There are days in the Northshire when an angler can stand knee-deep in cool, swift, dancing water and take trout on every cast. It’s almost too good to be true. At times like this, I’m put in mind of a wicked little short story called “Mr. Theodore Castwell,” by the great British author G.E.M. Skies.
It seems that Mr. Castwell, a pompous, upper crust English sportsman, has died and, in the fullness of time, appeared before the Pearly Gates to await judgement. St. Peter duly consults his Ledger, cocks a skeptical eyebrow, but finally presents Mr. Castwell with a magnificent split-cane flared, a celestial reel, and an infinite supply of irresistible dry flies, then despots him on the banks of a “beautiful clear chalk stream” in the company of an angelic river keeper. Trout are rising everywhere to a non-stop hatch, and Mr. Castwell is soon into a guileless but scrappy two-and-a-half pound brown which the ghillie deftly nets. Read more…
-Robert F. Jones