The Last of the River Fishermen

Marcel Dubois, 82, has fished the Loire near Saumur for seven decades. His weathered hands tell their own story as he mends nets in the pre-dawn darkness.

"My grandfather taught me to read the river like a book. Every ripple means something—shallow water, deep channel, fish moving. He learned from his grandfather, back when the Loire was thick with salmon. We'd catch them as they swam upstream to spawn, silver sides flashing in the morning light.

"The salmon disappeared when I was young. Dams, pollution, overfishing—everyone blamed someone else. For years, I caught only pike and sandre, invasive species that took over when the natives died. I thought I'd never see salmon again.

"But look—" He pulls out his phone, showing a video. "Last month, my grandson filmed this. Salmon, jumping at the weir. First time in forty years. The river remembers, you see. Take away the dams, clean the water, and the old patterns return.

"My grandson wants to be a marine biologist. He says fishing is outdated, that we need science now. I tell him science is good, but don't forget the old knowledge. Science tells you water temperature. Experience tells you where fish rest on hot days. You need both.

"The Loire taught me patience. You can't rush a river. It flows at its own pace, floods when it wants, goes dry when it chooses. Modern people want to control everything. The river laughs at such arrogance. In the end, the river always wins."