ee

rr

erent

CORNELL
UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY

wii

Cornell University

Library

The original of this book is in
the Cornell University Library.

There are no known copyright restrictions in
the United States on the use of the text.

http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924089841021

THE TROUT ARE RISING

WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMPTED, LONDON AND BECCLES, ENGLAND

TO
WILLIAM SENIOR

(“RED SPINNER”)

4
WITH ALL GRATITUDE

A LETTER TO THE AUTHOR

My pear B. B.,

You pay me a signal compliment in
implying that I am in some degree responsible
for the fact that you set about the writing of this
book, for having had the privilege of reading it
in the proof sheets, I find it a worthy book, and
one that appeals strongly to all the wandering
angler that isin me. Indeed there is much of it
that does more than appeal to me. When, for
instance, you were catching “ daddy-ruffes” at
Market Drayton or, a little later, pursuing some-
what bigger ambitions on or in the Severn at
Cound, I was not many miles away from you
engaged in extremely similar efforts. You appear
to have had more trout in your early adventures
than I (for the further one got down the Severn,
even in those far-off days, the greater rarity did
a trout become), and there you had the advantage
of me. But I am pretty sure that I never let my
feelings so far run away with me as to cause me
to forget the baiting of my hook, and that is
where I seem to have had the advantage of you.

vii be

PREFATORY NOTE

connection with this book are sincerely
and warmly thanked, one and all.

To Mr. H. T. Sheringham, angling
editor of the Fie/d, and author of some of the best
and most authoritative works we have on angling
(particularly should be mentioned his ‘“ Coarse
Fishing”) is due the inspiration of this book.
The writing of “In the Beginning” (Chapter I) is
entirely the result of his experienced and gener-
ous suggestion to include a chapter on “first
beginnings,” the term he used. He has assisted
me very really over this book. To “ Red Spinner”
(Mr. William Senior) must be attributed the fact
that I have endeavoured to write about fishing,
and to that good man’s kindness and character-
istics I was enabled gratefully to pay a tribute
in the Fishing Gazette,* by special invitation of its
editor, Mr. R. B. Marston.

The sub-title, “ A book for ‘Slippered Ease,’”’
indicates, I hope, that the strict subject of trout
has been departed from—oftener than I am afraid

Poms who have rendered kindness in

* Special article in the Fishing Gazette, February 14th, 1920.

xi

xii PREFATORY NOTE

is justified ; but trout fishing has given me so
much pleasure beyond the actual wielding of the
rod that I desired to try and pass some of it on to
the general reader. The phrase “slippered ease”
is Red Spinner’s.

The bulk of the book appears in print for the
first time. Some, however, has been rewritten
from articles that appeared at one time or other in
the Field, or in the Star, Johannesburg. For
special permission to use this material, I tender
cordial thanks to the proprietors of these journals.
The chapter “A Berg Stream” (a Drakensberg
river) was first published in the late Transvaal
Leader, Johannesburg.

Illustrations are given from photographs
kindly provided by: Mrs. Basil Turner (formerly
Miss Helen Farrar), Johannesburg ; Miss Muriel
Farrar, Chicheley Hall, Newport Pagnell; Miss J.
Watson, Edinburgh ; Major Fownes, Shrewsbury ;
Major Wykeham Jones, Bath; Mr. A. J. Dent,
Tenbury, Worcs ; Mr, W. C. Norris, Birmingham
(through Mr. and Mrs. Walter Price, Cound
Lodge, Shropshire) ; and Mr. George E. Shaw,
Deptford Park. Mr. and Mrs. C. A. Bernau
have prepared the index.

To all these I offer the heartiest gratitude.
They have performed for me tasks which I could
not do for myself, as I had to leave for South
Africa before the proofs were ready.

When serving, during the war, in the R.A.S,C.
at Deptford Wharf, I happened to be billeted at
go, Evelyn Street, Deptford Park, London, S.E, 8.

PREFATORY NOTE xiil

After service abroad, and demobilization, and a
fishing holiday, I returned to “ No. 90’, and there
this book was written. Mr. and Mrs. George E.
Shaw showed me courtesy and consideration, kind-
nesses innumerable, which made pleasant my time
of authorship under their roof.

B. B.

CONTENTS

A LETTER TO THE AUTHOR : 3 . Vil
PreFaTORY NOTE . . 7 . xi
List oF ILLUSTRATIONS x ‘ 7 : . XVil
I. In THE BEGINNING : A 5 é : I
I], THe FascInaTION OF IT. 3 3 « HS

III. In THE West Country:

I, A GLIMPsE OF THE BaRLE . 35

II. Days 1n DEVONSHIRE . » 39

IV. OVER THE BorDER . 2 . . : - 49
Vv. Away TO WESTMORLAND . j i 61
VI. By SEVERNSIDE IN SHROPSHIRE . : . 69
VII. A TRipuTaRY OF THE SEVERN . é - 79
VIII. Weerxs IN WORCESTERSHIRE . ¥ ‘ - gt
IX. ON THE Forps oF TEME ‘ ; ‘ » 103
X. A Memory oF THE LuccG 9 ‘ 117
XI. THe ARM OF THE Law... : : F 125
XII, AT THE INN ; : 5 2 ‘ - 143
XIII. In THE SmMoxinc Room a ‘ ‘ : - 155

XIV. THe CHaNnce ENCOUNTER . , ; 3 - 165

xv

XVi

XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVII.
XIX.
XX.
XXI.
XXII.
XXIII,
XXIV.

CONTENTS

Wuen Lapigs FIsH

BuLanks AND TROUBLES

Trout FisHinc In SouTH AFRICA

THE FLY-FIsHER’s EQUIPMENT FOR SOUTH AFRICA
NatTa’s Earty Trout

On THE Moo! oF NaTaL

Four Years LaTEeR

A "Berc Trout STREAM

Tue Rainpows oF East GRIQUALAND

Op Joys in New Paces .

INDEX

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE SEVERN aT CouND : ‘ Frontispiece

TO FACE PAGE
STREAMS ON DARTMOOR. : , ‘ ‘ a) 38
NEAR THE BorDER Esk . 3 ‘ 50
A PLacE FoR THE EVENING. : : a . 50
In THE VALLEY OF THE ETTRICK . i , : - 56
Tue ETTRICK : WHERE FLIES HIT SHINGLE. - 56
GIVING THEM HIS TELEPHONE NUMBER . : + 94
Tue Haunt oF GRAYLING a‘ : . 5 ‘ - 104
Gor Him! é : 4 i ‘ : - ‘ - 126
AT Mine Inn. ; ‘i F j F . 146
Tue Major oF THIs Boox : : j : . 166
BEDFORD FaRM, JOHANNESBURG. . 4 ‘ ‘ « 202
Tue Eerste River: Upper REACHES . Ba as » 228
Tue Eerste RiveR: JONKER’s Hork ; ‘ A 228

Tue Hex RIVER, NEAR WORCESTER, A TRANSVAAL STREAM 278

xvii

IN THE BEGINNING

“And suppose he take nothing, yet he enjoyeth a de-
lightful walk by pleasant Rivers, in sweet Pastures, amongst
odoriferous Flowers, which gratifie his Senses and delight his
mind,” i

Cox, Roperr Venasies: ‘The Experienc’d Angler” (1662)
5

THE TROUT ARE RISING

I
IN THE BEGINNING

ACK-SHARPS called first. In those
early, far-off days, only one thing in the
wide world really mattered, jack-sharps !
Life concentrated on the pursuit of those

diminutive, glittering trophies. The water was a
vast, an imposing stream, at least a yard and a half
wide, the “several fishery” of a farm near the
railway station at Market Drayton, a town in
Shropshire. How we boys toiled to get a bag
of jack-sharps on those surreptitious, trespassing
visits, for we had no extraneous aids, not even
such a luxury as a butterfly net. A dry summer
mercifully lessened the volume of the current,
and, by means of paddling, we were able to pursue
stray fishlets in person until, cornered under a
stone or in some hiding-place, they were some-
how or other secured in triumph. How enthrall-
ing a matter is the pursuit of jack-sharps to five-
years-old, and how precious is the property which
has been safely committed to the glass jar, half-

full of water, was vividly brought back to my
B

2 THE TROUT ARE RISING

mind nearly forty years later on a fishing tour
on the Arrow, when just outside Kington, a
market town in Herefordshire, I saw some little
girls, paddling in thin water, busy at the same old
game. The earnestness of it ! The stern purpose
of the shrill voice with the Welsh accent which
suddenly tore the air! “If you touch the fish
again, I’ll smack you on the chops!”

The brooklet at Market Drayton having
afforded many hours of wholesome, boyish joy,
we passed on to bigger things, and our next
efforts were made on the local canal, without, I
am afraid, the superintendent’s permission. Here
was made the first “ throw-in,” as we anglers call
it, one solemn evening. The rod was frail, the
line of the cheapest, but there was a suspicion of
gut with a colourable hook. We were equipped,
yet the evening yielded not perch, roach, dace,
gudgeon, or even daddy-ruffe. Now, after many
moons, mature reflection shows this to have been
no matter for surprise. For in the joy and
excitement of being able actually to fish with rod
and line—so infinitely superior a business to
scooping two-inch jack-sharps out of the water
with the hands and hurling them on to the bank
—it had not yet occurred to me that putting some
bait, worm or paste, on the hook, was at least
fashionable, and a thing done in all the best
bottom-fishing circles !_ Maybe there was a vague
idea that a call of “Fish! Fish!” would bring
response from the canal as a call of “Bunny !
Bunny !” would bring response from the rabbit-

IN THE BEGINNING Et

hutch. Anyhow, the confession has to be made,
that in the youthful angler’s excitement of holding
rod and line—“ just like a grown-up fisherman
would!”’—and in the overwhelming desire to
catch a fish, the ceremony of baiting the hook
had on that glorious occasion been overlooked !

The elements of angling, however, gradually
unfolded themselves, and, before long, daddy-
ruffes—the great reward : at any rate bigger than
jack-sharps—began to bite, and when struck were
lifted quivering to the skies. Now and again
a gudgeon was caught, That was all. But we
were getting on, and never more was the baiting
of the hook forgotten,

Then, one summer evening just before bed-
time, a wonderful sight was seen. A big brother
and an angling friend, who had been for a day’s
fishing on a preserved length of the Tern, returned
home, with such a basket of—Trout! That was
their name. Great big Trout—with lovely red
spots and all gleaming underneath !_ How fascinat-
ing they were! How I gazed and gazed! The
impression then made was lasting and that youth-
ful admiration for Trout has never gone from me,
Rather have the years deepened it. Often, both in
England and in South Africa, have I emptied my
creel and turned the contents out on to the grass,
just to look, and then have another look, at the
trout. There is a certain fishmonger’s shop in
Bond Street, where you may see the trout swim-
ming about in a miniature aquarium, whose water
is well oxygenated. That sight has always

4 THE TROUT ARE RISING

brought me to a pause for a few minutes. A
friend of mine in Johannesburg, has in the hall
of his house on Houghton Estate, a picture
which catches your eye as you enter. It shows a
catch of trout lying on the-river bank, lovely
fresh, well-conditioned fish, which must have given
stubborn fights before they were landed. The
scene is on the Usk. Sucha picture makes one
look, and look, and forget to go beyond the mat.
Every hall should be so furnished, to my think-
ing, for there is hardly anything in nature more
beautiful than a trout in all its glory.

Little wonder was it that the sight of those
trout, that summer evening in the old home,
inspired the hope that some day....! The
boy made a big resolve. One day he would
catch Trout like that !

The stages so far had been : (1) Brooklet, (2)
Canal. Now, the canal had done valuable educa-
tive work. Its mathematical straightness, its
soulless regularity, its level banks—it rejoiced in
the uninspiring title of “The Cut”’—all helped
by contrast to teach what a little river is. Com-
mercial, correct, stiff, formal: that was the canal,
and so to be regarded. Even where its dull,
respectable track took it through the Deep Cut-
ting, Cheswardine way, with rural scenes around,
it was still the same, a canal. But the little river
had character. It sang a song as it went, it
“‘showed willing,’ as the homely saying goes.
It was companionable, full of life ; had its little
ways. Birds loved the woods by its banks, The

IN THE BEGINNING 5

sun gave it of his favour, and wavelets here and
there danced and sparkled with joy.

And so in time came the third stage with
all its interests, fishing in a river which held
Trout. The career of this little river, the Tern,
from its modest source in Staffordshire to its
conjunction with the majestic, sober-flowing Severn
in Shropshire, I have tried to trace in another
chapter. A kind landowner had, through his
agent, given us boys permission to fish his length.
Most grateful thanks are herein tendered, with a
warmth which cold print cannot chill, to him and
to all such benefactors for the unalloyed pleasure
their goodness gave us,

The “some day” so ardently hoped for,
which was to yield a trout, was long coming, but
come it did. It was in the Dog Kennel meadows,
near Market Drayton, towards the quiet, coloured
end of a summer evening. With borrowed rod
and tackle I had managed, at long last and after
much thrashing of the waters, to get a rise to the
fly. It seemed too good to be true. With every
ounce of strength I struck, and forthwith, far
flung behind me, lay a little trout flopping about
on the grass. Bliss, indeed! But was he big
enough to keep? “The smallest trout eat
sweetest. . . . Nobody would say anything to a
little boy like me.” Yet had not some lofty soul
said that the good sportsman always threw back
little trout ?—which remark I had unfortunately
heard. The anguish was great. My first trout !
The act had to be done quickly: so back into

6 THE TROUT ARE RISING

the water was the trophy immediately returned.
It is a deed which inspires in me mingled regret
and pride even now.

Later on came the proud, personal possession
of a fly-rod. It cost nine shillings and sixpence,
exactly, at a local ironmonger’s shop. Nine shillings
and sixpence! ‘Was ever rod like it? Its butt
came to bear marks, crude notches, indicating a
series of later triumphs from the same little river.
These trout were on the small side. If, now and
again, one of better size rose at the fly, nothing
happened—the trout seemed to avoid the hook.
One night, however, there was a thrilling adventure.
With a longer cast than usual, the wet fly covered
a feeding fish. Suddenly the water swirled ; there
was a commotion, such a to-do! It must have
been a two-pounder, and a two-pound trout in
the hands of—or rather at the end of the line of—
a young and an inexperienced angler isa sensation.
It was like being held by an electric battery.
“Hold him tight!” shouted a friend who was
fishing hard by. The sound advice came too late,
or rather the big trout went too early. For he
was off! The disturbance in the water calmed
down, and the line came back with that feeling of
emptiness with which most of us are familiar !

