Obviously, there aren't thousands of young Americans swarming ashore to liberate Europe from the iron heel of the Nazi jackboot, under a hail of machine gun fire. But there's a feature which is a bit like a feature in the film. Well, sort of.
When I got to it just after dawn, there was someone already setting up right next to it. Worse than that, he looked like he knew what he was doing. Worse still, he had a decent fish out as I got my rods sorted for a leap-frogging mission up the rest of the drain.
I kicked myself for the extra hour in bed, resisting the urge to go down and ask him how big it was. I tried half a dozen swims without a pull. Then I broke the rods down and crossed the field to another nearby drain and gave that an hour, missing what turned out to be the only take of the day.
Spying someone I knew on the way out, I stopped for a chat on the off-chance he had a brew on.
"That you walking across the field then," he says. Yep, guilty your worship. "That's a walk that is. That looks like a long old walk."
In a bizarre way, I've got the walking bug. When I get home, I decide to prune the gear down even more - not so much so I can shave a few minutes off the first side of the Marillion album it took me to walk there (according to my iPod), but so I still have some feeling left in my arms when I rock up.
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