Well, I Never

Dylan met his Welsh cousin Owain for the first time in a narrow, fusty pub in seaside Aberystwyth. Leaning in so he could be heard over the singing, the American talked about his recent trip to Florida, catching a 9-pound bonefish. “It was awesome,” Dylan said, taking out his phone and flashing a photo of his tan smile and muscled arms cradling the fish.

Owain, lean and pale, stared at the image for a moment. “Well, Dullen, right here in rainy Aber, I caught a litt’el pollock that Mam put into a pie before I could get a picture.”

“Everyone makes fun of English food,” Dylan spooned and smiled. “But this stew is delicious.”

“Never imagined it, eh?” Owain pushed a board of crusty bread toward his cousin. “The lamb’s local. It’s Welsh.”

Early next morning, in a small stone house at the edge of town, Owain’s mother, Elin, doted over her nephew. Her sister had lived in Atlanta for almost thirty years, and though they talked on the phone, she wanted to hear all about the family. She set mugs of tea and coffee on the scarred wooden table.

Dylan’s eyes wandered to a sepia photo of a bearded man in a tweed suit holding a fly rod and a large Atlantic salmon.

“Your great-grandfather,” Elin said. “He would’ve loved fishing with you boys. So many salmon then.”

“I’d love to catch a salmon.” Dylan bit into the shrimp-filled laverbread.

“We’re fishing for mullet.” Owain puckered over his tea. “They’re eating the same sorta breakfast.”

Built on a headland above Cardigan Bay near the mouth of the River Rheidol, Aberystwyth was where their family once prospered in the herring fishery. Owain’s dented Yaris rattled over the cobblestone streets, and he pointed to a three-story brick house painted white.

“That’s where Grandad lived. And had a good life. Until the fish disappeared. All the Londoners wantin’ their kippers.” He explained that most of the men went into the Navy during the Second World War and despite victory, came home to hard times. “Not much work, crap housing. Always worse in Wales,” he said.

Dylan nodded. “Mom’s talked about it. That’s why she left for the States.”

Owain was silent for a moment. “Right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

They donned waders and assembled fly rods on the sidewalk beside a fish-and-chips shop. Setting out through the late summer drizzle, they stepped down to a long beach below the ruins of a crumbling castle built when King Edward—Longshanks—conquered Wales in the late thirteenth century.

“Longshanks,” Dylan recalled. “The evil king in Braveheart. Yeah, I hated that guy.”

“Hollywood history, all right then,” Owain laughed. “Then you’ll be chuffed to know the Welsh seized the castle and burned it. But, of course, it got retaken by the English, rebuilt and razed a dozen times over a thousand years. Some things never change.”

Gulls mewed across the wide, shell-studded beach. The men walked a half mile and met Bronwen. She wore an oak-colored jacket and green hip boots. Her long brown hair was pulled through the back of her cap.

“Well, hello.” She held her fly rod like a sword. “Welcome.”

“Hey,” Dylan said. “Are you our guide?”

Bronwen laughed softly, looking him over. “Maybe. Are you keen on mullet?”

“Mullet, really?” Dylan asked. “It’s a baitfish back home.”

“Tuna’s a baitfish if you’re dangling for great whites,” Owain snapped back. “Are tuna below your standards?”

Bronwen veered from the men and took long strides down the beach. They followed. Creamy white breakers and swashes of foamy water hemmed the shore until they came upon a patch of brown and bubbly goop tossing in the surf.

“Welsh stew,” Bronwen said. “Mats of dead algae. Richer than my mother’s cawl, it is. Mullet love it.”

Hundreds of mullet, from 1 to 2 feet in length, shoaled 20 yards from shore.

“Sweet,” Dylan whispered. “I can hit those.”

Bronwen waved him off and studied the shifting gray shoal. “We’ll ignore those. They’re drunk on algae. Look closer.”

In just a few inches of surging and sighing sea, they saw fin tips and silver flashes. “The ones in close are feeding on shrimps,” Bronwen opened her fly box. “And they’ll take this.” She handed Dylan a small, red-beaded nymph ribbed and tailed in crystal flash. “Diawl Bach,” she said. Dylan heard “Die Bach,” like someone who hated classical music. “It means little devil.” Bronwen’s green eyes blinked. “But it’s quite endearing.”

