Preface

It was dark as I free-wheeled down Town Hill on that crisp Somerset Sunday morning. I leaned into the steep left-hander at the bottom and pedalled madly to maintain speed along the flat. By Milverton the sun had risen and the mist, defeated, revealed soft hedges heavy with nuts and berries, and orchards thick with hard red apples that I sometimes scrumped.

Just the swish of my tyres on the empty road. The dawn chorus faded as abruptly as it had begun. Past the house where the old lady had once caught me scrumping plums from the garden and into the lane which led to the lake. I climbed off the bike and propped it against a silver beech tree, unpacked my tackle and walked gingerly to the water’s edge. Over the reeds which fringed the lake a huge fallen tree arched crazily across a patch of water lilies. A thicket of elder behind me, black with fruit, threatened to cause casting problems if I wasn’t careful. The water was still and the bank shelved away gradually into soft mud. I could see the stalks of the lilies for yards ahead till the water turned dark green.