I have a friend who does this for a living; guiding and mentoring the lucky few who find and engage him. He did something that for the life of me to this day I cannot fathom… he took me under his wing and along to some of those great places. Their obvious perils glared out at me… not him no… never him. Some of the perils I could clearly imagine or foresee, others I partook in. Thus far I’ve survived, as for now I still tend to bounce when I fall, especially in heather on a steep slope but I did it occasionally on rock too, long may that hidden power last. I do worry about ever getting thin and bony.

The pictures are homage of sorts to him and a visualisation for me of those perils, imagined or real. I assembled it loosely in comic strip style using multiple scenarios as truly some of the lesser perils, when they strike, are of comic book quality. Others should they transpire are perhaps darker in consequence and would need a helicopter extraction or a need to drag a body bag some miles to a road or bay.

I am sure I entertained him, that’s why he brought me along; a big bouncing ball of a companion with an attraction to deep water-filled holes and “trips” in places not thought possible to trip or vanishing acts in deep bracken. The sometimes epic walks or boat trips are seared into my memory palace, being visually stunning, physically stretching and filled with his subtitles. “Fish on” being but one echoing and suspiciously mocking cry uttered from his distant mark knowing full well that I had caught nothing, never had nor never will!

I have narrowed the scope of this Little Worlds picture to fly fishing, an art that requires a bit of practice, to say the least. A failing in me that always wound up my fairly patient friend when my casts were launched. My “casts” placed the fly on the surface of the water like a fridge dropped from 30m. Even at the coast “on the salt” where things are rougher, windier and roiling, I failed to place the fly in a straight line or without the splash of a 12pin bowling ball tossed from a high escarpment. Few fish were ever tempted to my offering. It’s therefore been easier to draw about other things I experienced or imagined. Dramatic renderings of catching actual fish were never going to be a rich seam unless I drew his many triumphs, but those would fill many volumes.

Beginner through to Master, the tangles (aka fankles) that the wind, physics and your innate incompetence can create would try the patience of a saint. The subsequent hours spent in a determined trance trying to undo the mess to save your expensive line are what set you apart from the replacers, those organised souls that carry a second rod already made up or a complete new line and reel ready to serve. Others I feel sure, can’t let a good challenge pass them by, give of their all and take it to an extreme…