They gave Dylan the first shot, and he walked up tall and spooked the fish.

“Arrogance,” Owain vented quietly to Bronwen.

But Dylan stayed in the game, making several casts at the far school. Nothing. Bronwen stepped up to the water, delivered a short cast, and sang “Well, I never,” when a fish took, ran, and leapt twice. “That’s a proper one, isn’t it?” she smiled.

Dylan watched the large mullet against the sand, marveling over how much its pale, dark-striped fuselage resembled his favorite quarry. “Like a bonefish,” he declared, pulling out his phone to take a photo.

“Except harder to catch,” Bronwen said. “I fished for bonefish once, in the Bahamas. At first, it was tough to tell the shoals of mullet from the bonefish. Then I found the mullet wouldn’t take but the bones would.”

“They’re our gray ghosts.” Owain gently lifted the shimmering fish, a 4-pound thin-lipped mullet, its flanks tinged blue. “Normally we get these on the mud flats, but they’re mad for this stew.” He popped the fly out of its crescent mouth and let it go.

Walking south along the beach, they gave Dylan another chance. This time, he got down on his hands and knees, his expensive waders sandpapered and shell nicked. He didn’t care. Close to the feeding fish, he cast into the soupy shallows, letting the Diawl Bach swing with the surge. A good mullet took, and he set the hook.

“Oh, there’s lovely,” Bronwen lilted, stepping closer. “A golden gray. Nice one, Dullan.”

“Never guessed a baitfish would be so much fun,” he said.

“Don’t suppose you’ll want a photo then.” Owain reached down with a pliers and unhooked the fish. “Thanks for slumming with us.”

Dylan wasn’t sure if he was talking to him or the mullet.

“Yffach!” Owain looked at his phone. “I’m late for my meeting.” He handed Dylan his rod and bag. “Take this. You know how to get back, yeah? Catch the bus.”

“The bus?” Dylan hadn’t taken a bus since junior high.

Dylan and Bronwen sat on a stone wall below the castle. It was warming up and she took off her jacket, leaned back, and began to softly sing.

“Nice,” Dylan said.

“You should come to karaoke with us.”

“I don’t sing,” Dylan held his hands up as if declining an invitation to take the stage. “Hey, what was Owain’s meeting all about?”

“Plaid Party. The independence movement has been ramping up since Brexit. If Scotland goes, so will we.”

“Goes?” Dylan asked.

“Leaves the UK, maybe joins the EU.” Bronwen tilted her head and squinted. “You’re not up on European politics, are you?”

“I’m not political.”

“What about our fish? One of the reasons we’re chasing mullet is that the salmon are near gone. Who let that happen? Some Cardiff arsehole in the agency?”

“What can we do about it?”

Bronwen hopped off the wall, picked up her gear and started walking away. She does this, Dylan thought. “Hey, hang on,” he said. “Wait.”

It rained most of the afternoon. Dylan lunched in a café with Bronwen, explored the town on his own, and got back to the house wet and weary.

Elin fussed over him, brewed coffee, and set out a tin of biscuits. “Good cookies,” Dylan munched away. Elin put on some Welsh music.

“Do you ever go out for karaoke with your mates at school?” she asked.

“No, I don’t sing, really.”

“So, you’re finishing your MBA?”

Dylan smiled. “Yeah, and I’m starting with Patagonia.”

“Well, I never. Isn’t that lush.” Elin spread her words like icing. “There’re a lot of Welsh living there.”

Dylan laughed. “I meant the company.”

“Right. And all that land in Argentina that Mr. Chouinard’s working on.”

Dylan was amazed Elin knew anything about the famous entrepreneur-conservationist.

She went on. “He wants to use Welsh sheep farmers to get better wool. You heard what happened in Australia?”

Dylan pinched his brows and sipped his coffee.

Elin left the kitchen, turned down the music, and came back with a bolt of gray yarn. “This wool is from our sheep, just down the road. Feel it.”

Dylan touched the fibers, imagining warm socks and leggings under his winter waders.

