Panasonic Kxtda30 Used

Stories of fishing. Fly imitation. With

An elderly man, after a long walk, sits on a bench.
front of him, not very close, arrive by car, two fishermen. Father and son.
The old man looks on. Lay down your hat and take a pipe. Did not start: now can no longer do so.

The father gets out and, with his son, they go to apply for permit to fish in river.
Fisheries which is spoken, is the fly fishing fake.
An art in the field.
After a hearty breakfast and lunch, he bought "the lot", they prepare the barrels.
The father tells the son, as if for the first time: "When you take a trout (if you take it) put his hand under the belly, do not try to take it like a banana, or I'll beat it. "
"Do you prefer the wire of 12 or 14? The 14 is a bit 'strong, the need for larger trout. "
The son grins.
With a natural talent, almost never exercised, he inherited from his father's natural instinct killer typical fisherman. He has fished since childhood at sea with the fixed barrel, without the reel.
Later he moved on the river, certain movements of the classic fake fly fishing (eg fishing line to stretch the feet back and forth before leaving in place the right point in water), comes naturally to him.
Other fishermen take years to succeed.
The present life leaves him little time to pursue this practice, which - for the father, as it was for the grandfather - is a religion. The choice of fly
pretend to use, for boy, is typically a choice "technique": no flies Nerazzurri and Rossoneri in principle, yes to that solid. The first to be used, however, must be black and white.

His father accompanies him in a charming place.
In the woods, the boy is released to wait a bit 'of water from the nearby dam.
entered at that time, the trout if they notice and be frightened.
son loves to go fishing with his father every now and then, though - every time - the axle a slight sense of guilt: he knows he's talented, but not to express (and improved) completely. After the fish often comes home after having taken (and released) small specimens. Without being able to bring home those permitted. Those over a certain size.
Sign in water, after remaining stationary for 15 minutes waiting, and all his insecurities vanish.
was like - before that day - if you hear.
raining, cold, turns to look behind him and sees a small river surrounded by mist, the trees - from shore to shore - Almost touching.

Then he turns in front of him, and began to fish.
What once was easy for him, all of a sudden back.
started throwing more and more difficult to prove.
and warns again that shock you take down your spine when you know you're one step away from the prey.
Here comes the first trout over the extent possible. You can take home!
But inwardly, he feels that is going to get the second, bigger one.
And so will, after a few hours.
The joy is overwhelming, the boy cries all his happiness is back. Fishing
as he did once.
A tear slips from her cheek.
Then he smiles. And look towards the old man.

That, in turn, smiles.
takes his hat, gets up and walks away. With a pipe in his mouth.

That old man, who no longer there, was my grandfather.
The boy, of course, me.
He was a great fisherman.
My father is a champion. I
, their comparison, a goat.
But now, I'm sure I can go back to being a good fisherman.

Some days seem designed by a divine hand. I take
di avere un diario personale, questo blog, per immortalarla.

Oggi, per me, è stata una di quelle giornate.

Un domani, spero molto lontano, avrei piacere di tornare a pescare con mio padre e mio nonno. Insieme, come quando ero piccolo.

Poi mi staccherei, un attimo, per ammirarli.

Mi siederei su una panchina, insieme a qualche Angelo.
Conoscendomi, direi: “Aaaah, come pescano quei due… Guardateli… Solo in Paradiso si pesca così…”.

Dedicato a mio nonno.

"Alla fine all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was created by the world's great flood and runs over rocks that are the foundation of time.
On some of these rocks are timeless raindrops impressed. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words belong to the rocks.
I'm obsessed by water. "
(Norman Maclean)