“His tired feet caress the path he drew himself from the cabin down to the river, with a hat full of flies, a stick in one hand and an old bamboo rod in the other, almost as bent as his back, but carrying just as much shared history.

He knows the landscape so well that he takes it in step by step without ever needing to look up; the sound of the running water, louder with every stride, seems to be calling him to come and enjoy it, and he keeps to his slow pace, never pausing, crossing the country with his body and time with his soul.

When he reaches the bank of the river he loves so much, his figure changes: he stands taller, his chest swells with a great sigh that lifts his shoulders, and a breeze shifts the expression on his face, as though all that life around him were getting in through his pores. He sits on a big rock and takes it all in, quite still, only his eyes moving, hunting out the source of every sound, and inside.... inside, a riot of memories sets his soul dancing: hatches, trout, rising fish, hooked fish and long runs. The sun drops behind the trees; he glances sideways at his rod with a look that says... do you remember?

On the far bank, under some branches, a small trout is rising without a care. He watched it for long minutes and then, taking off his fly-covered hat, chose one with great care and nodded, as if to say - this is the one that's flying. And he went on looking at the water, at that trout, the hatch, the rises, the takes and the runs, feeling everything and doing nothing.

The sun was long gone behind the trees. He pinned the fly back on his hat, exactly where it had been, beside the same one and in the same hole; he set it firmly on his head, down to the crease, took his stick and his old bamboo rod, as bent as his back, the one he carries every day and has not set up in a long time, and started back to the cabin. With more life in him, more strength, more appetite, because he has just spent another delicious afternoon's fishing and is already thinking about tomorrow's. FlyHeart”