Fishing reel on a forearm

The reel you left me is still spinning true, though the drag has stiffened with the cold. I fished the tarn below Cwm Dinas yesterday, the water so clear at the bottom I could count the stones. Nothing rose to the fly until the wind dropped and the whole lake went flat as a slate roof, and then three trout came up at once, as if they'd been waiting for permission.

I should tell you about the line. It snapped on the second fish, right where the old knot was, the one you tied the summer your mother was poorly. I sat on the rock and watched the loose end lift off the water and drift towards the far shore, grey in the shadow of the pass. I thought about walking round after it. Then I thought better of it.

The reel goes back to you with this letter, wrapped in oilcloth. Don't let the postmaster see the brass handle, or he'll want to buy it. I've left a fresh length wound on the spool, enough for a dozen casts, and tied a clean knot at the end, one you'd approve of.

On the walk down through the pass I found a strand of your old line snagged on a thorn bush, bright as wire in the sun. I took it as a sign, or at least as a reason to write. Come up in June. The water will be warm enough to bathe in, and I owe you a fish.

Yours, Tom