Good fortune did come, however. One night,
just on the darkening, as they say in Scotland, a
quiet rise was spotted, and the fly was thrown to
the right place. It was accepted. Down went
the acceptor, and kept down, sure sign of a trout
well-hooked. It seemed much too big for me to

IN THE BEGINNING 7

land, and in any event I had no landing net with
me. But a friend was near. He gave advice,
and crowned all by waiting until the fish was
exhausted, Then he stooped down, and safely
got the mammoth fish out of the water for me
with his hands. Overjoyed, I could not wait to
extract the hook, which was in fact embedded,
but sped home in triumph, with trout still
attached to hook, cast, line, and rod. Sweet were
the parental and brotherly and sisterly congratula-
tions, The weight was duly returned at one
pound fifteen ounces. How we remember these
pleasing details !

Mention of the family brings to mind the only
attempt I ever knew of my mother essaying a
pun. Somebody had wanted to know if I would
officiate at the organ on some modest occasion.
“Tam sure he will,” said mother, “ but he is not
in, at the moment; he’s off-fshing, as it is!”

Although I was so keen, yet my methods had
been hap-hazard, and it was not until after the
turn of events had taken me to a town where no
fishing was, and thence to another town right on
the banks of the Severn in Shropshire that the
novitiate was seriously entered upon. A man so
near a fishable river either goes in for fishing,
or leaves it alone. In my case this proximity
was a perpetual invitation to fish, Even though
I could manage but a few minutes at a time,
there were six fishing days a week, and on Sunday
I had to see what the water was like. I practised
fly-casting assiduously, but my clumsy performance

8 THE TROUT ARE RISING

would have justified any wag’s grave admonition
that netting was not allowed in the river. Im-
provement came when a good friend—the late
Mr, Charles Hughes, of Iron-Bridge, beloved
by everybody who knew him—with his kindly
insistence made me realize the inwardness of the
game. “Let your back cast de at the back,” he
would say. Extending the line well behind you,
without letting it or the gut touch the ground,
_ gives the necessary pause between the casts, makes
all the difference in the forward cast. Years after,
Mr. Hughes’s sound teaching was practically con-
firmed one afternoon on the lawn at Surrey Lodge,
Denmark Hill, the hospitable home of Mr. R. B.
Marston, deacon of the craft and one of our
first authorities on fishing. In that impromptu
lesson I had the advantage of two teachers, for
an ex-president of the Fly Fishers’ Club also
joined in sage counsel. ‘Keep the body still,
when casting,” they both enjoined. The brother-
hood of fishing is more than a phrase: the past-
masters delight in ‘giving a helping hand. Their
kindness to me is sincerely acknowledged. Extend
the line well behind you in the air, and keep the
body still—these simple, but indispensable, rules
of casting are here repeated in the hope that other
novices will also derive pleasure and profit by
learning them,

To be an expert fisherman entails the conquest
of a world of details, the mastery of much that
is acquired only through long years of practice,
observation, and experience. It is an apprentice-

IN THE BEGINNING 9

ship whose articles most of us feel we have not
yet served. I do not of course underrate the
importance of other necessary details, but I think
that the most essential matter for the beginner
with the fly-rod, ambitious to take trout, is to
learn the rules of casting and follow them. Let
me expand the instruction a little.

(1) Pause between the casts, without letting
the line touch the ground; or, if “a pause
between the casts”’ conveys the sense of some-
thing awkward, put it to yourself in another way:
make up your mind to re-start the forward cast
precisely when you realize that you have got the
line and gut out well behind you. Moreover,
just as a cricket bat which is made by the batsman
to drive a ball has therefore to do its duty as
part of the combination, so must your fly-rod be
allowed to do its share of the work. A well-built
rod will respond to all reasonable demands, and
it pays to have a good one. With a rod of cheap
material and inferior workmanship, the top piece
is very liable to come to grief if and when the
inexperienced hand strikes too hard at a rising
trout or catches up in herbage, etc., behind.

(2) Keep the body still, The youthful
beginner is apt at first to flick his flies off. The
error is corrected by experience, in which the fact
that flies nowadays cost about threepence each
plays its part. When first starting to practise
throwing the fly, the beginner can wisely use fly-
rod and line only, that is, without any gut. The
addition of a cast, and later on, of a fly, and then

10 THE TROUT ARE RISING

of a collar of flies, will be something to have in
view. The art of casting without mishap to the
flies consists in a steady, even action of rod and arm,
and keeping the body still helps much to this end.

(3) I will add a third rule, with a parting
blessing. Not only while you are a novice, but
always, have a care with that first cast of the day.
There is often a trout at the exact spot where the
fly drops, and a trout landed at the first cast is
an earnest of a good bag. It puts the fisherman
in fine fettle for the day.

As I have said, the beginner has a world of
things to learn but he should not be put off on
that account, or because instructions are manifold.
If he once gets on the right track of the casting
the rest will come. Ability to throw the fly
correctly brings satisfaction of itself. One feels
somewhat akin to the schoolboy who, having
worked out a sum, took it to his schoolmaster,
who went through the figures and commented :
“Very good!” ‘Very good!” said the boy,
with some heat ; “ why, it’s correct, sir !”

Gradually, my love of the river Severn
intensified, With it, too, grew an increasing
affection for little rivers—if they held trout! By
Severnside the thought occurred, with dismay,
how something would surely be missing were
one’s lot cast where no river fishing could be had.
You may have a beautiful river—the Trent near
Stone, for instance—but, with no trout in it, the
picture is not the same. How many important
decisions must have been taken, how many. places

IN THE BEGINNING II

of abode deliberately picked out, how often
alternatives of career selected, all on account of
“a little bit of fishing!” One can imagine
clergymen, devoted to their calling, liking the
scene of their labours all the more if they can get
a day’s fishing now and again, perchance even
allowing preferment to go by them for the sake
of it. It is the same with all men who have
learned to love fishing as boys. Rarely is it given
up deliberately, that is to say, of choice. The
joys and sorrows of it all have woven too strong
a spell for that. Even in middle age men take
to the craft, and some of them become not
only proficient, but as keen as those who began
in youth. In the Union or Dominion of South
Africa a goodly number of colonial-born farmers
learnt to fish with fly when trout began to thrive
in rivers near their homesteads. Now the world
holds no greater enthusiasts. Their veld-craft
has helped them in mastering the art of stalking
a trout, when cover is available. Good luck and
tight lines attend all anglers, at whatever age
they begin! But happiest are those who become
angling novices not long after they can toddle,
and who stick to it year in, year out, progressing
by the natural stages of boyhood from the scramble
after jack-sharps in a puddle, to the thrilling
mysteries of float-fishing for ruffe or perch or
roach, to the first raptures of casting a fly and
landing a matchless trout, and perhaps at last to
the goal of ambition, battles in great rivers with
silver salmon.

THE FASCINATION OF IT

“Though the love of angling is generally acquired in
youth, yet it sometimes attacks persons of more matured age ;
conveys a maggot into their head, and then they dream of
gentiles ; tickles their nose with a Mayfly, and straight they
talk of palmers, red and black, dun cuts, granams, coachman,
professors, gnats, moths, March browns and peacock hackles ;
shows them a salmon in a fishmonger's shop, and then they
think of nothing but angling ; and

Winna let the puir bodies
Gang about their business !”

From “The Angler’s Souvenir.” Edited by G. Chris-
topher Davies.

II
THE FASCINATION OF IT

Poe that is, the capture of fish by

any crude means that come handy, must

naturally be regarded as an ancient

practice. Artificial fly-fishing, however,
might perhaps be reasonably pronounced a fairly
modern device, since it smacks of subtlety. But
it is by no means modern, Indeed, like all things
under the sun, it is neither new, not even com-
paratively new. But it is not easy to say when
the art first began.

The late Mr. Thomas Westwood had a sug-
gestive note in Notes and Queries for March 25th,
1871. He said: “ There can be little doubt that
the invention of the artificial fly is of very ancient
date. Who shall say, indeed, how soon after the
fall of man this cunning lure of the fisherman first
fell on the rivers outside Eden? How old is the
sport ? is a question continually asked, Probably
as old as hunger.”

The first literary reference to fly-fishing occurs
in #Elian’s “ History of Animals,” which relates
how the fly Aippurus was imitated by Macedonian
anglers by the Astrzeus and used in effigy as a
lure for the fish of that river.

16 THE TROUT ARE RISING

In the first chapter of “The Compleat Angler,”
Izaak Walton points out that in the Old Testa-
ment fish hooks are but twice mentioned, once by
Moses and once by the prophet Amos; though
Cruden’s “‘ Concordance”’ discloses, throughout the
Bible, many allusions to fish. But there is nothing
concerning fly-fishing therein.

Nor indeed is there much to the purpose in
literature before the seventeenth century, when
Charles Cotton, who died in 1687, was about
the first to systematize the art in the second part
of “The Compleat Angler.” Robert Venables,
however, and James Chetham in the same century
were hardly behind him as instructors,

But it is not for me to attempt exploration
of the dark ages for the inventor of fly-fishing.
All I know about it is that he did later generations
of honest men a good turn! And he certainly
bequeathed to them what the poet calls a “ pleasing
madness.”

Many miles will the enthusiast travel by train,
by motor or cycle, sometimes even on foot—a
fine performance, nowadays—in order to get
trout-fishing. One of the best walking feats
accomplished for this object that I ever heard
of was that of Sir Charles Payton (“ Sarcelle”’),
formerly for many years British Consul at Calais,
who remembers walking from Worcester to Ten-
bury one night about fifty years ago, fishing next
day, and walking back in the evening, From
Worcester to Tenbury must be a good twenty-
one miles by road. Asa schoolboy at Scarborough

THE FASCINATION OF IT 17

he used on holidays to walk eight miles to the
Derwent (with some long stiff hills on the way),
fish several miles of the little river, catch a few
trout and grayling, and walk back in the gloaming.
In the middle of this January (1920) he writes to
me from Scarborough that so long as he has health
and strength, “and can fish in all weathers,” he
can hold out until spring, when no doubt he will
be off for early spring salmon, and a little later
for the brown trout. A testimonial to fishing this,
for Sir Charles Payton is in his seventy-seventh
year. There are, by the way, probably few
amateurs who have so thorough and complete a
diary of fishing doings as he. This diary he has
kept regularly for about half a century, probably
longer. If you have fished with him, as I have
had the privilege of doing, you will remember
that at the end of the day two duties are never
neglected by him, viz., drying the line, and writing
up the diary.

Scots, men and boys, will walk miles to fish,
being perhaps less pampered by circumstances
than Southrons, who have better communications,
In South Africa, too, lads think little of ten or
even twenty miles on horseback with trout as their
objective, and they persevere by the riverside
until night’s curtain is about to fall. After sun-
down there is no long twilight to favour the
angler as in Great Britain. Anglers cheerfully
make the arduous ascent of Table Mountain in
order to fly-fish the reservoirs there ; and if no
trout reward them—there are plenty in the

c

18 THE TROUT ARE RISING

waters—most glorious scenery provides compen-
sation ; and the wild flowers on Table Mountain
are indeed worth seeing.

Soldiering gives a true measure of the popu-
larity of a pastime. On active service the thoughts
of the Imperial and Colonial rank and file, as soon
as they are off duty, turn at once to such amuse-
ments as conditions allow, cricket or football, or
sometimes golf. And if there be water containing
fish at hand then the enthusiasts soon get to work.
During the Anglo-Boer War of 1899-1902 fishing-
tackle seemed to conjure itself up by magic. On
the Klip river near Ladysmith after the raising
of the siege (1900) bottom-fishing for native
fish was a favourite occupation. So too on the
Transvaal Klip (not the same river), miles away
from town or dorp when the camp was an isolated
one—at Wittkopjes, near Meyerton—men off
duty were constantly fishing, and good catches
of the native yellow fish, which has some of the
characteristics of the Indian mahseer, were made.
Superior breakfasts were a satisfactory result.
That was in the early part of 1901. There were
no trout in the Transvaal then, and it was a
peculiar pleasure in or about 1904 to witness at
nearly the same spot a distribution of trout fry
under the auspices of the Transvaal Trout
Acclimatization Society. An officer of the 2nd
Lincolnshire Regiment stationed, during the Anglo-
Boer War, on the banks of the Crocodile River
near Pretoria, wrote in the Field (Oct. 5, 1901):
“ Being quite alone, I often used to pass the days

THE FASCINATION OF IT 19

fishing in the brown waters of the river... .
What one would have done without the river is
hard to say, and it proved a great boon for all the
inmates of the fort in providing a pleasant addition
to the daily fare of trek ox and goat.”

From France, in the early days of the great
war, reports came that the rank and file, when
off duty near a river or fishable water, used to
angle with a rifle and fixed bayonet for rod, with
an improvised line ; hooks no doubt were pro-
cured somehow or other. Much was made of
this in the illustrated papers at the time, and the
rector of Boksburg, a mining centre in the
Transvaal, took occasion, in a Sunday sermon,
to approve heartily of the diversion, describing
it as a wholesome set-off against over-concentra-
tion in time of strain. Later a good deal of
fishing was done both by officers and men in
parts of the great battle area where it was
possible,

In the South-West African campaign of 1914—
1915, when off the coast at Luderitzbucht in the
early days, you could see occasional fishermen in
khaki. Amongst them once, for a brief spell,
was Captain Louis Botha, son of the great man.
Some of those sturdy, well-built sons of Natal,
the Natal Carbineers, used, now and again, when
off duty, to slip down for an hour’s sea-fishing ;
those of them who lived on or near the Natal
south coast, and enjoyed the excellent sea-fishing
there, were especially skilled.

At Alexandria, Egypt, in 1918, the garrison

20 THE TROUT ARE RISING

regiment of the Cheshires included plenty of
soldiers who when off duty liked their sea-fishing
from the jetty. They were stationed right on
the shore, and were of the approved type of
patient anglers.

At Port Sudan, Red Sea Province, it was the
same. There was even a sea-fishing competition
there, arranged by a sporting officer of a detach-
ment of Northumberland Fusiliers to foster
interest in the sport among his men. Many and
varied, and curiously coloured, are the sea fish at
Port Sudan. If you take a small boat to cross
over by the mouth of the river you can see them
in the clear water as plainly as if they were in an
aquarium. The late Mr. F. G. Aflalo wrote
some interesting articles about the sport to be
obtained there,

At Khartoum, in 1918, the Nile of course
attracted the devotees of angling from amongst
the garrison soldiers stationed there. A sturdy
Scottish gamekeeper, a private in the Northumber-
land Fusiliers, attached to the R.A.S.C., at
Mogram, about two miles out of Khartoum,
hooked and landed a Nile fish of about ten
pounds weight, which 1 saw. This gamekeeper,
who hailed from Wigtownshire, and who before
the war had never been more than a few miles
away from his village, had now travelled indeed.
His two hobbies at home were grouse and bees,
though he could lend an efficient hand to almost
any out-of-door work. For his unselfish dis-
position he was greatly liked by his comrades.

