KARL HAD PRINTED OUT FROM THE INTERNET A SET OF large-scale maps, marking with highlighter our journey to the spot on the Wye where he wanted to fish.
Meticulous, neat, well prepared, the pages inserted into the transparent envelopes of a presentation book.
After the maps, a few pages on rainbow trout, the geography, geology and history of the river.
A man after my own heart: preparation, order and information. The job neatly laid out before setting to.
Karl gave me a quick smile:
"Something for you to read if you get bored."
"Good of you to think of it."
"Well, if you don't fish … And it's an all-day job."
"I've brought my laptop."
"You're writing a book?"
I wasn't, but didn't want to explain why.
"There's some eBooks on it. I'll not be bored."
"And if it rains?"
"I'll go back to the car."
We drove through Gloucester, over the Severn, and on towards Ross-on-Wye. In silence. Which suited me, as I'm never talkative early in the day, and Karl seemed content to concentrate on his driving, getting used to the Rover, judging speed and distance still not second nature. But I felt safe, the way you do instantly with some drivers, even when they're learning.
It was also a pleasure to be a passenger, able to shift about in my seat to ease the sciatica, and look at the countryside.
Sunday morning early. Very little moving on the road once we were away from the city.
I could sense Karl settling in, and driving with increasing confidence. Loving the car, its power and strength and robust sleekness.
"You said you'd failed the theory part of the driving test?"
"Four times."
"But you don't have to write anything, do you? Isn't it all multiple choice questions or ticks in boxes?"
"There's more to it than that. Didn't score enough marks. So I was failed."
"There was none of that stuff when I did my test. But that was fifty years ago! And you can't take the practical test on the road till you've passed the theory?"
"Right."
"Aren't there theory tests on the internet for practice?"
"Yes."
"Don't you do them?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Bloody-mindedness."
"What?"
"It's stupid. I don't do them because I know I can pass the test. The trouble is I go to pieces when I know it's a test. I hate tests. I always fail. So I don't do the practice tests because I know I'd pass them easy. They're not a proper test. And the examiner isn't breathing down my neck."
I knew exactly what he meant because I was the same.
I didn't pursue the topic. The irritation in his voice was a warning, and I didn't want to spoil the pleasure of the day.
Silence again for a few miles before Karl said:
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"You said you've been married over forty years."
I said, "That's right." Adding quickly to avoid more questions, "Did you give Fiorella the letter we wrote?"
He nodded, eyes firmly on the road.
"And?"
"She asked why I wrote about rugby first."
"And you said?"
"Easiest to start with."
"Have you decided what to write about next?"
"I haven't. But Fiorella has."
"Which is?"
"Love."
"Love!"
"She wants to know what I think love is."
I couldn't help a burst of laughter.
"Sorry! But she certainly goes for the jugular."
Now Karl laughed.
"What are you going to say?"
"Dunno. Googled it to find out."
This time I managed to keep a straight face.
"Any use?"
"Pages of the stuff. Loads of sections with titles like 'personal love,' and 'interpersonal love,' and 'cultural views,' and 'religious views,' and 'how to love.' It even had one called 'warnings.'"
"Warnings like what?"
"You must love yourself before you can love another. There's always a risk of getting hurt. Don't ask for love and don't force love, and—"
But he couldn't go on because by now we were both bubbling with laughter.
I managed to say, "Not much help, then?"
"About the same as for plumbing a loo."
"How d'you mean?"
"Easier to find out how to do it by doing it than by reading the manual. Every job is different. The instructions are too general. They don't allow for the quirks."
When we'd calmed down, I said, "Must have been a bit of help, though."
"Nar! I mean, I already knew love is supposed to be like it said. A strong emotion. Feeling attached to somebody. Wanting to be with them all the time. But the bit I liked best was where it said it's impossible to define love because it takes so many forms and is so complicated."
"Like plumbing a loo."
"Exactly."
"But," I said, "when you think of all the books there are on the subject, and the thousands, probably millions, of stories there are about love, you'd think we would know everything there is to know."
"Can't say I've read that many."
"No, but still, the fact is, at least this is how it seems to me, everybody has to learn about it from scratch for themselves. And we all make the same mistakes time and again while we're learning."
"Like me learning to read."
"But not when you were learning to plumb a loo."
"No, I was pretty good at that from the off."
"Every man to his last."
"His what?"
"His own trade. The thing he's best at."
"Like you're best at writing?"
"I'm glad you think so."
"Not that I've read anything you've written."
"And I haven't had the pleasure of your plumbing my loo."
"Anytime. You only have to ask."
"Thank you, good sir. Same goes for my books and you reading them."
"One day, one day. Promise."
"And by the way," I said, "as we're talking about plumbing, could you pull over somewhere suitable, at your earliest convenience. My old man's plumbing isn't as efficient as it used to be and my morning coffee is on the way out."
He smiled and after half a mile or so pulled into a lay-by.
There'd been rain in the night. The hedgerow behind which I relieved myself smelt of rotting vegetation and the spoor left by other travellers observing the calls of nature.
When we were on our way again, I said, "What would you like to do about the letter on love to Fiorella? Would you like me to draft something while you're fishing?"
Karl didn't reply at once, then said, "I've been thinking. I know I asked you for help. But it's a bit of a cop-out for me, isn't it?"
I kept quiet, waiting for him to go on.
Which he did after an uncomfortable silence. "Anyway, what I've done is I've written, I mean I've tried to write, well, I have, I've written, it's only a few lines, a try at it, about love, because I think I should give it a go."
"Great!" I said. "That's great, Karl! And you'll send it?"
He glanced at me, the car wobbled, he attended to his driving again, and said, "Yes, but I thought you might have a look at it while I'm fishing, and, you know, tidy it up a bit maybe, or make a few suggestions."
"Be glad to."
"We're nearly there."
"Not far off," I said, checking the map. "Listen to what Mr. William Wordsworth wrote about the place many years ago:
And again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur. Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion …
O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods
How oft my spirit has turned to thee!"
"Sounds like he liked it," Karl said.
"He did."
"And sounds like you like that stuff."
"Poetry? I do."
"Don't know how you remember it."
"The same way you remember how to plumb a bathroom, I suppose."
"Like you said, every man to his trade."
"What I said was, every man to his last. I took my metaphor from the cobblers."
"And it sounds like a load of old cobblers to me."
"Could be," I said.
"Only kidding," he said.
"Me too," I said.
"Fiorella writes poetry."
"Really?"
"I could show you some if you like. I've no idea if it's any good."
"Everybody has to start somewhere. You should see my stuff when I was her age. Embarrassing!" I said, and, checking the map again, added, "Take the second to the right and go straight on to the next lay-by."
