I shall frighten fish before I cast to them. I shall bungle the strike and play heavy fish too hard. I shall lose my temper and end up throwing stones in the water and I shall curse myself for being the worst fisherman in the world. But there will come an evening when things go well, when the trout rise to my flies and splash loudly in the failing light as they struggle against the pressure of the rod, struggling in vain until they surrender and are drawn over the net. There will come such an evening and with it will come peace, sliding down the silver water, rising white with the first curls of mist from the pools, hanging and gleaming and tangible on the still air.
There will come such an evening, and when it comes, I shall thank God for many things; but above all I shall thank him for making me a fisherman.
Lawrence Catlow spoke for each and every one off us.
That first fish of the season I feel that way.