I will probably recount the birthday party I attended in Rochdale at a later date but for now,a short story on an incident that occured the following day.It never ceases to astound me how a gift/talent or just a spark of imagination when surrounded by realism can so easily be extinguished,it’s like God will give you the gift,a talent,a touch of genius,but to even things out he makes them brittle and insecure,and identifiable only to the man who sees through your surroundings and personal quirks.Sometimes I think this is patently unfair,sometimes I  see men resigned to the will of circumstances whilst loaded with a touch of genius,sometimes I notice the inner peace and joy of a man living and working to the full range of his skills and potential…I guess this is what people call contentment.On the day following the party I awoke with an irresistible urge to write whilst looking at the Mullins River,the sound of waves crashing and smashing into the rocks always has a calming effect on me.The relentless endeavour of the river,flowing over all before it has a majestic quality to it that does not fail to uplift my spirits.I perched on the rocks overlooking the river and began jotting away and in the corner of my eye I noticed a young man casting his fishing net into the river just a little further upstream from where I sat.About an hour later he was fishing just in front of me.I noticed how unusual his nets were and I  noticed for the first time what a huge haul he had.In that instance he suddenly looked towards me  and we exchanged pleasantries,he looked at me with a baffled expression and asked me what I had been doing for the last hour or so,when I told him he was shocked,delighted and bubbling with curiosity,he surprised me by asking to read what I had written.I was talking to a rural fisherman and the last question I expected was interest in some stories being written by a stranger in the english language,the truth is I  never imagined a fisherman in any land professing an interest in literature(dare I call my stories literature) but admittedly I have not met many fishermen,perhaps the stereotype which society perpetuates has many more flaws.HE read my writings with rapt attention for about ten minutes then handed my writing pad back and lamented how he has always admired writers.I steered the conversation away from writing by asking him about his strange looking equipment.He then proceeded to explain how traditional methods of fishing work,he then told me how he had modified his nets and how he had worked out what weather patterns were best suited for him to draw large hauls.As he broke down the intricacies of his livelihood he’s comments on writing kept reverberating in my head “I just do not know how you are able to express your thoughts so well,I just do not know how you do it”…he just did,he had just done it.

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