THE FASCINATION OF IT ot

He stood a good 6 ft. 2 in. and was a fine
specimen of an angler,

If fishing were much indulged in before the
war, it came to be additionally attractive when
the war had begun, and after it was over. It
brought rest to tired, jaded nerves, and its sooth-
ing properties and healing powers were very
valuable to the convalescent. The Times news-
paper, under the then editorship of Mr. Geoffrey
Dawson (better remembered in South Africa by
his former name of Mr. Geoffrey Robinson,
private secretary to the High Commissioner,
Lord Milner ; and afterwards editor of the Svar,
Johannesburg), started a thoughtful, kindly
scheme. This journal got into touch with a
number of riparian owners, and made out a list
of those who would give permission for wounded
officers to fish in their private waters. Many a
man was thus enabled to regain health and renew
strength in the pleasant places of the land.
“ There is nothing,” as Dr. Henry Van Dyke
declares, “that attracts human nature more
powerfully than the sport of tempting the un-
known with a fishing line.” And I think there
is nothing that proves of greater value to human
nature exhausted by the stresses of war.

A large part of the attractiveness of fishing
consists in the brotherly love that is associated
with it. It is perhaps true that an angler will
not too readily divulge the secret of the fly on
which he got his big basket of trout to other
anglers who are fishing the same waters, And

22, THE TROUT ARE RISING

perhaps he has sound reasons for discretion. In
Somerset, in 1917, one visitor slipped off to the
extreme end of a long reach, a hitherto neglected
part of the hotel water, and for the ordinary wet
flies he substituted a dry fly. He secured an
unusually good bag. “Where did you get
them ? What was the fly ?” greeted him on his
proud return. He duly answered all questions.
Farly next morning he was again at the same
spot. But he found himself one of a crowd! So
for the future he vowed reticence.

In many little ways, of course, anglers are—
just human. But take them all in all, they are
sportsmen; kindly, considerate, and good to
know. I once met unselfishness personified in
a stranger, a dry-fly fisherman on the Colne at
Thorney Weir, West Drayton, which is but a
few miles from Paddington. From the R.A.S.C.
depét at Deptford I had slipped over for an
evening’s fishing. It was early in May, and I
was quite unprepared for the Mayfly being up.
But there they were, and the water was thick
with them. (Once, by the way, I saw Mayflies
in swarms at West Drayton railway station.)
The unknown angler, with a cordial greeting, at
once enquired if I had brought artificial Mays.
I had to say “ No,” of course. ‘Well, then, I
shall give you some,” he immediately said.
When I hesitated, he insisted: “Come, come;
you must take them. You know you would
have given me some if you had found me with-
out any.” Reluctance then vanished. A perfect

THE FASCINATION OF IT 23

instance of tact and of fisherman’s kindness was
his way of making that timely gift. In the
angling world he was “Quartus a brother.”
May he have many rises every time he goes
a-fishing, and may none of them be short.

It was good, on one fishing trip, to hear a
member’of the Johannesburg Stock Exchange
eulogise anglers as a race. About most kinds of
men he had shrewd comments to make, but of
anglers as a whole he had nothing but good to
say, and he was a fisherman of wide experience.

Is one tempted to claim too much excellence
for brothers of the angle ? Yet they have special
reasons for being excellent. ‘That open-air life
which is so good for the body is surely no less
good for the soul. Fresh air and sunshine—
about the best medicine in the world—where
can you get a better tonic? The gay meadows,
the rippling river, the rising trout, now and
again “‘a shining reward of patience,” all these
help to gladden the heart and fill it with loving
kindness.

“ Halcyon daies by murm’ring streams.”
y' 'y g

Richard Jeffries went so far as to say: “The
hours that the mind is absorbed by beauty are
the only hours that we really live, so the longer
we stay among these things the more is snatched
from inevitable time.’ Happy fishing, an antidote
to depression, helps one to realize that one’s
future does not lie behind one. ‘ When the air
and water taste sweet to you, how much else

24 THE TROUT ARE RISING

will taste sweet!” as John Burroughs said in
“Pepacton.” It has been said that any man is a
lad who is younger than himself. If there is
anything more likely to confer this gift of youth
on a man than a love of fishing, I have not yet
come across it.

The sport has its lights and shades, of course.
If it rains hard all the time the angler is out, and
if he is soaked, and if he is a rheumatic subject,
and if he has had no luck at all, then the shades
are apt to be sombre for the time being. Still,
even then, the philosophical mind can turn it all
to account by enquiring, ‘“‘Can fish laugh ? ”—a
problem recently suggested in an evening paper.
There is no lack of employment for the mind in
the capture or attempt at capture of fish, The
keen, wet-fly fisherman has to try all the likely
spots, and sometimes even the unlikely, for trout.
It is well to apply to trout fishing the remark of
a digger about gold prospecting, viz.: ‘“ You
can’t tell anything about gold, you're just as
likely to find it where it ain’t as where it are!”
To men of apparently inexhaustible energy,
fishing is a joy: it appeals to them, not only as a
rest but also as that “change of occupation ”’
which has been recommended to active minds.

The late Colonel Sir George Farrar, Bart.,
D.S.O., one of the busiest of men (he crowned a
patriotic career by giving his life for the Empire
and his adopted country in the campaign in South-
West Africa), used to find his greatest domestic
happiness at his beloved Bedford Farm, near

THE FASCINATION OF IT 25

Johannesburg ; at Chicheley Hall, his English
home at Newport Pagnell ; or at his old home in
Bedford (where lives his aged mother, loved by
all who know her); but, for a day of recreation
there was nothing he enjoyed more than sea
fishing in Durban harbour from a boat with Lady
Farrar. I remember that he once had a Saturday
with the trout on the Wemmer while the South
African National Convention was sitting at Cape-
town (early in 1909), and he got two brace, which
he instructed me to take with his compliments to
the late General Botha. The General, pleased with
the kindly thought, wished me to thank the angler,
adding with that pleasant smile of his: “And
tell Sir George I hope he goes again!” That
day on the Wemmer there were three of us
fishing—Sir George, the late Mr. McLean and
myself. Mr. McLean was for many years the
general manager in South Africa for the Union-
Castle line, and he did admirable work on behalf
of trout acclimatization at the Cape. Early in
the afternoon, just after landing a trout, Mr.
McLean stopped fishing, and looked heavy
with thought. I asked him why he had stopped.
He replied, “‘ You see, I have caught six trout.”
“Well?” I said. “The fact is,” he explained,
“six trout is the limit.” I do not actually re-
member, but I grieve to say it is possible I said
“ Well!” again, in a suggestive manner; for he
at once remarked : “ Yes, but, you see, J myself
framed that particular regulation /” And the good
man fished no more that day.

26 THE TROUT ARE RISING

A great many professional men are keen fly-
fishermen—and especially doctors and barristers.
Their trained minds and observing habits get to
work almost unconsciously when out with rod
and line. They revel in the open air. I havea
pleasant memory of watching a famous London
surgeon beside the Colne at West Drayton. He
had in his landing net a three-pound trout which
he had just caught on the Mayfly, and was look-
ing as happy as a schoolboy over it. ‘“ There
is,’ wrote John Bickerdyke, when angling editor
of the Field, “so much delicacy with science in-
volved in angling as practised to-day that I venture
upon the dangerous assertion that of all the sports
angling is followed by the largest number of men
with refined tastes, and thus, perhaps, it is that
so many professional men, particularly doctors
and clergymen, are enthusiastic fly-fishermen.”

Piscator non solum piscatur, as the motto says.
The angler has, and uses, the chance of studying
nature, field and hedgerow, the things that grow,
the animals that move, the birds that fly. As he
waits for the rise to begin, or pauses after a
capture, he will perchance see flashing by “ king-
fisher blue, bird of the sunlight”; or some
small bird will alight by the waterside, have a
series of brief baths, then fly away with an air
of “ feeling much fresher now” ; or, perhaps, if all
is still, the angler may see a throstle engaged with
a huge worm ; there is a final shake, the worm is
swallowed at one gulp, and there follows that
look of triumph, which says quite clearly, ‘‘ There’s

THE FASCINATION OF IT 27

an art in that!” In the summer, too, he may
see baby moorhens swimming about, like little
balls of fluff. Rats, rabbits, stoats, snakes—there
are plenty of riverside acquaintances to be met,
and with great good luck even the shy otter is a
possibility on the edge of dusk.

Nor is the pleasure of fishing over when it is
over, so to speak. “What can be more enjoyable
than the long winter evenings spent in putting
tackle to rights, and at the same time havin
brave sport in the river of Auld Lang Syne,
following it yard by yard until one comes to that
lovely tributary which joins it on the right bank
and is called the Golden Future? Be the angler
of retentive memory, and a wise traveller on the
road of looking-forward, he will have many
goodly rises. To the old warrior this way of
armchair fishing is pure delight. Even the rheu-
matism twinges a little less shrewdly, it is hoped,
as he remembers how he landed the three-pounder
late one evening by the mill weir, or that other,
bigger still, which rose under the alder bough by
the footbridge just as he was about to wind up
for the night. Through the grey fog of memory
experiences like these stand out, and it is well to
keep them and their associations ever fresh, with
a lively hope that the future holds even better
things in store. In this is Youth.

To the young angler I would say: Get, and
keep, some good photographs of the river scenery
where you have spent delightful hours. It may
be, it probably will be, that one day you will

28 THE TROUT ARE RISING

leave the old home and the little river for longer
than you care to think. That is Life, But as
you journey through the wilderness, there will
be many a happy pause by the wayside if you
have mementoes in the shape of photographs of
the old scenes and of the old friends. I remember
in the Anglo-Boer War, during a four-hours off on
sentry go, finding in my haversack a little photo
of the river Tern at Market Drayton. This
occurred at Van Reenen’s Pass, on the borders of
Natal and the Orange River Free State, in 1900.
I remember, too, how the idea came, there and
then, to set down in writing some random
thoughts on fishing. In due course they appeared
in the Fie/d, a little harvest from the seeds of
Chance.

Especially, I think, a man will cherish his
photographs if duties cause him to be in city
pent, in some huge town, which contains little
to remind him of running rivers, golden meadows,
and the smell of the country. It may be that
after settling down in the city you can never per-
manently leave it. But each succeeding visit to
the country, with its few days of fishing happily
provided for, will bring back the old sweetness,
the old ease and peace of mind, the old joy in
living, and each hour spent in turning over the
leaves of the fishing album will to some extent
have a similar result. For man has two precious

ifts, memory and imagination.

‘Red Spinner” in his preface to his ‘* Water-
side Sketches” in 1885, reviewed briefly the

THE FASCINATION OF IT 29

march of events in the angling world since 1875,
and said: “Anglers have multiplied exceed-
ingly.” What must be said now? The answer
is: The number of anglers in 1920 is greater
than ever it was. During the war, books on
fishing were sent out in large numbers to men on
active service, and to this fact a London fishing-
tackle maker, with whom I was having a chat,
attributes in part the many additions to the
anglers’ ranks, This fact also is partly re-
sponsible, in his opinion, for the present com-
parative scarcity in the supply of angling books,
though of course during the war the making
of sporting books had to give way to sterner
work, and there have been few new books on
angling for several years. Several large London
second-hand bookshops report a brisk demand
for angling books. Customers divide these books
into two classes: the strictly technical, and the
descriptive and reminiscent. The book which
combines the merits of both kinds seems sure of
a demand. Books on the art of fly-tying were
in especial demand throughout the war, such a
subject being a rare relief to the mind in mono-
tonous spells or sparemoments. British prisoners
in Germany were keen on these treatises, “so
that they might spend the weary hours of captivity
in making flies against the day when they would
again wield a rod.”

Some of the favourite books on fishing await-
ing reprint soared in price, a notable instance

being Lord Grey’s “Fly Fishing,” published

30 THE TROUT ARE RISING

originally at three shillings and sixpence. This
book, I was told, could not be bought in
September, 1919, under thirty-six shillings. Since
then, happily, a new edition at four shillings and
sixpence, has been printed.

Another proof of the demand for fishing was
given to me when I began to inquire about accom-
modation at hotels commanding fishing rights.
All over England, Wales and Scotland it was the
same. Throughout the fishing season of I919
practically all these hotels were full. Never before
had the fishing inns been so well patronized. At
a hotel on the Cornish border a hundred applica-
tions were received at Eastertide from anglers
who could not be accommodated, although the
landlord made a practice of engaging additional
sleeping quarters outside. The only chance of
getting quarters at fishing hotels was to write two
or three months in advance. Early in the summer
I was lunching at a famous restaurant in the
Strand, when a stranger sitting next me suddenly
but courteously asked if I could recommend him
to a comfortable, old-fashioned English inn, with
a river by it, where he could rest a few days.
The question was unexpected, but it was easy
and pleasant to tell him of such a place, in
Shropshire, ai charming, easy inn, where the food
is good wholesome English fare, where the silver
shines, where the linen has lain in lavender, where
the sober-flowing Severn is alongside, and you
can sit out on the lawn, or roam abroad in
flowery meadows, with the Wrekin, one of the

THE FASCINATION OF IT 31

most notable hills in England, towering benignly
only a few miles away.

He was delighted. He gave me his card and
I found that he was a distinguished official of the
Canadian Government. He had come over on
privy council business, and he wanted to see mid-
England. Twice he wrote to the inn. But, alas,
twice he received courteous replies, with the
regretful burden “ full up.”

It was the same everywhere. In a Wiltshire
village, where the Avon glides, “my kingdom
for a room” seemed to be the cry. In a large
Worcestershire hotel by October, 1919, every
available room was booked for Whitsuntide, 1920.
Good trout fishing, pretty country, and comfort-
able quarters evidently are now an irresistible
attraction, and if anglers were plenty when “ Red
Spinner ” wrote the sentence I have quoted, they
must to-day be as the sands of the sea. ‘ The
fascination of it” is proved.

IN THE WEST COUNTRY

“ Oh, we’m come up from Somerset,
Where the cider apples grow.”
Frep E, WEATHERLY.

III
IN THE WEST COUNTRY

I

A GLIMPSE OF THE BARLE

IX days’ C, O's, leave meant transition
from a London depét, surrounded by

bricks and mortar, to the rich valley of

the Barle. Although it was mid-March,
winter in that year of grace was loth to let go its
grip—witness the bare bushes, the sombre-hued
woods, the beech fences still a determined brown.
But the bleating of lambs, the singing of thrushes,
that indefinable feeling of approaching spring,
told a gladder tale.

A forenoon start was made just by a bridge,
one corner ivy-clad. The morning still was dull
and gloomy, and prospects seemed poor ; yet all
this mattered not, for it was the old, old sport, and
good it was to have rod in hand once more, to
feel again the swish of water against waders.
“Very early for waders,” the wise man says.
The justice of the observation is admitted. But
the Barle, far from its source, is big as well as

36 THE TROUT ARE RISING

busy, and wading, when cautiously undertaken,
helped one to reach good spots. The cast con-
sisted of blue upright, February red, and heron’s
wing. Scarcely had a start been made before the
sun, as if impatient of restraint, burst through
the clouds. Out came immediately a hatch of
blue duns, and up rose the game little trout.
Soon one rose to the blue upright, and was safely
landed, the first trout of the visit. Then two,
three, four, five more came to the basket; all
from practically the same spot, and all in good
condition. On most rivers, these trout would
have had to be returned ; here, the quarter-pound
trout is indisputably takeable, and on the table,
prepared in the true west-country manner, it is 4
delicacy which the guests are not slow to demolish.
It was chiefly the blue upright that was fancied
by the trout that day. Indeed one ardent angler
lower down had, I found, three of these flies on
his cast.