“You could propose something.” Elin raised her dark eyebrows. “They’re looking for people to go down. I read about it on their website. You have connections.” She pointed to the photo of her grandfather and the salmon. “His brother went. You’ve got family there. Take Owain. Learn some Spanish, some Welsh. Owain could help you.”

They heard the door and greeted Owain, soaked and red-faced. “Long meetin’,” he said, opening the refrigerator and grabbing a bottle of beer.

“At the pub, you mean?” his mother frowned.

“Stopped on the way home. Something wrong with that?” He fumbled with the cap and took a long swig. “You two knittin’ a scarf?”

“Talking about Dylan’s tidy job with Patagonia. Maybe you should start thinking about something besides splitting slate and politics.”

“Yeah, maybe a good job like Dad’s. When was the last time you been up to see him? Stone needs weeding.”

Elin’s face wilted. She rubbed one eye with the back of her hand and left the table.

“We’re fishing the flats tomorrow,” Owain said to Dylan. “Bronwen’ll pick us up early. My car’s buggered.”

Dylan looked over at his aunt at the counter. “Can I help with something, Auntie Elin?”

“Oh, sod off.” Owain’s voice shook the kitchen. “Make me feel guilty in me own house. Mam and me been all through this. It’s awfully nice having you visit, cousin. A real honor, but mind it.”

Dylan stood and carried his cup to the sink. Elin nodded a silent thanks.

He went upstairs and opened his laptop. Yes, Patagonia was developing an outreach program with some of the Welsh locals. Could he write a proposal and send it directly to Chouinard? His father once fished with the famous man, but he hadn’t spoken to his dad in months. Dylan sent his father an email and immediately felt good about it. Leaning back on the sheepskin-draped chair, he heard Owain shouting downstairs, then the front door slammed shut.

Bronwen came by at seven a.m. Owain was nowhere in the house.

“Must’ve slept at a mate’s place.” Bronwen put her Honda in gear and started down the wet, narrow road, braking to let a black cat pass.

“Bad scene last night.” Dylan told her what happened.

“He’s been tamping all week. Just lost a big river restoration grant from the EU and there are tensions in the Plaid. He does good work, he does. But things get to him—his crap job, living at home. I love Owain, but he’s gotta make a move.”

“Are you two together?” Dylan asked.

“Used to be.” She looked over and frowned. “We’re better as fishing mates.”

After a minute of quiet road time, Dylan asked about Owain’s father.

“A decent man,” Bronwen said. “Worked in stone all his life and died too young. He was English, you know.”

“My mother never mentioned that.”

Outside of town, the rocky green fields were speckled with sheep. The early light deepened the gray stone walls, thick grass, and slow-moving white animals. Everything seemed ancient and heavy. Dylan powered down the window for a blast of air, then sent it up again.

“What do you know about Argentina?” he asked.

“Buena pesca.”

“Don’t tell me you speak Spanish?”

“Un poquito,” she grinned. “I teach in the secondary school and counseled a couple of kids from Spain last year.”

“Auntie Elin says we have family in Patagonia. They’ve lost touch, but she’s going to look into it. Like you said, the fishing is supposed to be off the hook. We should go.”

Bronwen gave him a sideways look that might have been a maybe, then pulled in along a weathered seawall. The sulfury salt air was still, and crows cawed from a distant pier. They suited up, assembled their rods, and eased down slick cement steps to a broad estuary. A thin ribbon of water wended through the middle. Bronwen said very few people fished here, though they could see washed-over boot tracks from the last tide. A few small boats leaned on their sides and sandpipers picked over the glistening ooze. Dylan took a step forward and sank to his knees.

“Careful, now,” Bronwen reached under his left arm. “It’s like quicksand.” He pulled one boot out with a plunger-sucking sound, sinking deeper with the other. She laughed. “Can’t lose you, Dullan. Your Auntie Elin would kill me. Now, Owain might not mind.”

“I thought he worshipped me.” Dylan went down on one knee to pull the other leg free. They both laughed. Bronwen hoisted under his arms and he fell back into her—her fragrance like lavender blossoms amid the stinky mire. When he got both feet out of the muck he faced her.

“Seriously, though. Does Owain have a problem with me?”

“He’s a bit jealous,” she said. “Your fancy trips and MBA. Patagonia and all that.”

