As he always did, this morning he’d headed off to the tackle shop, Fishy Business, with the Tupperware for maggots that he kept in the fridge – much to Annie’s disgust. Then he’d spent a pleasant half an hour selecting his bait for the day, listening to Owen Earl who ran the shop enthusiastically prattling on about the very latest rods and gadgets that Greg could never in his wildest dreams afford.

‘You want to get one of these, matey,’ Ray said as Greg set up his old camping stool. His friend patted his new reclining fishing chair with fully adjustable legs and an extra-padded seat. Ray had all the gadgets. He was probably Fishy Business’s best customer. If Ray ever stopped fishing, the tackle shop would go bust. Not only was there the two and a half grand’s worth in the boot of Ray’s car, but an equivalent sum still stored in his garage in specifically designed cupboards. Greg sighed to himself.

He’d always had to make do as money was invariably tight at home. Not that he resented his friend’s equipment – as it were – but that didn’t stop him from envying him from time to time.

Greg unpacked his box next, laying out his maggots, sweetcorn, bread that he’d filched from the bread bin and some luncheon meat in pleasing symmetry.

‘Come on, come on,’ Ray urged, peering into the murky water of the canal. ‘Bite, you bastards! We might have to move if we’re going to get lucky today, matey.’

They hadn’t been there twenty minutes yet.

This was a good stretch of water; there was a bridge over the nearby road and weeds on the far side of the bank. Good places for canal fish – carp, perch, tench and bream – to linger.

Greg slipped his keepnet into the water and then assembled his rod section by section – the same one that he’d had for the last twenty years. Annie had bought it for him as a wedding present and there might be bigger and better rods with fancier names and certainly fancier prices, but this one would do for him. It was like an old friend. His hands fitted it perfectly. He knew all its nuances and it had served him well all these years. Besides, he firmly believed that it wasn’t having state-of-the-art equipment that mattered, it was the skill of the fisherman, the patience, knowing the water, learning which bait suited which fish, years of accumulated knowledge and experience. That surely was worth more than having an ultra-light carbon-fibre rod and no patience?

‘Where’s the missus today?’ Ray wanted to know as he slapped at the water with his line again.