[prompt: 'tourist' 18/1/2019]

"Catching any?" The Tourist pauses his leisurely walk along the river bank.

"Nup... just a whole lot more experience." The Fisherman doesn't sound like he cares too much. His voice is as relaxed as he looks, comfortably sprawled low in his fold-a-chair, a cushion at his back, on the lush green lawns.

He's not too fussed whether he's successful in the traditional way of catching something... or not. His pleasure focuses on the sun's warm fingers soothing his ancient back. He stretches and rolls his shoulders, smiling in gratitude. The smell of fresh, salty air eddies around the men from where the river meets the sea close by. They wiggle their nostrils in pleasure.

A few gulls float patiently on the sparkling water, others circle overhead shouting their harsh demand for something to scavenge . The sudden whoosh of a pelican breaks the calm water as the great bird braces its webbed feet against the surface, creating a far-reaching wake of ripples and eddies. It reaches the exact speed to sink down and tuck its aeronautic wings gracefully against its body, and soundlessly glide away. The disdainful lift of its head demonstrates its interest in nothing at all - not fish, nor worms, not anything but a well-earned rest after long, lazy circles checking the best landfall from high above.

The Fisherman sizes up the Tourist, keen eyes shining from a deeply wrinkled face. Bushy grey eyebrows all but meet above his nose in a searching look.

"Know the place at all, do you?"

He shows no surprise when the Tourist shoves one hand even deeper in his pocket and lifts the other to point in a direction somewhat back and away, saying, "Yep. Had a dairy over that way for a decade, some years back... milking cows for a living." He pauses and his eyes turn back to another faraway world. "It was OK... then," and his eyes tighten, "but they're doing it tough now with their great fancy-schmancy dairies."

The Fisherman nods in sympathy. He was a dairy-farmer too, back then.

For a moment they both fall silent, their faces showing they're lost in thoughts of yesterday. Life had been so simple without all the competition and need to make ever-increasing profits from everything. The Tourist nods his head. "Reckon we had the best of all worlds, hey?"

They talk on at length, finding themselves strangely in tune for two strangers. But of course, they've both worked the land with one eye forever turned to the sky. Neither had needed any sophisticated technology to predict seasons or the potential success of crops and stockfeed. It seemed they'd just been born with that special 'knowing'. Kindred spirits, some would call them, linked as they were by age and their passion for the land.

"And another thing," the old Fisherman nods his head in agreement with himself even before he makes his next statement. "They were the good old days when a man's handshake was his word. Rather break the missus' heart than a promise, wouldn't ya?"

And they nod their heads in tandem. They'd never admit it to anyone else, but they read in each other's eyes the pain of broken promises and shattered dreams over the years. They understand only too well, despite being a Fisherman and a Tourist today. They've been farmers.

The fishing rod gives a small jerk, but the Fisherman is too experienced to be fooled by an unexpected eddy of water... or anything else than the real McCoy.