Fishing On The Tweed

Neither of us feeling up to par we took ourselves off to Dryburgh, with a nice lunch at the hotel, a wander round the Abbey and a potter by the Tweed.

We watched as a fisherman prepared his kit, struggled into his waders and, water up to the top of his legs, began casting his line. A hundred yards downstream a heron stood on one leg as he watched for his prey.
I didn't see who was first to catch a fish but I bet the heron didn't take more than his meal, nor make such a fuss over it.