To me, most happily engaged, presently came
a Somersetshire youngster along the bank, He
seemed to be specially interested in the brand
new pair of waders. ‘* Do them things let in the
water, zur?” he inquired. The reply was a stout
negative, qualified by an inward hope that the many
brambles and briars by the riverside would be
kind enough not to prove mea liar. That hope,
alas, was later disappointed. Even here, in this
remote and peaceful valley, came a quick reminder
of the convulsions in the outer world. For the
lad’s next words were: “ My brother, zur, is one

IN THE WEST COUNTRY E

of the best fishers in these parts, but he’s in the
Navy, now.” Afterwards he said, with great
good-will, “There be ‘lovely fishing’ below the
bridge, zur.”

“Lovely fishing’”—what joy in the hearty
statement, as compared with the languid “ not
bad.” Iam reminded of the pedestrian, in the
long ago, who lost a good ride through want of
such heartiness. ‘Have a ride, neighbour ?”
said a passing driver. Instead of a downright
“Thank you,” the reply was an indifferent “I
don’t mind.” With a prompt “No more do I,”
the vehicle went on, leaving a wiser if sadder
pedestrian behind. My young friend watched
me for some time. A smaller trout was hooked,
landed, and returned to the water. It pained the
lad. ‘‘That trout was zeven inches, zur,” he
remarked, If that was a keepable fish, I wondered
what the maid at a Kennet hotel would have said
to it. When, not without pride, I came back one
July evening in 1916 with a fish of 1 lb. 7 oz.,
goodly to see and fat as butter, and asked for a
plate to lay it on, she observed : ‘* Why, that’s only
asmall trout for about here.” One lives and learns,

Touching the size of the Barle trout, it may
be noted that a day or two previously an angler
had captured three weighing 23 ozs., and these
were reckoned good-sized fish. The average
appeared to be four or five to the pound.

The blue upright continued to prove first
favourite that mid-March week, and next perhaps
came the half-stone, though the February red was

38 THE TROUT ARE RISING

not scorned. MHackle flies were preferable to the
winged ones. In spite of snow-water, a sharp
frost, and an occasional north-east wind (when that
is in possession of the skies, you can profitably
leave the Barle), sport during the week was, on
the whole, good.

The six days’ leave was soon up, but not
before the accuracy of the boy’s statement about
the lovely fishing below the bridge was confirmed.

Incidentally, I heard a striking tribute to the
dry-fly man. Some one said to the landlady of the
hotel that the Barle had too fast a current for the dry
fly. Her reply, crushing though courteous, was,
“Oh, but some very clever dry-fly fishermen
come here, and they catch the largest trout.”

It was with thankfulness for restful days that
I caught the London train back, hoping that the
dry-fly men would live up to their reputation,
and continue to win favour in mine hostess’s
sight, and that the wet-fly brethren would not
fail to go on picking up their quarter-pounders
here and there, and that they would improve
upon the size and perhaps even rival the dry-fly
men. In any case I hoped that one and all would
enjoy lovely fishing by, below, above, and between
the bridges. For the abundant good-will of the
kindly folk who inhabit these parts sends a grate-
ful visitor away in the most altruistic frame of
mind. I had had, as it were, but a glimpse of it all.
Had circumstances allowed those six days should
have been sixty. Perchance in the future J may
be able to work off the other fifty and four.

STREAMS ON DARTMOOR

II
Days In DEVONSHIRE

“Oh, you beautiful land,
Deep-bosomed with beeches, and bright
With the flowery largesse of May.”
AtrreD Noyes.

Devonshire lanes on a day in April or

May, you realize you are on holiday.

You may choose the superior car, but
for Devonshire by this mode of locomotion you
get there too quickly. The old pony in the
jingle has long made up his mind on the speed
limit.

In Cairo I came upon the advertisement of a
Devonshire rural hotel in a home journal which
spoke of trout fishing. It included “health and
economy.” It promised “a land of streams.”
On the eve of home-coming it was just the
influence to colour one’s dreams. Devon lanes in
spring, with carpets of primroses and harebells by
the wayside! The rivers in the district had
fascinating names—Thrush, Wolf, Lid, Carey,
Tamar.

As soon as might be, headquarters were secured

D RIVING in a jingle (pony trap) through

40 THE TROUT ARE RISING

at the little hotel, whose host was a real Devon
man. They do tell, down-along there, of the
reception which, when the war was still young, he
gave to a young fellow who came to inquire
about the fishing, and who loftily complained he
had not received an answer to his letter. For
reply the landlord, so the tale goes, gave him:
“Us doesn’t write many letters down here, these
times, us doesn’t, and what I wants to know is—
why aren’t you in the Army? There’s the rivers
down there for the fishing, and you can go and
look at ’em for yourself!” The visitor went,
apparently to look at ’em for himself. He did
not return to the hotel.

The landlord, worthy man, was a study. At
his remote hostelry, fishermen who had been
in almost all quarters of the globe foregathered,
lured by the trout. Welcoming the traveller,
he would say: “... and breakfast’s round-
about a quarter-past nine, and if there’s not
enough just go in the kitchen and help yourself!”
But there was always enough, and to spare.
What a change it was from the rush and bustle
of ordinary town life. The guests composed just
a large family party, a laughing family party. If
you are hearing the Devon dialect for the first
time, you will listen to the lilt, The meanings
are clear, the expressions so quaint. A Devon
gardener was asked by his mistress what colour
the flowers of a certain plant would be, and he
replied, knowingly : “ Her never blooms, mum
—her never do bloom! MHer do climb up and

IN THE WEST COUNTRY 41

up, and us do cut ’un back—but her never
blooms!” Strangers met and the process of
improving acquaintance was almost immediate.
No subdued whisperings took place at meal times
there ; no ecclesiastical solemnity brooded over
the tables, as at one first-class, precisely-ordered
hotel (the name of which neither wild horses nor
tame shall drag from me), where the conversation
seemed to be based on the theme, “ I’ve come to
tell you there is no hope of a reprieve.”

Jolly days were those at that little Devonshire
hotel. At first the trout you pick up with the
fly in those western parts, fairly easily if the
water is in order, seem very small ; in truth they
are small, Four or five to the pound is a good
average. But you note their capacity for fight,
their first-rate condition, evenin April. Gradually,
the noting turns to appreciation. There is no
sluggish, somnolent water in the rivers hereabouts,
on the Cornish border. Hard by is Dartmoor,
and the Dartmoor-born rivers carry their early
turbulence throughout the greater part of their
careers. So, of course, the trout fight like
demons.

One of the most successful of the anglers
took pains to catch a natural fly and got some
artificial flies tied to resemble it. The result was
a variation of the blue upright and it proved very
killing. Other flies which I found useful on the
Cornish border were March brown, Maxwell’s
blue, Maxwell’s red, blue upright, pheasant’s
tail, Wickham’s fancy, and coachman for evening.

42 THE TROUT ARE RISING

For experiment I tried a coachman in the middle
of the day and early part of the evening on the
Tamar. Both my companion and the keeper on
that stretch of water thought I should do much
better with one of the other flies ; but I stuck to
the coachman, fished wet, chiefly in the stickles,
and as it claimed about a dozen trout, each about
a quarter of a pound, I was quite content. After-
wards, I heard that later in the year the coachman
had done well in the daytime.

In addition to the rivers named, of which the
Tamar and the Thrush seemed to me the best,
there was the Inny, a bright little river a few
miles beyond Launceston, where a day or days
may be had at a small daily or season charge on
association water. The old pony in the jingle
asks kindly to be excused these long distances,
and admittedly on a journey like this the car or
motor cycle is invaluable. The Inny, except
where it is open water, is a much-bushed stream.
One young officer, just home from France, made
casting under and around these trees a speciality.
Full panniers were his reward. On the Tamar I
met him again and he was at his old game. This
time he had a colossal trout (for Devonshire), a
good half-pound, perhaps more. “I lost four
lengths of good gut before I got him,” he said,
confidingly. ‘That was the secret of his success,
his determination. In the place which he had
been fishing it was no wonder that the branches
had claimed four of his casts. But “stick it”
was evidently his motto, for at last, with his fifth

IN THE WEST COUNTRY 43

length of gut, which he had patiently put on, he
got the artificial fly over the rising trout and so
won the victory. He struck me as one of those
real Britons who, alike in war and sport, play the
game and simply will not be beaten.

The Tamar is a river of fine attributes. It
holds not only good trout, but salmon in season,
and also grayling. In the fishing season, how-
ever, all depends upon the state of the water.
Rains soon tell their tale, and if there has been a
downfall the Tamar is unfishable. It fines down
leisurely. Visitors to the hotel where I stayed
were enabled at certain times of the year to
obtain, upon written application, a day’s permit
for a strictly-preserved length of the river. The
Duke who grants this privilege through his agent
thus confers a boon which is most gratefully
appreciated. The day I had, though the water
was not quite right, yielded a nice basket of
trout, and the scenery by the riverside almost
persuaded me that I was in Scotland.

It is curious that from this welcoming, hospi-
table shire of Devon should have come the only
adverse comment of its kind I have ever heard
about visiting fishermen. ‘The idle rich who
come trout-fishing !”’ was what one resident had
to say about us. He overshot the mark in
imputing riches to most of us. As for idleness,
he might have had the generosity or the common
fairness to admit that trout-fishing is at all events
an innocent and a wholesome recreation. But
the hinting or sometimes hissing of dispraise,

44 THE TROUT ARE RISING

the occasional tendency to “crab everything,” the
disposition as it were to walk into the sweetest
dairy and pronounce some of the freshest milk a
trifle sour, let us hope that all this is merely a
passing phase, an aftermath perhaps of the gigantic
upset caused by the war.

It seemed strange, though, that so ungracious
a thing should be said of peaceful fisherfolk, a
good number of whom that year were officers on
leave or demobilized. Abuse, working overtime,
is not likely to be constructive or helpful. The
shortsightedness of it, too, in this particular
instance, is obvious,

In South Africa and New Zealand they use
their wits to advertise for and to attract visitors,
even for the trout fishing, and, as regards London,
South Africa will probably do more advertising of
its trout fishing. Overseas authorities know that
the more people they win the more business is
done in their country. It is the same with villages.
It means money brought in, it causes interchange
of ideas. It denotes progress. Angling, too, is
one of the busy man’s best recreations, whether
he be rich or poor. Happily, nowhere else in all
the counties of England and Scotland, where I
had the good fortune to fish before going over-
seas again, did I hear any ill-natured comment.
The one quoted was, in fact, an isolated remark.
Indeed, in the very village where the stern critic
lives, the kindly, human welcome shown to
angling visitors was enough to show that his view
was shared by no one else,

IN THE WEST COUNTRY 45

Before finishing this chapter, I told a sage
lady what had been said about trout fishermen.
Her observation is comforting. “I can’t quite
see,” said she, “that a man who goes trout-fishing
is idle.” It is unnecessary to add anything to
this.

OVER THE BORDER

‘“‘ There is much comfort in high hills,
And a great easing of the heart.”
Gerorrrey WinTHRoP Younc,

IV
OVER THE BORDER

HE enterprising Englishman penetrates

| into many lands, and by reason of much
travel he may come to regard them all

more or less as a matter of course. Let

him, however, for the first time cross the Border
into Scotland, and if it be daylight I warrant he
will sit up and be pleased to take notice. The
Scots have a very beautiful country. They have,
moreover, a character which perhaps owes some-
thing to that possession. They have attracted
attention, commanded respect, the wide world
over. They are the same abroad—thousands of
miles away—as at home. What more refreshing,
when conversation is of the Old Country in, say,
an overseas mining community, than to hear
about the “ pur-r-ple heather-r” in the good-Scots
tongue. How happily the accent clings! They
are a wonderful people, these Scots. There is no
room for argument. That they are the salt of the
earth even themselves agree! Who says they
haven’t humour? That libeller cannot have
visited them in their native heath. They are a
serious folk, but, when they have a mind to

E

50 THE TROUT ARE RISING

mirth or to give expression to some humorous
fancy full of insight and point, the enjoyment is
the greater for the contrast. JI remember, when
in Dumfriesshire, seeing a farmer driving a cow
out of his garden—goodness only knows how
it had come into the garden—and I said:
“ You'll have to call her ‘Maud’.” Immediately
he went one better. ‘I'll have to call her ‘to
order’,” he responded. And in another shire
the good landlady at the inn capped all descrip-
tions of some bonnie brown trout which three
of us fishermen had just brought in. The beauties
made a goodly sight on the huge dish, and the
onlookers gave the rein to their adjectives, ““ How
beautiful!” “How pretty!” “ What lovely trout!”
and so on. Then spake our hostess. ‘Oo, aye !
Besides, they’re so useful for food.” Humour
begins early with the Scots. Witness the school-
boy who, asked to define “nothing,” replied :
“It’s just when you’ve held a man’s horse for
him, and he says ‘Thank you’.” But let me
get on to my narrative.

A night spent at Langholm was rendered
interesting by a bit of fishing which I watched
from the town bridge, overlooking the Border
Esk, at the darkening. I was not fishing myself,
but had paused on the bridge as one always does.
Presently came two men, father and son. The
son had just returned from military service abroad,
and had settled down to work again in his native
place. The sea-trout began to rise. The father,
an old fisherman, was not going out that night ;

NEAR THE BORDER ESK

A PLACE FOR THE EVENING

OVER THE BORDER gt

but the son had seen. ‘“T’ll get a wee bit supper
and hae a go for yon fish,” said he, and away he
went. In a quarter of an hour he came back,
be-wadered, the complete angler. His rod was
sixteen feet, the usual length for the sea-trout
men there. An ordinary trout rod of say ten or
ten and a half feet, is considered too short for
these wide rivers, and is genially termed “just
a whup.” Besides, the angler may have to do
with a salmon, which makes him esteem a long
rod.

The quarter of an hour during the son’s
absence gave me an understanding of the father’s
pride in his soldier son, Between them, obviously,
was sympathy, understanding. From the bridge
we could see the angler casting, and presently
“T’m in him!” came up to us, “ That means he
wants me with the net,” said the father, hurrying
off to help. The sea-trout, a fish of about 11b.,
was soon landed. It is somewhat of an event
for an onlooker on a bridge to see a decent fish
landed below, from a well-threshed river. Many
spectators who pass without witnessing anything
more exciting than constant casting, must some-
times wonder if fish ever are caught.

