He let it go and was preparing to rejoin Leandro when the farmer came by and chatted: toothy like a fairy-tale witch, but friendly. He had observed Dyer teaching his boy. ‘Yer catchin’ ’im in gude time,’ he grinned. He had watched kingfishers on those steps training their young to catch fish and bash their heads out on the stones.

Leandro had felt a further three tugs, but caught nothing. Dyer was pleased to see that the experience had not made him downhearted, the opposite in fact. They ate an early dinner in the bar and went out again.

In the vanishing light Dyer led his son to a large basin of water below the inn. They heard a fish splash back into the pool, creating ripples in the shape of a widening eye, and leaving bubbles on the surface.

Sea trout didn’t run until May or June. It was probably a salmon kelt, or a slob trout that had not swum to sea, he told Leandro in a low voice. They stood still, listening out for another splash, the shivering noise that a fish makes when it jumps, not speaking.

Between the steep banks the Hodder, flowing with dark water like cold black coffee, resembled a river from which a hand might emerge to catch a sword.

Not seeing any more disturbance, they waded across and walked one behind the other along the far bank, holding their rods behind them parallel to the ground. The sounds were amplified at night, the pad of feet, the rustle of a water vole emerging from its burrow. Upstream, a silver flash and spladoosh! was the same fish erupting and crashing back into the pool.

Leandro instantly wanted to cast for it, but Dyer cautioned him. ‘When you hear that splash of a sea trout, you need to wait five minutes. You won’t catch it if you cast too soon.’

Once again, they stood in the river not moving. In the middle of the basin, rocks rose up above the surface, shimmering with the water that swirled over and around them. After an interval, Dyer nodded. Step by slow step, they inched closer to where they had observed the splash.

Ever so careful, Leandro waded further in. Dyer whispered to him how to fish at night. ‘You don’t need to move from there. Just be patient.’

The sky above was virtually pitch dark. The overhanging sycamores and the high banks formed by the gorge blocked out most of the starlight. Leandro began casting, the sound of his fly line swishing to and fro.