J R Heartley would of never of got into this mess

Errol walked through the morning mist with the sun rising on the
horizon, the shimmering milky haze that resulted gave a peacefulness to
his surroundings. The tall grass was wet with dew and his trousers were
damp up to the knees, over his shoulder he carried his rod and tackle.
He looked into the calm majestically flowing river beside him, small
ripples where pond skaters zipped this way and that broke the
reflection of the sun on the waters surface and a gentle breeze cooled
the morning air.

Errol sat down on the bank and looked down into the river, a bird flew
low over the water across his line of vision and he followed it as it
climbed into the blue sky above. Errol prepared his fishing rod and
cast his float into mirror water. Plop, went the float, sunk and then
appeared bobbing for a few moments. Errol secured the rod on the bank
and lay back on his elbows. Sitting there in the morning glory of the
Berkshire countryside he heard nothing but the black poplar trees
rustling gently in the wind and an occasional waterfowl gurgling in the
reeds.

This was where he wanted to be, where the fifty hour week in the grimy
office seemed distant and somehow unreal. He drifted into sleep in the
peacefulness of the moment and dreamed of nothing.

He awoke sometime later, the sun had risen somewhat and had burned off
the mist. He looked for his black, white and orange float but could see
no sign of it. He picked up his rod and reeled it in. The line was
taught and something resisted, Errol teased the line in slowly so as
not to break it. From the reeds came a high pitched screech. The
silence was broken and fight was on. Errol stood up and reeled in,
pulling his catch in by pulling the rod over his head then reeling and
lowering the rod at the same time. The screeching became incessant and
Errol became concerned, then from the reeds on the other side of the
river appeared a beautiful black and red moorhen. It careered backwards
and forwards entangled in Errol's line. Errol paused, if he cut the
line the hen would certainly die, but to continue to reel the bird in
might kill it too. He decided to reel it in as slowly as
possible.

At that moment of decision the hen seemed to realise Errol's intentions
and paddled towards him, Errol continued to reel hoping the
understanding would last. As the hen got close it hesitated, Errol put
the rod down on the bank and lent forward, the hen sat immobilised by
the nylon line. Errol picked the little creature up and stroked it
gently. The hen sat and blinked at him not making a sound. Errol began
to untangle the little hen, he took great care not to hurt it and after
a few minutes work, the hen was free.

Errol stood there on the river bank with the hen nestle in his arms,
for a moment, stroking it and admiring the beauty of the hens plumage,
then he knelt down and put the hen on the bank. It seemed hypnotised
and stayed there for a few seconds then, as if suddenly awake it took
to the water and paddled away to the other side.

Errol called it a day at that point but still goes fishing there, when
he does he often feeds a little moor hen bread, and fishes between the
reeds under the rustling black poplar trees.