A few miles lower down the Esk, on the
Duke of Buccleuch’s private reach, one day a
few years ago a passer-by over a certain bridge
on the Canonbie-Langholm road, at the right
time, would have had some excitement, for—
according toa graphic description given me one
Sunday afternoon by a Scot on this bridge—the

52 THE TROUT ARE RISING

Duke himself, “frae this verra bridge, hookit a
big saumon, and, what is more, he catch’t um!”
The spot where the gillie climbed down to gaff
the fish was pointed out.

My journey took me next day from Langholm
to Canonbie. From Canonbie you can fish both
the Border Esk and the Liddle on payment, and
sport can be had with salmon, sea-trout, and the
herling, if the water is right; though that’s the
rub with all big rivers. Brown trout there are
also, but it is the sea-trout which is chiefly sought,
Canonbie way. You see or meet the enthusiast
principally at the darkening, which, in the summer,
seems longer delayed the farther north you go.
Very acute are sea-trout; so are these Scottish
anglers. If they don’t get any, then nobody else
stands much chance. From youth up they have
known the river, an asset of inestimable value,
and they have closely studied the habits of the
fish. They are well aware that the sea-trout is
unsettled when a storm is coming. After rain
the fishers shrewdly make for the neck of the
pool. Adept both with clear water worm and fly,
they fish hard. They are out not so much to
admire the scenery as to catch sea-trout. It is
an eerie business, this sea-trout fishing at night,
peering into the darkness, and casting, casting, in
hope. But you carry on cheerily. Sometimes
you are the recipient of a whispered, comradely
greeting. If you rise a sea-trout, and get him
attached, one of the bull-dog type with a touch
of greyhound for speed, you will pronounce it

OVER THE BORDER $3

worth while. And in any event you will enjoy
going to bed !

As the water was not right at the time at
Canonbie, a move was made for brown trout at
Tushielaw, near Ettrick, Selkirkshire. Here is
an approach to the humorist’s ideal of “trout-
fishing, plenty of it, preserved, free.’ Adjoining
it is the homely inn, capably conducted, where
they know how to fry trout with oatmeal for
breakfast. If your bedroom window overlooks
the river, you can see the trout rising. The
views you get, the health-giving air, the whole-
someness of it all, are worth the visit, apart from
the trout fishing. And that, as I have hinted, is
good. The Ettrick is not, in the nature of
things, over-fished, because it is fifteen miles
away from a town (either Selkirk, or Hawick in
Roxburghshire). Men slip down from Edinburgh
to Tushielaw for a quiet two or three days’
fishing, for a brief respite in the open air. They
leave their desks and their business cares behind
them, fish hard all day, and then “in slippered
ease” at the inn foregather, over maybe just a
little “wine of the country.” The trout run
about half-a-pound, but with the water right you
may get them three-quarters of a pound or more ;
indeed, by the bridge at Tushielaw there lives,
unless he has been caught napping, a two-pounder.
The gamekeeper’s son declared him to be nearer
three pounds. Whatever his weight, this trout
did much to encourage concentration. A Sheffield
doctor burned midnight oil over him, as it were,

54 THE TROUT ARE RISING

with no result other than leaving a cast of gut
in an overhanging bough. It was retrieved in
the daylight by the process of wading in and
bringing the branch to hand by means of a hook
fixed at the end of the long handle of a landing
net—a useful weapon, by the way. I saw this
trout several times. Once, with a long line from
over the bridge, I had hopes of him. He did
me the honour of inspecting the fly, but that
was all.

The Ettrick is an inviting river in respect of
its excellent bank fishing. Wading is useful, very ;
but without entering the water you can get a
series of casts at almost any spot near Tushielaw,
One of the best evenings I had there was when I
was fishing without waders from the bank. Here
and there the banks are steep. You can either
cast from the opposite side, running the risk of
blunting your hook by repeatedly hitting the
gravel, or you can creep along the high bank up
stream—and throw up close under it. Either
method answers on the Ettrick, so the angler need
not necessarily take waders, Jur if he likes them
he will be able to use them to advantage. As
regards flies, the ordinary wet-fly patterns at
the right periods may be relied on, but the teal-
and-claret and the woodcock-and-hare’s ear are
particularly good. A motor-car, a motor-bicycle,
or even a bicycle would be found of great use
for reaching distant spots ; but without such aid
plenty of trout fishing is to be had practically at
the inn door.

OVER THE BORDER 55

Quiet, broken by—or rather enhanced by—
the call of the curlew, is in. that vale, through
which runs the clean, wholesome water of the
Ettrick, bordered by its high hills. To those
who value seclusion when fishing, as many do,
this valley must appeal strongly. They need
entertain little apprehension of being “ ghosted,”
as one writer calls it.* Only once, when at a far
end, was I interrupted. I was wading in the river
at a point where a hedgeless track ran alongside.
Suddenly a greeting came: “Good morning, sir ;
hope you are having good luck!” The voice
came from a man of the road, a pedlar, evidently,
for he had upon his shoulders a pack full of wares.
He was bright-eyed, looking hale and hearty. It
was a quiet interval, and I was not displeased for
communication with the outer world thus to be
restored, Instinctively perceiving this and scenting
business he said persuasively, “I saw you fishing
down below, yesterday, sir, but I did not like to
speak to you.” He was now willing to make up
for lost time. Asked whence he came, he replied :
“Owd’um.” Invited to enumerate his wares, a
quick look of pleasure appeared on his face. He
was now doing Business. Soft-collar fasteners
promised usefulness. ‘The price of these collar
fasteners is threepence each,” said the merchant,
adding confidentially : “‘ And you would have to
pay sixpence each for them in many places.” Two
collar fasteners, at threepence each, were purchased,

* Major G, E, Sharp in “Fly Leaves from a Fisherman’s
Diary.”

56 THE TROUT ARE RISING

and the old man went off, walking away with a
“Good morning, and thank you, sir.” He was
one of the world’s business men, who do not stop
to praise the goods, the bargain once struck. It
had been a pleasant little transaction, with a touch
of the unusual about it. Wayside scenes like
this, when we get just a little underneath the
surface, lend colour to life, add something of
human interest. The collar fasteners were useful,
even if severely plain, and perhaps had a certain
young, immaculately-dressed, brother officer, when
reporting at an officers’ course, only worn one of
them, he might have escaped the greeting he got
from a superior :—‘ Good morning, young man,
hayen’t you forgotten something?” Looking
himself up and down, the Tudor-cum-Plantagenet
one replied, “ No, sir, I don’t think so,” only to
be overwhelmed with, ‘“ Haven’t you forgotten
your ear-rings, young man?”

Good trout fishing is to be had in a loch,
Clearburn, about three miles from Tushielaw.
The use of a boat is not allowed in this loch.
When on its banks, at certain spots, you have to
be careful of the going because of the soft peat.
Andrew Lang has paid a memorable tribute to
Clearburn and its quagmires.

Tushielaw is only three miles from Ettrick,
where the Ettrick Shepherd was born and where
his remains are buried. In the Fly Fishers’ Club
in London is a reel, underneath which is this
inscription :—“ This fishing reel formerly belonged
to James Hogg, the ‘Ettrick Shepherd.’ Pre-

A TONIHS LIH SHITS ANTHM PNOIALIA FHI

OVER THE BORDER 57

sented to the Fly Fishers’ Club by Mr. J. F.
Carruthers Bell. July, 1905.”

A little over five miles away from Tushielaw
is St. Mary’s Loch, where Sir Walter Scott,
Christopher North, and the Ettrick Shepherd
used to foregather.

AWAY TO WESTMORLAND

«“ When I went down to Winster,

Full fifty years ago,

The vale was filled with blossom,
Wild cherry, and the sloe ;

But the grace of all its graces
And the charm of all its charms

Was the snowy damson blossom
About the fell-side farms.”

A Correspondent of the Times.

Vv
AWAY TO WESTMORLAND

HOULD you be in Milnthorpe, it is not
GS far to the Vale of Winster. This country-
side, vast in area and thinly populated,
has about it compelling charm. Bowness,
Windermere, the Lake District generally, happen
to be comparatively near : and how many visitors
Lakeland attracts, in spring, summer, autumn, can
in part be estimated by the unending procession
of motor charabanc, motor-car, motor-bicycle,
bicycle, streaming through Milnthorpe. They
are almost all bound for the Lakes, Milnthorpe
village, therefore, has life about it. But, as a hotel
proprietor at Bowness said: “The good people
of Milnthorpe merely see the people passing
through. We get them!” Bowness’s superiority,
ultimate triumph, were settled in that spoken
word,

At Milnthorpe, standing at a corner of the
main road, you see Lancashire mill-hands, from
all parts, one would imagine, of the industrial
hive, in those motor charabancs, which carry
twenty-eight passengers. A massive vehicle, your

62 THE TROUT ARE RISING

charabanc, yet it apparently travels light. Motor-
cars pass perpetually. Some are going perhaps
further than Lakeland, maybe into Scotland.
Family parties, often with a curly-haired chubby-
faced little one nestling in mother’s arms, revel
in the motor run, the fresh air, the good fun of
it all—except, perhaps, when the petrol gives out,
and even then this entrance into Fairyland must
preserve the paternal temper as its owner makes
his way to one or other of the local garages for
fresh supplies. Motor-bicycles, with the familiar
side-car, whizz past. The possibility of accident
is avoided, or at any rate reduced to a minimum,
by the presence of an Automobile organization’s
official on point duty at what would otherwise be
a dangerous corner. ‘Travellers appreciate him,
long a central figure, for not only does he direct
trafic with the skill of a London policeman, and
with the same confidence give the signal to proceed,
but also has he proved himself an encyclopedia
of knowledge on highways, by-ways, and short
cuts over a large area. ‘This is his business, and
he has been well chosen for the job. He seems
to be a director of ceremonies by instinct.

That main street of Milnthorpe might be
termed “a miniature Hyde Park Corner.” I
remember, when after South-West Africa I spent
a short time again in Johannesburg before coming
to London, a lady who had just returned to the
Rand from England, was talking about the war
and said sadly, “. . . and they just seem to have
forgotten how to smile in England!” I thought

AWAY TO WESTMORLAND _ 63

f those words last August at Milnthorpe. Those
aancashire lads and lassies on their way to Lake-
ind seemed to be rapidly re-acquiring the art
f smiling. Merry England was, I thought,
ecovering itself. May the diagnosis be correct.
Aay it be richly confirmed, for ever and a day !

One feature will inevitably impress the visitor
9 Milnthorpe and its neighbourhood. In the
hurch, as in the churches of Beetham—where
1e roses were rioting—and of Heversham, was a
oll of honour, telling how the lads had squared
heir shoulders, put on their packs, and gone—
one to the happy warriors’ everlasting reward.
“hese three scrolls of history meet the eye
traightway, and compel, if not a military salute
1ow reverent is that military salute given by
arviving comrades, who have been through the
ghting themselves), then a baring of the head,
r at all events an eloquent pause. In all my
randerings in England I saw no tribute to the
eloved dead more beautifully paid. This simple
ommemoration, majestic in its meaning, thus
uried out in the churchyards of three parish
hurches, all within a radius of a few miles, must
elp to impress the minds of generations to come.

* * * * *

On the Bela the trout were rising. They were,
ideed. But that does not mean they found
aeir way into the creel. It was in the early part
f August, a time when trout are not responsive.
“his does not necessarily imply that the Miln-
horpe fish were sluggish. On the contrary, they

64 THE TROUT ARE RISING

were active. They rose, and kept on rising, fore
and aft, right in front of you. But with the
artificial fly, dry or wet, they would have no
dealings. One of the most exasperating days I
ever had was on private water on the Arrow in
Herefordshire, one August. Then the trout rose
determinedly, but scorned the artificial fly. I
did make a small bag on that occasion, so I can
honestly say that things were worse, much worse,
at Milnthorpe. In a fortnight’s fishing, I think
only two sizable brown trout rewarded me. Iam
no Stewart, but I do reckon on most days to get,
like the average man, just a few trout, something
at any rate to go home with. Here, however,
blank followed blank. It is true, the water was
low, true also that some local anglers, who in
the previous two or three years had nearly
always done well, confessed to being able to do
little or nothing now. But the fish went on
rising! They made a perpetual challenge. Fly
after fly was tried, but it was all the same. The
river was full of trout, and even though one
could see no fly on the water, the rising went on
steadily. What were they feeding on? I tried
a specially made-up local cast, with negative
result. I even went to Lancaster and secured a
special fly, which I thought must attract, especi-
ally under the bushes, only to be told on return-
to Milnthorpe: “Oh! we've tried that fly ; it’s
no good!” During an afternoon or evening,
after fishing hard, with never a rise or only very
short ones, I would sit down and mop my fore-

AWAY TO WESTMORLAND _ 65

head, owning defeat. I began to understand the
frame of mind of the angler who hurled his fly-
book into the water, crying fiercely to the fish,
“Take the lot, you brutes !”

No; one could not get really angry! There
was nothing to do but laugh. This time the
trout were scoring. Birds were singing freshly,
lovely glades sloped in the richly-wooded park,
and there was a herd of fleet-footed deer. With
such sounds and sights one could not but rejoice
in the surroundings, And when, defeated by
the fishing, I returned to the village, there was
a game of bowls to be had on Milnthorpe
bowling-green. For a small charge, visitors are
allowed to play. The bowling-green gives good
company. People sometimes speak slightingly
of bowls—“ Oh, that old man’s game!” I seem
to remember that Drake played a game of bowls
on Plymouth Hoe when time was pressing. If he
was “an old man,” he did very well considering !

There was another compensation, last but
best of all, for the bad brown trout fishing, The
sea is at hand, and not far from the mouth of the
river is a weir-pool. Sea-trout were coming up,
and I went down to meet them. The water was
too low at the time for them to ascend the weir ;
and at times they settled down—that is, as much
as sea-trout ever can settle down—in the weir-
pool. Public paths run alongside the river here.
Usually a fisherman, when seriously engaged,
likes his own company only, but by this pool
the spectators seemed somehow part of the

F

66 THE TROUT ARE RISING

programme. They apparently enjoyed the pro-
ceedings, and the pleasure was reciprocal. For the
most part they kept well away from the banks,
the vital matter. And in the cool of the evening
it was a pleasant sight to see the lads of the
village squiring the maidens along the meadows.
Darby and Joan came too. It was a favourite
spot for the youngsters who, on their way to or
from a dip in the sea, were always attracted by
the sight of a fisherman. With hushed voices
they would come nearer and nearer, until a
bolder one would inquire about the sport. One
intrepid youth came up, at something like a
gallop. Then he waltzed round me. I stopped
fishing, interested in the lad. Looking up, he
asked eagerly: ‘*’An yer catched any ?”

For sea-trout flies I used the local patterns
left over from Dumfriesshire, and they answered.
One angler, however, succeeded with a small
trout fly. For gut I first tried 4X well soaked,
but after the furious fight a sea-trout gave on it
I was glad to revert to 3X, and did well with it,
though nothing of any great size came my way.
A London friend of mine sticks stubbornly to
4X gut in all winds and weathers for trout and
sea-trout. He takes his risks, and often takes
the trout, and the sea-trout too. But it is fine
gear. With 3X one feels that there is a sporting
chance should something beyond the common be
hooked, Sea-trout fight very hard, and where
they run big, of course, they want something
more substantial than drawn gut.

