated my ability. I have been recovering from a hip operation and thought I was better. I'm not and getting wet has made it worse. Can I stay here when the others go?"
"Of course you can, Moira. But what about your lunch at the pub?"
I was thinking I could run her there by car.
"That's OK, Mike. I wasn't going to have a pub lunch. I'm still trying to lose some weight so I brought my own packed lunch. What about you?"
"My lunch is in the cool box so I'm OK too."
After about twenty minutes the rain eased off and the others set off for the pub. Moira, having rested, looked a lot better.
"What was wrong, Moira?" I asked.
"It was mainly my own stupidity, Mike. I thought I was fully recovered from my hip operation. It seemed OK for the first mile and then I tripped on a rough piece of ground. That jarred me and then I was in pain."
"Will you be able to walk later, Moira?"
"I'm not sure. I thought I was OK but now? I don't know. I don't think I could make it back to the starting place."
"Is your car there?"
"No. I had a lift, Mike. We arranged for a few cars instead of everyone coming separately. The car park isn't very large."
"I've got to stay here until the others return in about three to three and a half hours, Moira. Are you OK here until then?"
"Yes. I'm very comfortable except slightly embarrassed to be wearing your track suit. My clothes might be dry by then."
"If not, it doesn't matter, Moira. We'll go to my car. It's about a hundred yards away and I could take you home. No one would see you in the track suit."
"That would be great. I'm not sure I can get dressed without hurting but maybe by then I could. I just don't know. It is the first time I've had any trouble since I recovered from the operation. What will we do until then?"
"Probably what I do. Watch the wildlife. They scarpered when the others came by but look across the river at that post. The kingfisher is back."
"I can see. His colours are very bright, aren't they?"
"Yes. He's there most of the day. Look to the left of him at the river bank. There is a hole and the water vole is thinking of coming out, perhaps when the ducks have passed."
"Yes, I can just see his head. Do you feed any of the wildlife, Mike?"
"No. I want them to behave naturally. They get fed by the car park and at the pub. Here is quiet so they can rest and nest. Look above the water vole. That was a swan's nest this Spring. It's abandoned now but I watched the cygnets hatch and then start to enjoy the water. I watched them for days."
I made some more coffee for us. When I handed the mug to Moira she looked at me quizzically.
"What is it, Moira/" I asked.
"I want to ask you a personal question that you might find awkward to answer, Mike."
"Go ahead. I can always refuse to answer."
"OK. Why no woman since Joyce?"
"My answer would probably be the same as yours, Moira, if I asked why no man since George. The women in the pensioner's group have offered to replace Joyce. I don't want a replacement. No one can replace Joyce. We had forty plus years together. Some of them are just gold-diggers because they know I am reasonably well-off."
"Reasonably well-off? That's an understatement, Mike. You own this farm. How large is it?"
"Fifteen hundred acres. But that's beside the point. I can ignore the gold-diggers. Some of the others are more worrying. They want to replace Joyce and organise me. I don't want a replacement and I don't want organising."
"Was this place your refuge from Joyce?"
"No, Moira. I didn't need a refuge. I came here when Joyce was doing her own things like with her women's group. Sometimes Joyce came too. We would sit and watch the wildlife or just talk -- for hours. I miss that."
"And there is no one in the pensioners' group that you would like to be here with?"
"Several of them, not necessarily just the women. Even your George was here several times. We'd talk about the Falklands War. Some have been here with me but some of them had come for the fishing that I don't do. I'm worried about being here with a woman on her own. She might think it means more than it does."