“And being out here alone with you?”

“Well, serves him right. Off his face the night before fishing.”

More water sparkled over the flats—a clear broth garnished with weeds. They walked out a few feet and she told Dylan to follow the gravelly patches where the bottom was firm. “And watch for fish.”

Dimples and rings appeared on the surface. In about a foot of water beside a mat of sea lettuce, they could see dozens of large mullet.

“Let your fly drift right into them. Keep the line tight,” Bronwen coached.

Dylan made a strong cast, allowing his Diawl Bach to find the shoal. He lost sight of the fly, but when the end of the line ticked forward, he lifted his rod and the fish was on—a much larger, faster mullet than he’d hooked on the beach. After a couple dynamic runs, it was off.

“Got to set that hook, Dullan.”

“You know my name is pronounced Dillon, right? Dullan sounds like I’m dull.”

“Sounds like you’re Welsh,” she quipped and smiled.

The boats began to float and they could see more mullet passing underneath their hulls. Bronwen deployed a Red Tag, a fly pattern she said dated back to the eighteenth century. She let the little nymph swing into the school, then retrieved slowly. A large gray fish charged and struck.

The mullet ran a hundred feet and put Bronwen into her backing. She used a 5-weight Echo trout rod, and it took every bit of finesse to turn the fish away from the anchored boats.

“This might be a 6- or 7-pounder.” Bronwen’s pulse raced through her voice. “Bangin’!”

“Da iawn,” Dylan tried the bit of Welsh he practiced the night before. It came out, “Dah yown,” and he hoped it meant very good.

Bronwen’s joy lifted Dylan to a new place. He usually angled alone, or with his father or a guide. Things were competitive with his dad, and guide-fishing was mostly about Dylan. He sometimes invited the guide to cast, then felt jealous if the pro hooked up. Now he was perfectly happy watching Bronwen gain a few feet on this gray ghost. He leaned his rod against the bulrushes and followed her with the net.

The large, tiring mullet launched one last run into what Bronwen tried hard to avoid, the chain mooring of a nearby rowboat. “Shit, noooo,” she moaned as the line stopped and bounced with the chain. “I’m done.”

“Wait, wait.” Dylan waded toward the red and white buoy. “Maybe I can get it.”

“Be careful,” she warned. “Remember the mud.”

His excited steps churned up the bottom and he moved blindly toward the snag. Another step sent him deep into the ooze, the water only an inch from the top of his waders. The moored boat rocked and shuttered. Then Dylan jerked back in fright.

Owain—wild haired and grinning—sprung up like a jack-in-the-box from the hull of the rowboat. “What’s this about a bangin’ mullet?” he croaked.

Dylan froze.

“Well, I never,” Bronwen declared.

Owain moved stiffly toward the bow. “Ah, I see the lady’s got a good one.” He picked up the boat’s oar and probed around the chain. “Oh, it’s a dandy. Come on, fish. Almost.”

They watched in silence as Owain worked the line free.

Bronwen led the still-hooked fish into the shallows and Dylan followed with the net. It was a massive thick-lipped mullet, her best ever. Dylan took a photo. “Well, I never,” he crooned. “Handsome fish.”

“Handsome, indeed.” She smiled at Dylan and let the fish go.

Out in the boat, Owain clapped his hands.

“You could’ve drowned, you stupid arse,” Bronwen shouted. “Pissed and wandering out here in the dark.”

“Got my phone.” Owain patted his jacket. “I think . . . somewhere.”

“Giving your Mam a hard time,” she went on.

“Yeah, well, I regret that.” Owain looked at his cousin. “Sorry you had to hear that.”

Dylan shrugged. Bronwen shook her head, then turned and walked off.

“Well,” Owain said, picking up his rod. “Looks like I’m stuck here a while. Won’t ya sing me a song to pass the time?”

“I don’t sing,” Dylan said. “But there’s something I’d like to talk about. Something I’d like to propose.”

“You can sing,” Owain said.

“It’s about us, our family.”

“Family? Well, I never, cuz. Go on, then. Sing and propose. I’m listening.”

Henry Hughes has enjoyed several visits to Wales with his British wife. He teaches literature and writing at Western Oregon University.