Bridges have become refuges
In the evening of my life as a freshwater fisherman, my passion for the quest for fish is inexorably waning. Early mornings, "the fisherman's dawn" as René Fallet so aptly described it, the one that belongs to him alone, so full of emotions and subtle pleasures, are no longer part of my diary. Nor are the long twilights, when the day never ends and you hope that the most beautiful trout will emerge from their deep lairs. Long-distance or rugged routes no longer have the appeal I had for them in my youth. Bridges have become my refuges and I fish just a stone's throw away. Dry fly upstream, drowned downstream.
Trout and minnows
When I was a little boy, a little fisherman, my peasant grandmother, a pragmatic woman if ever there was one, kept an eye on me by the stream while she tended her herd of cows. At that time, on the borders of the Velay and Haut-Vivarais regions, the tributaries of the Lignon flowed cool waters through the fields. The meadows were mowed to the edge of the bed and cleared of parasitic foliage, and the diversion bays and ditches were regularly dug. Trout and flocks of minnows thrived in this favorable habitat. My instructions were not to stray far from the end of the meadow to dip my grasshoppers in the currents or under the weeds. I soon overstepped the mark, and each time I returned I was roundly reprimanded. It's been a long time since anyone called me to turn back. I'd love to hear my grandmother's voice and see her face light up with a smile as I unpacked my fishing basket.
A long journey along the water's edge
In my life by the water, I've always been fascinated by discovery, by untrodden stretches of shoreline, by the marvellous riffle I can see beyond the meander. Another hour, another two minutes, another cast... Today, as a grandfather angler, I set up my artificials on the outskirts of the Tence bridge, a bastion of the Velay region, but at the 4 p.m. chime, I desert the course. I carefully stow my rod in its case and hang up my waterproof pants in the lean-to. My clothes no longer have the smell of fish and my fly boxes are wisely returned to their shelves. I'm not yet dreaming of a folding seat and a bite detector. However, the long journey my flies have undertaken since my youth, "over river and over estan", is slowly drawing to a close.
"But where are the snows of yesteryear and the ladies of yesteryear?"
At my truant school, François Villon's verses were written in chalk. Despite the ravages of time, I reread them with pleasure.
