A fisher Man Blue...(true short story)

•                                                           " A Fisher Man Blue"

                  An evening in late July brought me to a much frequented fishing spot on lough Grannes near a town
                  called Dunmannway in the county of west cork , after setting my rods i began to relax into my surroundings
                  an hour or so went by and the evening drew on , fishing was better in the early mornings or late evenings
                  though it was no trouble to sit all day without a single bite and so often was the time i did

                  i sat in contemplation for while quite content with the waiting of the rise
                  hearing a rustle from the bushes behind me, without
looking i could tell it was the old man who would sometimes
                  share the same spot, his making his way through the small path in the bog,
                  across the small wooden log that was our bridge over
the brook was a familiar sound to me , his boots trudging and raincoat
brushing
                  against the briar's and branches seem to never change ,
                  from under neath a small clump of sally trees i watched as he began to fix his rods ,standing tall in stature
                  and still of heavy build he struggled to keep his footing on the soft boggy bank near the lakes edge
                  he cast far out into the lough and made his way over to where i was sitting
                  waving from side to side trying to find a firm footing ,his hood up on his blue raincoat that he wore rain or
                  shine was still wet from the last shower 
                  his old but large figure impressed me as a young lad
15 or so years ,we would often meet in that spot and fish
                  for hours seldom saying many words, we seem to be content with just the silent company
                 
                  I wondered many times what stories and tales this man held , where had he been and by what means ,
                  what had made him so quiet and calm in his ways 
                  a strong presence about him told me there was much i could learn from his wisdom
                  what had brought him to fish this spot ? perhaps the same reason as myself ,
                  there was tale of a large brown trout that had often been hooked but never landed
                  i think we both had quiet aspirations for getting a chance a the one that so many times had gotten away
                  or at least this was our excuse anyway
                  the other of my own reasons for fishing this end of the lough was a little more special,
                  in mid to late summer the sun would rise between two
mountainsides covered in purple heather,the lake would become
transformed for
                  just a moment,
                  whisps of mist in the warm morning sun would rise
from the lake turning pink as it catches the light reflecting
                  off the heather, hovering over the still water
reflecting mirror like stirred only by the swallows swooping to take
fly trapped
                  on the surface ,
                  there moving in and out of the mist created swirls like dancing ghosts evaporating in the warming air
                  in this moment by staying completely still and calm
you can see the wild life come awake and begin to move around the lake,
                  Herons,kingfishers and all manner of bird foul along
with otters and minx's , myself included would be privilege
                  to be in such a spot , to describe in words is to only grasp part of the spectacle
                  to be there in person and behold is to be left in aw of life's beauty
                  I would spend many days on the lough generally getting there around 4.30am just before first light,
                  for to miss that moment would be to miss the whole day or at least the part i liked the most ,
                  
                  My old friend would usually arrive a Little later and
stay on a little later in the evenings , i guess we both respected
                  our quiet time there too
                  like seeing the young otters play and the older otters sit basking on the bank , i wondered maybe one day as
                  this lake wakes to another morning there will be a
young lad fishing my spot and perhaps it is I myself who is the old
                  man content in knowing the magic is being passed on ,
                                                                       j.odea 2009