BY SEVERNSIDE IN
SHROPSHIRE

70 THE TROUT ARE RISING

Except for the dampness which comes on
foggy, unfair days, or for the slush which a fall of
snow brings, it is a joy to them all the year
round. Mother Nature, it has been said, loves
loyal admirers, not mere fair-weather friends,
who gush over the joys of spring and early
summer, and then bemoan dark days. She is
credited with a deep affection for those who, with
the seeing eye, perceive also her autumn tints,
the wonders of a late October, and for those who
do not forsake her even in winter and can see
with joy during the short hours of sunshine the
dazzling lines of a range of hills, such as Stiper-
stones or Longmynd under the snow. When
can you see so sharply defined, as on a clear
winter day, the gnarled boughs of a trusty old
oak or the delicate traceries of elm or silver
birch ?

Shropshire folk have an abiding love for their
historic shire. Meredith has put into words for
Salopians something of what they feel on return-
ing to their country after much wandering, and
passing through the old familiar fields in summer-
time, when he wrote of a scene elsewhere :—

“ Joy thus to revel in the grass of our beloved country ;

Revel all day till the lark mounts at eve with his sweet tirra-
lirra +

Thrilling delightfully.”
The Severn is still reckoned a great salmon
river though it yields little sport to the rod.

Time was when good bags of trout were
registered ; now, you have to work hard—in

“ Of the beauties of England, perhaps no county contains
a more interesting share than Shropshire. It possesses every
variety of natural charm: the bold and lofty mountain ; the
woody and secluded valley ; the fertile and widely cultured
plain ; the majestic river and the sequestered lake.”

Nicutincate : “ Beauties of England.” 1811.

VI

BY SEVERNSIDE IN
SHROPSHIRE

HROPSHIRE does not monopolize the
Severn, but the river runs through a
goodly share of the shire : cuts it in half,
as it were. Those who have lived long

by Severnside would not like to leave it. It has
become part of them, they will tell you. They
have known it in spring,
“When nothing that asks of bliss
Asking aright is denied,

And half of the world a bridegroom is
And half of the world a bride.”

And when:

‘Summer glows warm on the meadows and speedwell and
goldcups and daisies
Darken ’mid deepening masses of sorrel, and shadowy grasses
Show the ripe fruit to the farmer and summon the scythe and
the haymakers,”

They have known it in autumn:

“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun,”

And in winter :
“When the valley’s hushed and white with snow.”

BY SEVERNSIDE IN SHROPSHIRE 71

Shropshire at any rate—fora brace. The fish may
be of good size, though. Two, each well over three
pounds, were captured by spinning one day in
1917, near Cound, which is between Cressage and
Atcham, and they now adorn a wall at Cound
Lodge behind honourable glass. Grayling find
the river much to their liking where it has
sandy, gravelly beds, and in some years, as in
1913, quite good sport with them is reported.
Of coarse fish, pike, perch, chub, roach, dace,
there is a good stock.

“You have learned many things, my friend,
but one thing you have not learned—the art of
resting,” to quote a passage from “The In-
tellectual Life.” If any busy man is keenly
desirous of acquiring this vital art, a July day in
Severnside meadows ought to help him. If there
has been no freshening rain, fly-fishing for trout
is out of the question, except early or late in the
day, so one may potter about—

“ Any man that walks the mead,
In bud or blade, or bloom, may find
According as his humours lead,
A meaning suited to his mind”
—and enjoy the fresh air and the.smell of the
country ; taking, in short, the cue from Darwin,
himself born at Shrewsbury in 1809, when ina
letter to his wife he wrote: ‘‘At last I fell asleep
on the grass, and awoke with a chorus of birds
singing around me, and squirrels running up the
tree, and some woodpeckers laughing; and it
was as pleasant and rural a scene as ever I saw,

72 THE TROUT ARE RISING

and I did not care one penny how any of the
birds or beasts had been formed.”

If you must fish on a July day, the fly-rod
may be taken out, but in the full glare of the sun
it will probably be in vain. There are other
branches of the art, however. Maybe, a roach
swim by a sheltered bush suggests a little old-
fashioned bottom-fishing. When you approach
the spot you will often find that some careful old
Severnsider has already been there. You may
see signs of him in the depressed grass and
that stake, forked like a catapult, on which the
roach-rod has rested, Roach or dace or chub,
attracted by gentles that are on the hook may
cause the red-tipped float to stab the water; or
the bold-biting perch in an adjoining pool may
have a go for the worm, In any case you are
fairly sure of attention from the gudgeon, busy
but not required. Nay, if a passing pike-fisher
is live-baiting, he will be glad of a fresh-caught
gudgeon. And, if you have enough of them, a
dish of gudgeon fried in bread crumbs is not to
be despised,

Unless something exceptional happens, Severn
fishing on a warm July day is not taken too
seriously. But the old pipe will smoke grate-
fully. And landscape values, as the artists calls
them, will be noted, and this or that meadow-
scene be regarded as subject fit for a memory
picture.

In autumn and winter Severn roach-fishing
has many devotees, At Cound on two days

BY SEVERNSIDE IN SHROPSHIRE 73

bout mid-December, 1919, when the river was
ining down, a Birmingham angler, from whom
the early bliss of handling rod and line seemed
10t to have departed, secured, of roach, dace, and
chub, a bag of forty-three, mostly of respectable
weight, gentles being the lure. No mere “ bait-
jrowner,” he was an old hand. With an eleven-
‘oot rod, he used 3X gut, and a line hardly
-hicker. He kept almost as far from the bank
is the trout-fisher throwing a fly. When he
dropped the line in, he let the bottom end of the
cork-tipped porcupine quill enter the water per-
pendicularly, and very gently. He was a model
of quietness, as are all good roach fishermen. A
friend of his, roach-fishing at Bewdley one frosty
February day, saw a robin from the bough of an
idjoining tree settle on the top of his rod.

Severn pike cause numerous bereavements
amongst the trout, and therefore when the clever
spinner comes he has good wishes with him.
Those who like live-baiting for pike in the season
will generally do well all along the Severn with a
lively dace or gudgeon on snap tackle.

It is true that in Shropshire the river cannot
ye acclaimed as a trout-full river, but the fish are
to be picked up here and there, and for delightful
Jays in the country the Severn valley ranks high.
Looking from the heights whence can be seen on
the one side the Wrekin and on the other side
che Caradoc, well may the lover of this land say :

‘ Peace lives again: that she may long live here,
God say. Amen.”

74 THE TROUT ARE RISING

Three and three-quarter miles from Shrews-
bury, and a comparatively short distance from
Severnside, is the site of Uriconium (Wroxeter),
a Roman city, which was destroyed by the West
Saxons, A.D. 584. It is said in olden days to have
had the beautiful name of “ The White Town in
the Woodland.” There is still much of interest
to be studied amongst the ruins.

You can wander and wonder among the ruins
of these Roman cities. And there is a romantic
fascination about following some old, forgotten,
straight Roman road. Had one, perchance, some
remote ancestor among those mighty Romans,
who were in Britain for centuries ?

Between Wroxeter and Shrewsbury is Atcham,
where close to the parish church is an imposing
bridge over the Severn. In Capetown one after-
noon I saw a picture of this scene hung on the
walls of an Adderley Street café. It brought me
back to Severnside in a trice. The proprietor, it
seemed, was a Birmingham man, and he told me
that he happened to be at a party at Shifnal on
the night in 1883 when news came of the tragic
death of Captain Matthew Webb in his daring
attempt to swim Niagara Rapids. Webb was a
Shropshire man, and his sister was at that Shifnal
party. She resolutely refused to believe the
message. ‘Matthew could never be drowned
when swimming,” said she. Her words showed
what a pride in him those had who knew him
best. Alas! the message was true,

Shrewsbury itself, if history appeals to him,

BY SEVERNSIDE IN SHROPSHIRE a5

will keep the sight-seer occupied, and within a
short train or motor journey is Ludlow, whose
castle is a gold mine to the antiquary. The
Feathers Hotel at Ludlow has been a hotel since
1656. A sixteenth-century poet, Churchyard
(1520-1604), wrote of Ludlow :—

‘¢ Who that lists to walk the Towne about
Shall find therein some rare and pleasant things.”

Admiration of Shropshire scenery found ex-
pression, a short while back, in a rather unex-
pected direction. In a sincere, warm-hearted
letter, informing the officials of the County Court
circuit, which covered a large part of Shropshire,
of his impending retirement (occasioned by pro-
motion to the County Court Judgeship at West-
minster), his Honour Judge Sir Alfred Tobin,
K.C., put on record his regret at leaving the
people of Shropshire, its hills and its valleys, and
its rivers. ‘Travelling from town to town, as his
judicial duties necessitated, he had been able to
appreciate the rivers, and his grateful reference to
our kinsfolk, hills, and rivers made good reading
for Shropshire folk at home and abroad.

The county of Salop can pride itself on one
very old man ; for the Chapel of Great Woolaston
contains this inscription :—

“Tue Oxp, very Orp Man, Tuomas Parr, was born at
the Glyn, in the Township of Winnington, within this chapelry
of Great Willaston, and Parish of Alberbury, in the County
of Salop, in the year of our Lord 1483. He lived in the
Reigns of ten kings and queens of England (viz.): King

76 THE TROUT ARE RISING

Edward 4th, King Edward 5th, King Richard 3rd, King
Henry 7th, King Henry 8th, King Edward 6th, Queen Mary,
Queen Elizabeth, King James 1st, and King Charles Ist.
Died the 13th and was buried in Westminster Abbey on the
15th of November .1635, aged 152 years and 9 months.”

A TRIBUTARY OF THE SEVERN

“ Every river that flows is good, and has something worthy
to be loved. But those that we love most are always the ones
that we have known best—the stream that ran before our
father’s door, the current on which we ventured our first boat

or cast our first fly.”
Henry Van Dyke: “ Little Rivers.”

VII
A TRIBUTARY OF THE SEVERN

HE Tern is only a little river. Yet it
| must always be she little river. For it
is enthroned in memory as the wonder-
ful water into which a tiny tot in a
meadow near Pell Wall Hall, Market Drayton,
threw a buttercup, which was instantly seized by
a monster trout, a creature which bulked more
like a whale. And it was the still more wonder-
ful water which yielded an eager lad’s first trout.
The Tern ran within view of the old home
at Market Drayton, and at night the music of the
waterfall by the valley mill could be heard, bring-
ing its own tranquil message. Early on a
summer morning just after sunrise when all the
world is still an impulse to get up was rewarded
by the sight of the little river shining like a
multitude of diamonds ; for in those far-off days
just on the other side of the Newport-road bridge
was a reach of miniature, trout-haunted rapids,
These rapids have now disappeared, and here-
abouts the water flows evenly and quietly, never
forgetting that appointment at Atcham, near

80 THE TROUT ARE RISING

Shrewsbury, where Tern joins Severn. Few
pedestrians pass over that bridge at Market Dray-
ton without proving the soundness of the second
of the two well-known objects of bridge-building,
which are: (1) for getting across rivers ; (2) for
pausing and looking over parapets at the water
to see if the trout are rising.

Matters important in the history of Old Eng-
land have been enacted by and near Ternside ;
and through the generations Staffordshire and
Shropshire men from these parts have gone over-
seas to some purpose. “Clay lies still, but
blood’s a rover.”

Seneca advised: ‘‘ Where a spring rises, or
a river flows, there should we build altars and
offer sacrifices.” If you want to build an altar or
offer sacrifices at the source of the Tern, you will
have to go into Staffordshire, to a spot called
Blackbrook, near Maer, a few miles from New-
castle-under-Lyme. Hereabouts the coaches
used to run, Whitmore way. The Black Brook
meanders until, widening, it becomes the Tern.
One of the places of note in this district is Wil-
loughbridge Wells, at the lawn-foot of which is a
wishing-well, enclosed within four short, weather-
seasoned walls. Here you see crystal-clear water,
which used to be highly esteemed for medicinal
value. In the large pool here a few years ago
the American brooktrout, Salmo fontinalis, which
is not common in England, lived and flourished,
as it well might in such cold pure waters.

A little further on, the Tern expands until it

A TRIBUTARY OF THE SEVERN 81

does important work at Bearstone mills, Thence it
proceeds past Oakley Hall. The late Colonel Sir
George Chetwode, who lived here many years,
served in the Crimea and in the Indian Mutiny.
His son, Lieut.-General Sir Philip Chetwode,
won his D.S.O. in the Anglo-Boer War, and dis-
tinguished himself still further in 1914-1918, in
the European and Palestine warfare.

At Oakley, a flourishing farming district, rare
specimens of Shropshire sheep are bred, and from
one of these Oakley farms went out into the
world, thirty odd years ago, a farmer’s son to make
his fortune in business. After a successful start
near London, he and his partner boldly invaded
Oxford Street. The wise father feared his son
might lose the money he had already made; but
the son proved wise also, and the Oxford Street
establishment now is one of the shopping sights
of town.

A couple of miles from Oakley, and not far
from the hamlet of Mucklestone, is the site of the
battle of Blore Heath, fought in 1459 during the
Wars of the Roses, Here Lord Audley was slain,
and the battle-cross erected to his memory is to
be seen to this day. The victors had feigned
flight, and on reaching a summit turned sharply
upon their adversaries—when the latter were in
the Valley. Great was the slaughter that day ;
tradition has it that Hemp Mill Brook ran for
three days with blood. At Betton Old Hall,
Queen Margaret slept the night before Blore
Heath battle, and, when the next day had gone

G

82 THE TROUT ARE RISING

against her army, she rode to Eccleshall with
horse-shoes reversed.

From Oakley, the Tern goes past Tunstall
Hall, a stone’s throw away from which is Shif-
ford’s Grange, where in the old days great cricket
matches took place. Could the old scoring books
be unearthed, such family names as Broughton,
Twemlow and Warren, would be found in them.
Tunstall Pool gives me a memory worth recalling.
It was then about 1886 that during an otter
hunt Willie Tayleur, eldest son of the squire of
Buntingsdale, “tailed” the otter, a feat requiring
both pluck and skill. A little lower, and Tern is
near Peatswood Hall, where is one of those lovely
lakes inseparably associated with the stately homes
of England. In skating seasons, the lads and
lasses disport themselves on the great sheet of ice
at Peatswood, bordered by trees whitened with
frost.

Under outstretched boughs, the little river
pursues its course—some big trout can be seen
here when the Mayfly is on—until, passing Tyrley
Castle, it flows under the Newport-road bridge.
Looking up, you see Market Drayton Parish
Church, whose tower was climbed by Robert Clive
when a lad. Had he tumbled, the Indian Empire
might not have been ours to-day ; at any rate,
history would have been different. He was born
at Styche Hall (near Market Drayton), a peaceful
home, where you can “hear the thrushes singing
in the lilacs round the lawn.” Shropshire folk
look with pride at his statue in King Charles

A TRIBUTARY OF THE SEVERN 83

Street, S.W., in the City of Westminster ; and,
again, at the other statue in the Square, Shrewsbury.

