Small rivers on the edge of the precipice
In March 1982 I struck silver. I was the new apprentice game adviser at the GWCT, a little over two months in post. My boss Ian McCall and I had just finished running our eight-day gamekeepers’ training course and we took a day off to go to the local guns and tackle auction. Having bought some bits of fishing gear in the morning, Ian and his friend were anxious to get away and try for a salmon on one of the great middle beats of the Avon. So I volunteered to collect and pay after the auction finished and drop off the gear in the evening.
By late afternoon I was back at the office to sign off some thank-you letters to visiting speakers, but then what? Well, why not lob a Toby Spoon across the
