The Fates
- Details
- Published on Monday, 28 May 2007 13:50
- Written by Bob Graham
Clotho, Artemis, Lachesis and Atropos were the Greek Fates. Clotho spun the thread of life, Artemis measured it and Atropos finally cut it. The Romans knew them as the Parcae; Nona, Decima and Morta. In Norse mythology they were the Nornir (or Norns); Uro, Veroanis and Skuld (please ignore the omission of those obscure Scandinavian accents).
What is less well known is that they not only operated on a lifetime basis, but, for trout catchers, they can really bugger up your day. The thread can be faulty, the measuring erratic and the action of the “abhorred shears” tardy.
Just as an aside, shouldn't this on-line magazine be treated as an educational resource and granted a subsidy by "oor wee parliament? The editor would like that.
So, the thread spinning starts on a nice May morning and you heading of to the Tweed where, it is reported, trout have been pushing each other out of the way to take any fly that swims past them. But the reality is that the dreaded Edinburgh bypass has become a slow moving car park littered with the wrecks of foreign tourists who still think they can drive on the wrong side of the road and ignore their mirrors when they try to overtake. Two bloody hours from Hermiston to Sherrifhall, if you're lucky and, believe me, Artemis will make sure good luck is an alien concept.
Make the wrong decision at Sherrifhall and you're heading for the wrong part of the Tweed. But never mind you can cut across country to get back on to the correct road. Of course you can – you know the place like the back of your hand. That's when the thread becomes a bit dodgy and the next thing you know there is a sign saying “Welcome to England”. By now it's midday, you're dying for a piss, you're starving and almost out of petrol. You crawl to a village that you never knew existed and have to pay fifteen pence more per litre plus a credit card surcharge. Then you discover that your sanwiches and flask have been left at home and have you seen the prices in these local shops? The owner's name is Dick Turpin.
Anyway, on to the road for Peebles where you find it's early closing day. The Tourist Board office is closed as is the tackle shop, no chance of buying a permit. Bugger it, you've never seen a bailiff in your puff so you start fishing. Ten seconds after you hook a good fish you hear, “can I see your permit please”. Then, “under the terms of the Tweed Protection Order, blah blah, blah, I have the right to, blah, blah, blah, but if you choose to get in your car and promise never to come back I'll let you go”.
Take the back road home and, on a bend just before Carnwath, you hit a roe deer. Have you seen the damage these little swine can do to a car? And how did it manage to puncture a tyre? And why is it in such a mess that it's not worth throwing into the boot?
And how do I know all this? And why did Homer (or Agamemnon, or somebody) call them the “accursed Fates”.