Once he’d got his eye in, he could see there were hundreds, in every river channel. But where the girl saw novelty, he saw food. He had no net – no one had a net, or a line – but the fish were thick enough to walk on. And he’d seen that documentary, the one where the brown bears in Alaska waited for the sock-eyes to swim back to their spawning grounds. When they did, the bears could simply reach in and take what they wanted, flicking them up and on to the bank.

He could do that. It shouldn’t be that hard.

He sat down and wrestled his boots off, the thought that he might not be able to get them back on briefly crossing his mind.

‘What’re you doing?’ said the girl. ‘Getting yourself one of those fish pedicures?’

‘No. I’m getting us something to eat.’ He scrunched his toes in the soft grit and waded out mid-stream. The water rose up to mid-calf, and predictably, the fish scattered at the intrusion.

‘You’ve scared them all off,’ said the girl. She seemed to be happy at his failure.

‘Just wait,’ he said. His feet were cold, and he didn’t have a coat of shaggy hair like those brown bears. He’d lose feeling in them soon enough.

‘I hope they’re not those flesh-eating fish you get,’ she said helpfully.

Dalip knew his salmon from his piranhas, and they looked salmony to him. Slowly, the fish gathered downstream, then moved forward again, slipping between his legs quite unconcerned as to his presence.

He crouched down slowly, like he was in the slips, poised for a catch. He slid his hands into the shallow water, and rested his knuckles on the river bed. Bits of grit, carried by the current and disturbed by the passing fish landed on his open palms.

‘Well, go on then,’ urged the girl, but Dalip was content to be patient and ignored her. He knew how it ought to be done, he’d just never done it himself before. He’d probably get it wrong, too, several times, until he got it right.

‘I’d move back a bit,’ he said, and just then a particularly indolent fish swam across his hands, so slow as to be almost moving backwards. He was never going to get a better chance.

His right hand moved towards his left, briefly trapping the fat, wriggling body between them, but the object wasn’t to hold on to it – it was to move it, quickly and cleanly, out of its element and on to land. With momentum and surprise on his side, he threw the fish sideways towards the bank. It broke the surface, thrashing futilely, and flew up towards where the others were standing.

Straight into the sweary girl’s face.