It is a blessing to have a companion on a fishing trip, if only to have someone against whom to rebel when she tries to drag you away from the water and into the car and back onto the road the way one does a toddler howling, “I don’t want go home.” It is not that home is a bad place. It is just not here in the cliché-rich undulations of the Steenkampsberg whose rivers are where the trout are. And home is not necessarily back in Joburg, but in the hunger for the know-not-what in the manner of tourists packing up to leave Dullstroom town. The road home is an Escher nightmare along which verdant fields morph into a coal-smut patchwork, and along which good humour evaporates into sniping about money and molar grinding about the news on the radio. The road home is too soon a place to reminisce about how great a vacation it has been, and too late to change the world. Fantasise instead about two years, two months and two days at a cabin such as Henry Thoreau’s on Walden Pond, there to cont...

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