The Fisherman

I spend my days just sitting around the house, thinking about ideas on how to write a story - something different - something to catch the reader’s imagination, if that is possible. Looking for a plot and characters to match. But it is not easy looking for inspiration unless I take a journey away from it all - somewhere distant away from the crowd and to be left in total solitude.

So off I go on my journey of discovery, hoping to travel far and travel wide - a place to be alone with my thoughts, just me, a pen and a notebook to write in. What more could anyone ask for?

As I’m travelling, I come to a place surrounded by woods, and nearby, a river running deep - deep into the unknown, like my thoughts.

As I keep walking, I come to a cottage, so tidy in looks, with such a beautiful garden - the prettiest I have seen. Then I notice the words I want to see - room to let - somewhere to rest my weary head. Giving it a chance to gather my thoughts.

‘I see you have a room to let.’ I say to the lady who has come to the door after hearing my knock.

‘Yes,’ she answers. Would you like to see it?’

‘Yes, I would,’ I reply.

She leads me into the sitting room, so quaint - a proper fire blazing away with a cat sitting in front of it, probably thinking that it is too cold to venture outside and decides to stay in the warm and who could blame him? It isn’t a mild day. The wind is blowing a gale and occasional showers cover the air.

Before showing me the room, she makes me a hot drink and fetches it through to me with some biscuits on a plate. While drinking my coffee, she asks what brings me to these parts. I tell her that I needed the inspiration to write a novel. She tells me that there is nothing to inspire me around here. How wrong she is. The sheer beauty of the landscape would inspire any artist, writer or poet - the quietness and the solitude. No one to bother and no one to care, letting the mind wander and explore.

After the coffee and biscuits, she takes me up to show me my room. It is nice but basic, but there is a table and chair to sit at - ideal for a writer.

‘I’ll take it,’ I say to her.

‘Will you be requiring food?’

What an odd question. Being miles from anywhere, where would you get food? But I did notice a public house a few miles back but knowing my luck food wouldn’t be on the menu, just crisps. So many public houses today don’t want to bother to cater for food. They just want to make their money on serving drinks and light snacks.

After unpacking my stuff from the rucksack, I notice it is nearing teatime, so I go down the stairs and take a seat at the table and my food is brought to me.

‘That was very nice,’ I say to the lady after finishing my meal.

‘Will you be requiring breakfast in the morning?’ she asks as she clears my plate away.

‘Yes, if you don’t mind.’

After my tea, I go up to my room, sit at the table and take out my notebook before trying to get inspired by what have seen on my journey - sheep, trees, cattle, a flowing stream, a farmer driving a tractor, rabbits running around a field. But I just can’t put words on paper with my pen. It is as though my mind is blank, so I decide to get some rest. I need it after all the walking I have been doing. Maybe my mind will be clearer by the morning.

When the morning comes, I open my eyes and notice it is still dark, but it is winter, so I stay where I am till the light appears, then I get up to draw the curtains back to notice a drab morning, but I am still planning on exploring, and I don’t care what the weather decides to throw at me.

After having my breakfast, I go back up the stairs to pick up my jacket and rucksack. The lady of the cottage has already prepared me some sandwiches and a flask of hot coffee. I thank her before setting off on my way.

I spend most of the day walking and thinking, desperately trying to get thoughts into my head. I jot down in the notebook things that I see, hoping that when I return, I can put sentences together.

On my way back to the cottage, feeling weary after all the walking, I see a lone fisherman sitting on a log at the river’s edge with his rod by in his hands as though he hasn’t a care. I try to wonder what thoughts are going through his head. Maybe he is trying to write a novel and he finds that fishing is a way of relaxing his mind.

When I return, I pack my things away, put the notepad on the table in my room and go down for my tea.

‘Can I ask you something,’ I say to the lady while eating my tea.

‘Of course, you can.’

‘Who is the elderly man who fishes in the river sitting on a log, you know - by that old bridge.'

‘You’ve lost me there,’ she answers. ‘I’ve been here for twenty years and I’ve never seen anyone fishing by that bridge, man or woman.’

After my tea, I go to my room, convincing myself that I have a story - about a ghostly fisherman who can be seen by only one person - me!