While Rivers Run — Maurice Walsh

He was a big, straight-backed, middle-aged man in patched brown tweeds, and he carried a firm pad of muscle on his big bones, a pair of grey, wise eyes below a bush of brow, and a grizzled stub of moustache above a clean chin. He wore no waders, yet he stood mid-leg deep in a tidal pool at the very end of slack water and fished for finnock, industriously but without enthusiasm.