Misty morning. . . leaving St Jean de Losne.

An early morning at its best . . .
At 6am a fisher person set up his fishing kit across the canal from our boat.  The patience unsurpassed by other sportsmen was about to begin.


In a small clearing on the bank otherwise fully planted with 8 foot tall grasses with purple fronds gently waving in the morning breeze, a bucket of bait, bag of chum to toss in to the canal to tempt the fish up to his baited hooks, a net bag hanging low in the water where his hooked booty will live in captivity, and four long poles spike from the shore 2 meters across the water. Then the man himself perches on a camp stool to set the scene.  He sits still, watches intently as his colorful bobbins float before him, moved only by the motion of the water.   Occasionally a little wiggle on the line, occasionally a toss of chum, his eyes never leave the surface of the water.  Until he sees something change . . .Rising slowly on old legs, Wellington’s gooey from the muddy bank, he teases the line, letting it out, bringing it in, tiring the fish out until he reels it in.  First catch of the day, into the net bag . . The second and third catches were plopped into the bait bucket, too small for anything else. Today he may have to stop at the market before going home . . . One catch in an hour and a half is not much for dinner.  But this national pass time is not really about landing the big one . . .





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