My Father was a keen fly fisher. He always had been, the wicker fishing basket he used all his life was a birthday present from his Mother when he was eight. All my life we went to the same three places on holiday, My Mother walked and my Father fished. He tied his own flies, and over time he honed the flies down to ones that worked in the chase for brown trout, in specific rivers.
When he died, I was looking through his fishing gear and realised that they were really precise, that they were made for specific lengths of the rivers. He always claimed to not have a creative bone in his body. Though when I looked back at these tiny objects, so intricately formed, I realised that in reality they are little vignettes of the River Rawthey. Like sculptural landscape drawings of moments on a river.