tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73003247463375480712024-03-12T16:43:54.929-07:00The LegacyA lost ancient estate lake and a colony of the biggest and most historic carp in England. Only one man knows the location, the history and the size of the giants that dwell there. All that is about to change.
Greg Freestonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13429249580065873177noreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7300324746337548071.post-57648642415419263212021-02-01T18:23:00.000-08:002021-02-01T18:23:16.974-08:00<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_RZbqhfwufwucemGUnDHq3dtqq0IN2QEmFnvabU2QTPJTq9mI9nlYh73YJpunCyMNCkpWlxsVx0i_ZObJaOeEnu8_5HkhdJogtAXtgs82RjEE_h1ZrYjasFJb7RStqyE_F5DiKDkdSPo7/s2048/cover+spine+and+back+blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1319" data-original-width="2048" height="412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_RZbqhfwufwucemGUnDHq3dtqq0IN2QEmFnvabU2QTPJTq9mI9nlYh73YJpunCyMNCkpWlxsVx0i_ZObJaOeEnu8_5HkhdJogtAXtgs82RjEE_h1ZrYjasFJb7RStqyE_F5DiKDkdSPo7/w640-h412/cover+spine+and+back+blog.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>Greg Freestonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13429249580065873177noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7300324746337548071.post-417530652460075272021-02-01T18:20:00.004-08:002021-02-05T03:56:37.902-08:00<p align="center" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 1.0cm; text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></p><p align="center" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 1.0cm; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: times;">Prologue</span></b></p>
<p align="center" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm; tab-stops: 1.0cm 2.0cm 147.35pt center 225.65pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;">June 2003</span><a name="_Hlk529019294"><o:p></o:p></a></p>
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<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">he </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">first rays of morning sun filter
through fresh summer leaves, dappling the banks of a secluded lake in patterns
of light and shade. Mist rises from glass-smooth water with the smoulder and glow
of pale fire. Reeds sparkle with dew, willow branches drip and</span> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">reflections distort.
All is quiet. Only birdsong breaks the silence. Nothing moves but ripples of
liquid and light.</span> </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;"> A lone figure enters the hushed
scene. A shadow in the mist then briefly, a silhouette against the diffused
sunrise. In that moment, the shape is clear and defined. Human, male, and unmistakeably
a fisherman. Rod and net betray his purpose, fused to his backlit profile. A wide-brimmed
hat, frayed and misshapen, completes the pic</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">ture. </span></p></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">The angler creeps silently to the
water’s edge, cautious and watchful, fox-footed. His movements are slow, heron-like,
his senses sharp and receptive. A blackbird calls from the woods and he pauses
to listen before a jarring, more urgent sound snaps his attention back to the
water and his eyes swivel in their sockets like a lizard’s. Along a tree-lined margin,
by an old decaying boathouse, lily-pads rock and sway as bubbles break the
surface. A big carp is on the feed. </span></p></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">The
man - white-haired, bespectacled, an old man but fit and wiry - kneels behind
the reeds, rolls up his shirtsleeves and prepares. He adjusts his float, checks
the swan-shot five feet below and tests his knots. He adds weight to the
braided hook-link with a pinch of tungsten putty, then with a jeweller’s file, hones
the hook to a needle-sharp point. From his bait tub he selects the liveliest
lobworm and impales it on the barbed size six.</span></p></blockquote></blockquote><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; text-align: justify;">He
casts. An underarm flick, 20 yards, maybe more. So familiar to his touch, the
split-cane rod and vintage fixed-spool reel respond as if with instinct. The
delivery is precise, discreet and seemingly effortless. The bait lands delicately
and the float settles, poised, inches from the pads. Within minutes he deceives
and hooks a fish. A big fish, which makes a powerful dash for safety. The rod
bends and creaks like a willow in a gale...</span> </p></blockquote></blockquote><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p></blockquote></blockquote>Greg Freestonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13429249580065873177noreply@blogger.com0