An angler returns from the West, reporting great wildlife on and near the river. A kingfisher, groups of swallows packing (for migration), bats, of course, a kestrel hovering over the bog. Flora also, great banks of heather on the cut away, now once again the home of the grouse. And the river full of salmon and sea trout, jumping everywhere. Stories of comfortable evenings before the roaring turf fire, swapping stories.
And what was the tally for the week for the whole party? One small salmon, returned alive to the water (it was red), and two white trout eaten. And the rebuke or expiation `There is more to fishing than fish.' oh, and a handsome lump of bog deal thrown into the boot of the car, and now decorating a hall table.
Disconsolate from plying his rod, he seeks out the new Discovery Maps of Ordnance Survey. A large area is marked out as a coniferous plantation, but within is an old lodge with its old demesne timbers. An ancient road over the great bog leads to a locked gate. A march is made through the pine forest, home to many midges. Soon a sweet chestnut, monkey puzzle, a cedar, appear, and the angler squelches his way through the remains of an old shooting lodge, cut stone now derelict. Associated farm buildings, byres, kennels all tumbled and slowly being engulfed. And becoming invisible as the firs close in.
Conversation with a forestry man and a turf cutter reveal it as a shooting lodge for a wealthy distilling family. And the last person leaving it twenty five years ago. Maybe such beautiful estates and timbers would be treated differently in other countries. Surely neglect is not one of our traditions?