‘‘ Our share in England’s glory
Is famed in song and story ;
Clive and Hill and Benbow—
All are living mem’ries yet,”

as Mr. W. Herbert Smith says in his stirring song
of Shropshire, “All friends round the Wrekin.”

The Newport-road bridge is associated in my
mind with one of the exciting incidents of boy-
hood. I was fly-fishing and had got a lot of
line out behind, when I hooked something un-
expectedly, The something proved to be a cow,
and the fly had a solid hold. The animal dashed
across the stream, where it was shallow. It was
not a case so much of paying-out line as of the
cow helping herself. She got across the river—
she wanted playing !—and continued her career
in the meadow opposite, towards Phoenix Bank.
When the end of the line was reached, snap went
the gut. I have often wondered what became of
the fly.

Turn up the Newport road and you will come
to the village of Hinstock, whose one-time rector,
Canon Ellerton, wrote some of the best-known
hymns in Ancient and Modern, including “The
day Thou gavest,” “ Now the Labourer’s task is
o’er,” and “ Saviour, again to Thy dear name we
raise.” These hymns have been sung the world
over, wherever the English language is spoken.
I heard the last hymn one Sunday evening in

84 THE TROUT ARE RISING

Khartoum Cathedral, and it carried me back to
Shropshire on the wings of melody.

Further along the Newport road, at Chet-
wynd End, is typical English woodland scenery.
Hither every springtide, in order to see the haw-
thorn and the may, used to walk from Newport
the late Mr. Charles Horne, M.A., father of the
late Rev. C. Silvester Horne, M.A., M.P., pastor
of Whitefield’s tabernacle.

Coming back to Pell Wall, I remember how
the grounds of this mansion were periodically the
scene of the annual local flower show, when, in
the cool of the evening,

“. . . many a rose-lipt maiden

and many a lightfoot lad ”

danced merrily on the lawn. Many of those lads
went away on or soon after that fateful Fourth
of August, and some of them... the roll of
honour . . . the cenotaph ... the glorious
dead.

Market Drayton itself is rich in history. In
his fifth book of “ Pilgrimages to Old Homes”
Mr. Fletcher Moss reminds us how the effect of
the first Edward’s iron-handed rule was felt there.
At Market Drayton were born the father, and the
grandfather, of a great official, whose writing is
very popular, in fact warmly welcomed in every
home, none other than Sir John Swanwick Brad-
bury, G.C.B., late Permanent Secretary to the
Treasury, whose name became a synonym for
the twenty and ten shilling notes bearing his

A TRIBUTARY OF THE SEVERN 85

signature, “John Bradbury.” Sir John, who
subsequently was appointed Principal Reparations
Commissioner for the British Government, was
himself born at Winsford in Cheshire.

Market Drayton inspires loyalty in its sons.
A famous journalist, who in his earlier days had
visited Market Drayton on an important occasion,
in some reminiscences written years after from
London, either described it as a little town, or
referred to a village street, I forget which. Market
Drayton’s population in those days was roughly
between two and three thousand, though now it
is considerably more. My father, who had the
greatest love for and pride in the old Shropshire
town, was indignant that it should have been so
belittled. It was “a town” ;—aye, the best, the
only, town in all the world to him, though he had
been overseas, This pride of birthplace or scene
of settlement is at the root of national pride, and
one likes to see it. I was reminded of my father’s
attitude by that of the worthy landlord of a fish-
ing hotel in another town, containing about two
thousand people, a delightful spot, but not what
you might call “rapid.” He had motored me to an
adjoining town of about three times its size. When
we were coming away from it, I remarked its wide
street and substantial shops and said: “ Quite a
big town, this.” “Yes,” he admitted, adding con-
fidentially, “ but I should not like to live here ;
it’s too slow; very slow!”

The Tern from Market Drayton elbows its
way near the foot of Salisbury Hill, where

86 THE TROUT ARE RISING

Lord Salisbury encamped on the eve of his
victorious fight at Blore Heath; and on to
Buntingsdale, whose squire is an experienced
fly-fisherman.

Stoke-on-Tern, a couple of miles further on,
was formerly the most peaceful of hamlets ; now
it has an aerodrome. The river winds to Crudg-
ington, Longden-on-Tern, and Walcot, by many
a peaceful home, and through rare meadows, and
flows on its unabated course, always gliding past,
yet never gone, always the same little river
(except when the great floods come), until it has
completed its business at Atcham, where it merges
its waters into those of the Severn, and so makes
for Bristol and the sea.

As I have tried to show, the Tern is a good trout
stream and it holds some big fish here and there ;
I have.met them once or twice, and the first was
that monster of my boyhood. It was a brief affair
though, all over in a few seconds. I was in a kind
of trance, conscious only of a big trout at the end of
a long line rolling about on the surface. But last
year, about thirty years later, and not far from the
same spot, I “ had one on,” and lost him. It was
in August, a little earlier in the evening than the
rise usually begins. I saw a heaving of the water
ahead, and I thought a cannibal trout was chasing
minnows. When I came to the place I threw, the
fly fell, and, hey presto! here, there, and every-
where was a trout dashing about. The rod was a
stout one, the tackle sound, so there was nothing
to fear on these scores; but the weeds were heavy

A TRIBUTARY OF THE SEVERN 87

and numerous. Once he got into them, it would
be fatal for any chance of securing him. There-
fore I applied pressure, and determined on a
desperate plan: I got the landing-net ready, so
that by giving him short shrift I might tire him,
or if he should providentially lie on the top of the
weeds I might by chance very quickly get the net
under him. But it turned out otherwise. True,
he was kept clear of the weeds, but, after a minute’s
palpitating excitement, he leaped a yard or so out
of the water: the hook came away! After so
many years’ fishing, one has learned to keep fairly
cool when playing a fish, but this affair was just a
little too much. My heart seemed to have left
its usual latitude and longitude and to be
carrying on somewhere near a rib on the right
side. Well, well: the trout was off, but I would
have liked to know its exact weight. On the same
river, I once caught, as described elsewhere, a trout
weighing three and three-quarter pounds; the
weight, length, and girth were all ascertained.
But this lost trout is all conjecture. What weight
was he? I am sure he must have been in the
neighbourhood of four pounds. Even if he had
topped four pounds he would by no means have
been a record for the Tern ; for instance, Mr. F.
C. Woodforde, formerly head of the Market
Drayton Grammar School, got one weighing over
five pounds on the Stoke Grange length.

WEEKS IN WORCESTERSHIRE

“The town in the orchard.”
(Queen Victoria’s description of Tenbury.)

VIII
WEEKS IN WORCESTERSHIRE

N the Sudan one day a Worcestershire man
] spoke of the charm of the Teme valley.
So far away, these home references impress
the listener. Hence, one day in October—
this month being prime for grayling, first cousin
of the trout—Paddington was the tryst for three
of us, The big railway strike * was just over.
Neither of the two companions, one a plumber
from Deptford, the other a cartage contractor
from Rotherhithe, had done any grayling fishing.
They were ambitious to learn but wished to
begin, in the old-fashioned way, with worm or
gentle. For fly-fishing they could wait, said
they. Above all, a holiday in the country was
their desire.

The humorous is a happy ingredient in any
care-free holiday, and the railway journey early
supplied this ingredient. The C.C. had thought-
fully provided bait in the shape of meal worms,
Do not scorn them: the bird shops sell them
eight a penny. These he had put in atin. In
the hurry of packing he had clapped the tin into

* 1919.

92 THE TROUT ARE RISING

his top-coat inside pocket. Little holes he had
made at the top of it. These proved not little
enough. Suddenly, a fellow passenger, pointing to
the C.C.’s shoulder, remarked, “‘ Hullo! What's
that ?”? A meal worm had crept out of the tin,
worked its passage vid the inside of his top coat,
and was now determinedly proceeding towards his
collar. The C.C. hurriedly opened his coat. A
hundred other meal worms, emulating the pioneer’s
example, were a-roaming ; the inside of the coat
was a living mosaic of the creeping creatures.
However, the trouble was soon over, the passengers
in the meantime having shown their sympathy
with the C.C. by uncontrolled laughter, in which
he joined.

Looking out of the carriage window outside
Birmingham, the plumber saw black belchings
of smoke from chimney shafts and observed :
“Gorgeous colouring there,” whilst the C.C.
solemnly inquired: “Is this Bermondsey?”
After leaving Kidderminster— Kiddy ” they call
it for short—our attention was turned to the
golden glory outside, trees yellowing, hedgerows
mellowing, “all owning the hand -of autumn.”
For the first time in this part of England, these
good men enjoyed it with the hearts of little
children. From them came no blasé utterances,
such as the fashionable “Not bad” or the
superior “It’s much finer in the... .” And
when Wyre Forest was reached it seemed as if
the trees which are missing from the waste,
barren spaces of the earth had been compressed

WEEKS IN WORCESTERSHIRE 93

into that marvel of woodland. At Bewdley we
espied from the carriage window a Severnside
angler plying his art. To our cheery shout of
“Good luck!” he waved his hand happily, and
beamed a big smile in response. As we pro-
gressed towards and along the Teme valley, the
eye took-in orchards, with apple trees leaning
low. Sometimes the lasses were carefully picking :
sometimes for want of hands the apples had
rolled in heaps. Here, Herefordshire cattle
browsed in the fields ; there, the ploughman was
at work with his willing team ; and hillside trees
as a background were limned against the sky.

Arrived at our destination, on the border
between Worcestershire and Shropshire, we heard
the usual tale—water had been low all the season.
Time allowed an hour’s attempt on the Saturday
evening in the Teme. Each of the two bottom
fishers saw his float go under twice, and could
not come to terms with the biter. This stirred
their blood. With the dry fly, the green insect,
I myself fetched up an odd grayling or two, but
all came short.

On the Sunday morning, it was soothing to
hear the sound of church bells wafted across the
river, and a walk in the country further revealed
the beauty of this part of England. Said the
cartage contractor, “It’s a relief from looking at
drain pipes and bricks.” Said the plumber, “If
I had suddenly found myself in some foreign
country and seen this scenery I should have said
‘it beats England.’ ”

94 THE TROUT ARE RISING

On the Monday we had a good half-day at
the fishing. The cartage contractor soon got
into trouble with his float, but the saving grace
of humour impelled him to suggest a visit to one
of these good-natured farmers “to borrow a milk
float.” The plumber was happy: “Oh, I’m
quite at home, plumbing the depth ; it keeps my
hand in.” No luck came to the share of either.
No merry stabbing of the water, no disappearance
of the quill, took place this time. The cartage
contractor, in rendering his report, was sparkling,
“ And I had given the fish my telephone number,
too! Being now in a brewing county, I thought
it appropriate—t Hop 2386’: it seemed a sure
way to get ‘line engaged.’” Neither was down-
hearted ; each looked to a glorious morrow. The
grayling were lying at that season chiefly in the
tails of the fords, and, as bottom fishers are
restricted to the bankside, it is difficult for them
to get the best spots. But there was no lack
of fish, for the Teme is an ideal stream for gray-
ling, and is well stocked with them. My efforts
with the fly proved unavailing for some time,
though an occasional fish came short atme. Two
fly-fishermen passed. One had done nothing: the
other had three brace, though “ coming short” was
his verdict, too.

But at length my blank was broken, Off a
shallow a good grayling, though not rising, was
to be seen, and,’as soon as the dry fly, a pattern
as much like a red quill as the box supplied, fell
over him, he made an upward dart, and the rest

GIVING THEM HIS TELEPHONE NUMBE

WEEKS IN WORCESTERSHIRE 95

was easy. Although the fish turned the scale at
13 0z., and was in prime condition, with the
famous cucumber odour when landed, yet it
showed no fight to speak of, which was strange
for an inhabitant of Worcestershire or Shropshire.
Happily, this grayling proved quite the exception,
for the others fought finely, as the autumn wore
on, and as the winter frosts invigorated their
condition.

In Tenbury, the town in the orchard, as it
was royally described over eighty years ago,
anglers have regard for the grayling, and on the
table they esteem it highly, preferring it apparently
to trout. But last autumn the Teme was low;
indeed, our friend the oldest inhabitant declared
that not since 1864 had the water been so thin.
Consequently, the grayling were not sporting
much, as those homely Devon and Somerset folk
say of their trout. Still, on most forenoons in
mid-autumn they rose to the natural fly for a
time, and again also an hour or so before sun-
down. For the most part, however, they dis-
regarded the chance of excess rations offered by
artificial flies, and continued to do so until
a thorough cleansing of the water occurred.
Broughton’s fancy, pale watery dun, green insect,
red tag are good dry flies, but, although grayling
like low water, when it had been low so long
it was all against the angler. One conviction
which I gained on this trip was that, however
late you may strike your rising trout, you can
scarcely be too quick for grayling. The second

96 THE TROUT ARE RISING

you see a movement towards the fly then go in
for a lightning strike, even if you do not know
what is going to happen. It occurred to me
about this period (October, 1919) that railway-
men ought to be good at this kind of fishing.

What of the plumber and the cartage con-
tractor? The P. plied his bottom fishing dili-
gently, and at last a jubilant “ I’ve got a grayling !”
brought joy to the bankside. Alas! that gray-
ling did a quick change into a 1 lb. chub, a fish
for which boots at the hotel had a liking. He
was made very welcome. The C.C. a little later
called for a landing net. He had on a good
grayling, which stuck to its colours, and the
C.C’s. honest heart throbbed with pride and
delight. It was the first fish he had ever had
on, let alone caught. Ah, that was premature

. . that fatal slack line! But afterwards he said
that he had learnt a useful lesson.

