It is a ritual, which keeps repeating itself year after year: I park the car at the tiny village
right at the south boundary of the stretch of this small stream.
Hardly being able to curb my curiosity at how the water looks like after more then a year,
I mount the light fly rod, prepared for dry fly fishing, and head down towards the stream.
Stream-what stream? In fact, you have to get fairly close to notice it…..