"You sod!" He chuckled, as the the trout - every bit of a pound and therefore an excellent fish for the brook - leapt clear of the pool and threw the hook.
Luckily, the dry fly didn't end up in the overhanging willow fronds so it was quickly retrieved and the point checked.
"Nothing wrong with that.....just one of those things" He murmured - to no one. There was no one around. There never was on this beat at this time. If the wind was in the Southwest, occasionally you might just catch the sound of artics on the the main Cirencester road, fields away. Not this evening though.
He wasn't really disappointed the brownie had shed the hook - it would've gone back anyway like they all did. Besides, he'd fish again on Wednesday- and probably Friday as well, so plenty of opportunity to redress the balance.
This was the very best thing about his recent retirement- whilst they were hardly well-off, he had simple tastes, and he could fish the club's limestone streams for the spooky browns that dwelt within pretty much as often as we wished, now. Wendy had the committees, gardening and God-knows-what involvement on social media that tied her to that iPhone. She'd always been the Early Adopter of their partnership that had started long before the concept of mobile phones. He wasn't even on Facebook. Consequently, there was no need for convoluted justification for so much fishing and he loved her free-and-easy attitude and indulgence of his lifelong passion.
He squinted upwards- the pipistrelles busy now in the very last of the gloaming. Another 10 minutes and it'd be properly dark. It had been a good evening, and suddenly the thought of a pint and a bag of scratchings in the Barley Mow before the dual carriageway seemed more appealing than wading up to the next bend, so, clipping the Elk Hair Caddis onto the keeper ring, he clambered out of the brook, took a lungful of now-cooling late Summer night air, turned, and started on the mile walk through the woods, round the wheat field to the lane and his car.
He loved this part of the day. He was a countryman by adoption rather than birth, but nothing phased him about being out alone so far from civilisation in the dark. He'd know since a young boy that the only danger the dark held was the imaginary kind. However, bitter experience in the shape of a twisted ankle a long way from the car last season had taught him the value of a decent head torch....
He strapped it on and selected the red beam to preserve some night vision to the periphery. The wood wasn't ancient or anything, but quite dense in places; at this point the footpath ran between the brook to his left, and a high bank to the right.
The commotion that suddenly kicked off the far side of the bund startled but didn't frighten him as such. These woods were full of badger sets and he knew that if two boars took a dislike to each other in the dense undergrowth, you'd think by the sound it made that an International prop forward and a seasoned brickie where having a vicious set-to.
He strode to the top of the bank, feverishly adjusted the torches' beam.........and then time stood still.
A muntjac was caught in the red light, frantically kicking and writhing as if it's life depended on it - which it assuredly did.
It's throat was clamped in the jaws of a large dark shape, huge tail curled skyward in triumph.......
"I am NOT seeing-CANNOT be seeing this....this...this" .....long-ago trips to safari parks and zoos informed him of exactly what type of creature he was looking at - specifics however, seemed unimportant right now. But seeing it he certainly was.
And what's more, the feline was now seeing him.
A pair of luminous eyes - colour distorted by the beam - bored up into his from the bottom of the bank - at a range of maybe 10 yards. A rumbling sound, vaguely familiar, now seemed to vibrate the ground around him. But the deathly mouth-full-low-pitched growl the animal emitted was a world - a Universe- away from the contented purr their huge tomcat made from his lap of an evening. The difference between, say, his grandson's radio-controlled plane - and a jet fighter on the runway.
The next thing he noticed was a warm sensation down the right leg of his chest waders. He'd involuntarily wet himself. A perfectly natural reaction our ancient ancestors would surely have experienced in similar situations on pre-civilisation hunts....
Tongue running round his lips, breath now came in quick gasps, similar to those a sudden immersion in freezing water will produce. The fly rod shook uncontrollably in his hand. What now?
The muntjac - troubles finally over - hung limp from it's killers' mouth, but this was hardly at the forefront of his mind. Whilst The Cat made no move to advance, it now dropped its prey, which had the effect of amplifying not just the volume but the sheer magnitude of it's final warning. His terror felt DNA-hardwired; a sensation eons old, lying there beneath the supermarket trips, paint colour choices, gardening and other mundanities of modern life, waiting for the trigger to give a real taste of the 'nature-red-in-tooth-and-claw' cliche.
Instinctively, his right foot edged backward and simultaneously his gaze averted from full-on eye contact that could so easily be interpreted catastrophically by the apex predator glaring balefully up at him. Left foot next....Slowly!! Slowly!!
The audible threat continued unabated, but came no closer as he completed his glacial return to the footpath.
Conscious decision-making returned, and the urge to run full-pelt in the direction of the car was almost overwhelming but he fought for control and to regain a semblance of his phlegmatic self.
A steady pace of retreat was the thing; yes - come on man! It's bloody important to get this right!
Stumbling more than enough with regular glances over his shoulder to check the path behind him and the top of the bank to his right, he eventually made the edge of the wheat field. The crop was almost ready for harvest - dense and thigh-deep.
Quickly skirting the margin, heading for the stile at the road, two thoughts suddenly occurred to him.
Firstly that his lovingly-restored Hardy Perfection was no longer in his hand - this seemed less than inportant right now. Secondly, the image from one of the Jurassic Park films wouldn't leave him - the one where the velociraptors track hapless cannon-fodder extras though long grass, and all you see is it parting as they close in. He checked over his shoulder again.
Nearly there - DON'T run.
Slightly calmer now, he reached the stile, and, in relief, let fly with an out-of-character stream of Anglo-Saxon. He found himself suddenly giggling hysterically as he noticed the squelching at his right foot for the first time.
Two pheasants exploded from the field behind, and again, dread ice water flooded his guts. Hurrying across the lane to the layby, in a second, the car door slammed behind him and his breath momentarily clouded the windscreen. Trembling slightly, the ignition key engaged; the engine started - headlights on.
The Cat crouched, caught in the lights' glare in the middle of the lane less than a cricket pitch from the car. Yellow eyes shone back at him for a second time that night. A second later - in a bound - the apparition leaped over the hedge into the dark; back in the direction they'd both just come from......
Twenty minutes later, parked outside the house, he considered his options in terms of how much of the evening's events to share with Wend. First things first; turn the waders inside out; a shower, and a very large glass of Glenfiddich.....
A Memorable Evening
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