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The angler sits squinting over the lake. This is the largest lake in England and should hold the promise of some great  sport. Fifty yards in front of the concrete shelter in which he sits, a day-glo orange point of reflected sunlight shows where his float is sitting motionless on the water. Suddenly the coloured tip bobs below the surface and almost instantly returns to its upright position. Then it disappears completely with hardly a ripple to show where it once sat. Unhurriedly he slowly takes up the rod and with calm, collected movement he raises the rod tip, exposing the float with tight line leading  down into the water. As the float rises into the air the line is performing a frenzied dance, pirouetting, describing arcs and performing tight figures of eight. Now he straightens the rod so the tip is vertical and holding it firmy in his left hand, with his right hand he grasps the almost invisible line and slowly pulls it into the bank, at the same time raising his arm until a tiny, silver, dangling fish is exposed, as though balanced on its tail on the surface of the water. A bleak, one of the smallest fish found living in fresh water. He gently pulls the fish to the bank and with a shake the bait falls from the fishes mouth and the fish is unhooked. The shiny silver sliver rests in the palm of his hand for a few minutes to alleviate any stress and then he gently places it back onto the surface. He releases his hold to let it swim freely back down to the murky depths, having suffered no harm, only the loss of an easy meal. He then takes his position once more, settled in his seat hoping for a repeat performance but with a much more substantial catch.

“So how do you like the old place?” My friends John and Sue looked thoroughly pleased with themselves as we pulled up in front of a magnificent looking old farmhouse. The sun was fading and the artificial glow of the streetlamp they had erected in their garden reminded me how long it had taken to reach their new home. A far journey by train from London where they had collected me from the station to spend a weekend of sea and fresh air with good company. Removing the cases from the car they ushered me in through a low stone-lintelled doorway through which I had to stoop to enter. “It dates from the late fifteenth, early sixteenth century according to the agent and we’re looking forward to our time down here”, Sue gushed,” John will show you your room while I get the kettle on.” John motioned me to follow him up a narrow, winding stone staircase with dark, wooden panelling on one side.We turned a bend to the left and John pointed to a panel that didn’t seem to fit in with the rest. “Have a look in here,” he whispered, and pushing one edge of the panel it swung out towards us. Looking through the gap I could make out a small, coffin-sized room without any windows or furniture. “What do you think of this?” “It’s an actual priest hole, my very own piece of history, can you imagine the thoughts going through the mind of the Jesuit priest concealed in here to avoid capture by the King’s agents.” “His own haven in the cruel times in which they lived”.