It’s six a.m. on a July day in the Spanish part of the Pyrenees and I just left a beautiful inn with my backpack and fly rod to start a fishing day with my friend, Iván Tarin. There is no one on the streets. The temperature is cool but pleasant. We walk to the bakery and get sándwiches for lunch.
In Ernest Hemingway’s first novel, The Sun Also Rises, he begins his Pyrenees fishing day in a similar manner: We packed the lunch and two bottles of wine in the rucksack, and I put it on. I carried the rod-case and the landing-nets slung over my back. We started up the road and then went across a meadow and found a path that crossed the fields and went toward the woods on the slope of the first hill. The fields were rolling and grassy and the .