One surprise was in stofe. The P. said,
diffidently, that he would so like to be able to
throw a fly. Therefore one ripe October after-
noon on the Ledwyche he was rigged up with
fly-rod and line, without a cast. The elements
of instruction were given to him, and the result
was excellent. Usually with novices the line
gets there in penny numbers, and is picked up
like fire brigade hose. For thirty years has one
seen the same good old mess made of it. But
this time, with the Deptford plumber trying his
*prentice hand as fly fisherman, everything seemed
to go right. With rod well up, the cast was

WEEKS IN WORCESTERSHIRE 97

made well behind, then a momentary pause, then
with a turn of the wrist—all from the wrist—the
line went forward, followed by a clean pick-up,
body still all the while. Steady practice showed
no deterioration. ‘This was a case worth cultiva-
ting, so the following day he went into waders,
with fly-rod, tapered line, tapered cast, dry fly,
and all complete. It was just the same. On
the Teme he handled the 1o-ft. rod lovingly.
Gradually, more and more line, but never more
than he could control, went out ; the fly dropping
like snow-flake. The grayling he rose he lost—
one must have been a pounder, which broke
loose near the net—and for the great event he
was content to wait. No more bottom-fishing
for him, he said, when fly-fishing was available.
Only once before have I seen a novice with a
fly-rod shape so well. That was in Natal, on the
Mooi. He was a young, Colonial-born farmer,
and, although his line did not fall so gracefully,
yet he quickly got home, and in two days he was,
unaided, playing and landing trout, one of them
the best of the season. ‘The last time we met
was in South-West Africa, and you, John, were
just the same good fellow you always were.
Evidently you have kept up your fly-fishing, for
here in London, just as this book is going into
print, I have received a letter, written by you in
Natal about it. It is so interesting that perhaps
the reader will kindly let me leave the Teme for
a few moments, in order to make two or three
extracts. In your letter, John, you say: “I
H

98 THE TROUT ARE RISING

want you to bring me out a fly-rod. I want a
rod something like you used to fish with on the
Mooi, only I want one with a steel centre, and
about 10 ft. long. I don’t mind paying up to
£10. J would not mind a good second-hand rod
if you happen to know of one. I shall leave it
entirely to yourjudgment. . . . I cannot buy arod
here ; all the stores seem to have run out of rods.”
Well, this wonderful place, this “centre of intelli-
gence,” as London has been called, will be able
to supply a rod, and pleased I am to act on your
behalf, old friend. You go on to say: (pleasant
reading for an amateur from an old piscatorial
pupil): “I have done quite a lot of fishing during
the last two years. I go to the Loteni River.
The fishing there is better than the Mooi. I
shall take you there if you come to Natal for
some fishing.” That’s just like you, John!
Thank you, You proceed in your letter: “I
have been quite envious of your fishing in
Scotland ; it’s one of the places I want to go to.”
That is only natural, for your grandparents came
from there to Natal in the early days and your
great uncle, a Scotsman, was a distinguished pro-
tessor, who edited a dictionary.

To return to the Teme valley and the novice
from Deptford. Here was a man born and bred
in a foggy spot, where streets, houses, and
chimneys are the surroundings, Possessing
what proved sheer natural aptitude, he had for
weeks previously paved the way for an angling
holiday by devouring every scrap of angling

WEEKS IN WORCESTERSHIRE 99

literature he could; he had with great content
read “Red Spinner,” R.B.M., H.T.S., the
Amateur Angler’s “ By Meadow and Stream,” and
Van Dyke’s “ Little Rivers.” I take off my hat
to the Deptford plumber.

The C.C. is already contemplating buying a
little farm with a little river on it or near by,
and he threatens to stick to angling until he
becomes a really good bottom-fisherman. Then,
he says, he will, with country contentment, no
longer contract but expand. So we may in time
find him a fly-fisher too.

ON THE FORDS OF TEME

“Thy tastes become a lady fair,
Thou lov’st the pure and crystal stream
Whose waters ripple brightly where
Old ivied fanes reflected gleam,
And in clear depths, inverted show
The bankflowers where the bee doth feed,
Or ’neath whose currents lushly grow
The tender greens of waving weed.”
Corswotp Isys, in “ Lyra Piscatoria.”

IX
ON THE FORDS OF TEME

AVING family and business responsi-

H bilities at their respective homes, my

friends from Deptford and Rotherhithe

at the end of a fortnight had to leave

Tenbury for the town on the Thames, and I felt
lonely without them.

With water low, as indeed it had been so
long, they had not had much chance of sport ;
yet they had been happy every day, every hour,
of their holiday, and their sense of enjoyment
communicated itself to all round about them.
They left just when heavy rain had been falling.
With the water now fining, and with prospect
of sharp frosts, the grayling would be sure to
come on the feed. Verily, in three days or so,
sport began. Two other angling visitors came—
from Stroud, in Gloucestershire—but as soon as
the Teme looked “topping,” as the modern
phrase has it, one of them had toreturn. The
other was luckily able to stay two days longer,
and one of these we spent together on the
association length.

104 THE TROUT ARE RISING

So far, I must confess that, though I had
occasionally employed the dry fly when necessary,
the wet fly had appealed to me more and I re-
garded myself as first and foremost a wet-fly man.
But now I began to feel the genuine dry-fly
enthusiasm, though far be it from me to institute
comparisons or to dogmatize as to preferences.
On this point two golden sentences from that
charming and highly educative book Lord Grey’s
“Fly Fishing” may appropriately be quoted.
“T have,” he says, “at various times started in
my own mind so many theories which have been
suggested by experience and afterwards upset by
it, that I do not desire to press anyone to accept
an opinion unless there is anything in his own
experience which goes to support it. There is
only one theory about angling in which I have
perfect confidence, and that is that the two words,
least appropriate to any statement about it, are
the words ‘ always’ and ‘never ’,”

Touching dry-fly fishing, he sums up the art
in these words: ‘The effort, in short, is to
make the trout notice the fly without noticing
anything else. It is in this that the fine art of
dry-fly fishing consists.” Obviously the same
principle applies to grayling, though of the two
fish the grayling is far the less shy.

The time the visitor from Stroud and I had
together by the waterside that day, from early
forenoon until 4 o’clock, had its sparkling interval.
During those days the wise thing was to be at the
waterside soon after breakfast. Early in autumn

THE HAUNT OF GRAYLIN

ON THE FORDS OF TEME 105

Io am. is a good time for beginning, later
11 o'clock, or even midday, will be soon enough.
One can go on fishing as long as there is any
encouragement to do so, maybe until dusk in
mild weather. If the season is not too advanced
and if the water is right, grayling are almost sure
to rise cheerfully at some time of the day. If
they are not rising, and you wish to fish, then
put on the wet fly (three flies if the river suits) ;
if on the other hand they are rising, then fish
dry. Why, the grayling then are calling to you !
Sometimes a particular fly must be used, if any
business is to be done. Sometimes practically
any grayling fly, especially when tipped with a
dash of colour, will attract them. But you never
know. The grayling is a challenge to study.
You think you understand this game fish, and
then you realize that you are contemplating a
mystery. That is, perhaps, why the grayling is
called the Lady of the Stream,

That morning the Stroud angler had started
at the far end of the association reach, in the
Newnham Bridge direction. I had gone a little
higher up, to within sight of Boraston Church,
with its quaint spire. I had done nothing, When
I had worked my way down I saw him, bewadered
and in the water, supremely happy. Grayling
were rising all around him. He had struck a
gravelly ford such as the fish love. Already he
had a nice bag, and he deserved it, for he cast his
short line very prettily. The grayling sometimes
missed or refused the fly, but they kept coming.

106 ©THE TROUT ARE RISING

He would have been a good study for‘a “ Picture
of a Happy Grayling Fisherman.”

“Put on a green insect!” said he, briefly, in
a moment snatched from business, as it were.

“Thank you,” I said, “I will,” and I did.
Hurrying on I came to a likely ford, established
myself at its tail where the deeper water was
beginning, and where a short line was not only
valuable but also imperative. And then I had an
hour of rare delight. Perhaps the sport which J
enjoyed, good though it was, was not the chief
part of my enjoyment. It was quite as much the
behaviour of the dry fly, the green insect, that
kept me rapt with attention and appreciation.
The fly sat the water, now like an imitation of a
greatly reduced hedgehog, now like a miniature
busby! However absurd the two comparisons,
they are what that floating dry fly, that green insect,
put me in mind of at the time. The current was
rapid, and, as soon as the fly alighted on the
water, off it went! I positively laughed with
enjoyment. Then all of a sudden a grayling
would glide up from the bottom like a ghost,
and maybe it was hooked—maybe not. It
mattered little. Moreover, it would probably
come again. When in the humour the grayling
will rise several times to the same fly. It was
a busy time, and, when the rise was over, I
left the ford, still chuckling to myself. That
was a good day. ‘The rise was not a long one,
but it was brisk while it lasted. We both got a
bag, the man from Stroud a bigger one than I.

ON THE FORDS OF TEME 107

Grayling are gregarious, and once you are at
a spot where they are at home you can get
amongst them, taking one after the other. The
Stroud man got his fish all from one reach, and
probably did not move more than ten yards.
Good sport continued daily, and my fondness
for the dry fly increased. On four special occa-
sions in former years had the dry fly impressed
me, though I had previously always fished wet,
and as a fact preferred it—then. Now I like
both methods, each as occasion demands. One
happy adventure with the Mayfly, fished dry, was
on the Colne at Thorney Weir. A trout was
steadily taking the naturals as they floated by
under the opposite bank. I got my fly luckily
across to the right spot, it floated over him, and
he took it. I managed to keep a tight line, and
to play and land him, 14 lbs. The second piece -
of luck with the dry fly was on the same river,
near the cosy cottage by the weir. Just on dusk
I saw a trout rise, and soon a coachman, floating
beautifully, was travelling towards him. I felt
sure the fish would accept it, so attractively was
it taking its course. And my faith was justified,
The trout was mine. My third dry-fly adven-
venture was on the other Colne, in Gloucester-
shire. It was anevening latein June. The water-
bailiff sat on a stile, watching. But one does
not mind the official presence when one’s ticket is
in order. A trout rose. A coachman was pre-
sented dry, and, as it neared the trout, it seemed
so natural that the fish must surely have a go.

108 THE TROUT ARE RISING

“TI thought you'd get him, sir,” said the water-
bailiff.

My fourth triumph (I regarded each capture
as a triumph then) was on the old little river, the
Tern, at Market Drayton. A trout kept rising,
but he ignored the wet fly, three times changed.
Then I perceived that he was feeding on a small
black gnat. Promptly I put on one, dry. In-
stantly the trout came to terms, and was landed.
“That’s what I call good fishing!” said some
kind onlooker on the opposite bank. In point
of fact, it was fair fishing, long delayed, for obser-
vation ought to have got to work sooner. But it
is nice to put on record his generous words, as a
set-off against certain unfavourable comments
(doubtless deserved) that have come my way.
Perhaps the most picturesque was that of my
friend, the Major. He contemplated a knot
which I had tied in my cast, and said, “ What a
knot! Are you trying to invent something to
anchor a man-of-war with?” But one improves,
and the Major is a just man. I am glad to be
able to record that later he was constrained to
observe, “Glad to see that at last you can tie a
knot looking a little less like St. Paul’s
Cathedral.”

I have caught other trout on the dry fly, but
the instances recorded have somehow impressed
me most, and I had not hitherto taken the busi-
ness as a matter of course. On the Teme, how-
ever, one got into the habit of coming back with
grayling, all taken on the dry fly ; and, although

ON THE FORDS OF TEME tog

there was much to learn, much was learnt, about
the grayling, it was dry fly that was “ the thing.”

Lord Grey, in his “Fly Fishing,” says, “In
fact the fly must float as if it were buoyant,
cheerful and in the best of spirits—natural flies
having the appearance of being very frivolous
and light-hearted.” This exactly expresses how
both hackled and winged patterns took my eye.

In the same book the author has, of course,
much more to say about dry-fly fishing, and he
says it not only with knowledge and wisdom but
with irresistible charm, As an Englishman, I
pay my respectful and grateful homage to that
great man for all—and it is very much !—that he
has done for England and our Empire; as a
fisherman—one who loves fishing—may I be
allowed to thank him for that phrase about the dry
fly, “very frivolous and light-hearted”? Asa
matter of fact, on the Teme, when the winged
dry fly, with wings so primly cocked, sailed
saucily along, the mere spectacle used to give me
pure, wholesome fun, A brother angler tells me
that the fat complacency of a big red pike float
affects him in the sameway. Sol am not singular
in the matter.

When the visitor from Stroud had to go, so
good had been his company that I felt again the
pangs of loneliness, And then, on the Saturday
afternoon, as I was looking out of my bedroom
window, whence I could get a good view of
the river, whom should I see coming on his

110 THE TROUT ARE RISING

motor-bicycle over the bridge but the Major—
none other than my companion at Dulverton,
Lifton, Longnor, Langholm and Canonbie? I
sang to myself an anthem of thanksgiving. He
had, it appeared, ridden from Devonshire to
the Worcestershire-Shropshire border. Almost
simultaneously with his arrival, there appeared at
the hotel two other brethren of the angle. One
was a Major who had lost his left arm (the result
of one of his four wounds in the war), but was
none the less one of the best fly-fishermen you
would meet in a day’s march. The other was a
demobilized officer, whose cheery humour will
long be remembered in the hotel. We had a
table together, and when I listened to that trio,
with their sparkling, boyish fun, I bethought me
of the song which says, “For it’s always fair
weather when good fellows get together.”
Fishing for grayling! We fished every
moment possible, fished again at meals (and they
were meals!) and fished again in the smoking-
room. “How horribly monotonous must the
conversation have been!” remarks a reader who
does not fish, and I concede that there are other
interesting subjects besides grayling. Still, the
talk was not entirely about fins and tails, for even
ardent fishermen cannot live conversationally on
a menu of nothing but piscatorial instances. But
I fear that, even when things in general were
being discussed, there was a tendency for fish
to creep in somewhere. As, however, all four
were in complete sympathy, nobody was bored.

ON THE FORDS OF TEME 111

The grayling fishing was greatly enjoyed, and
almost always at some time of the day—once it did
not begin till so late as two o’clock in the after-
noon—there would be a rise of fish. How good
they were to eat! Of course all depends on their
preparation in the kitchen, but there we could
have perfect confidence. Hannah, the Welsh
cook, was an expert. And the grayling were
perfection.

Here may be slipped in a little fragment from
‘simple annals.” I happened not to be fishing
one day, but in the afternoon went for a walk, a
pleasure in itself in the Teme valley on a ripe
autumn day. In due course I came to the river-
side to see how the Major was getting on. He had
done well during the rise, and got several beauti-
ful fish. On our way, as we were walking back,
we met a neighbour of an old couple who had
lived long in a riverside cottage, near Newnham
Bridge. The husband had kindly given the men
from Deptford and Rotherhithe and myself some
information one day about the water, and in a
little homely chat had told us that “ his missus”
was going to Kidderminster on the morrow for
“a operation.” He was well over seventy years
of age. Their cottage faced the field where we
began our fishing on association water, or rather it
was near where that length ended. When passing
during the next few days we saw the cottage shut
up, the wicket padlocked, and a basin of milk,
with a cat companioning it, outside the cottage door
—neighbourly kindness again. It was clear that

112 THE TROUT ARE RISING

the old man, like the true life-partner he seemed
to be, had gone to see and cheer up his missus in
hospital. She made a quick recovery, and, to the
old fellow’s joy, was comparatively soon brought
back safely from Kidderminster, and able to rest
on the sofa in the front room. Their neighbour
gave us this news of them. The Major at once
asked him if he would take to the invalid a brace
of the freshly-caught grayling, a kind thought
which was just like him.

On the table, whilst this is being written in
London, are seven photographs of the Teme in
the Tenbury district, taken either in October or
November. All carry a message of woodland
quiet, riverside peace. Two show the famous
weir on the hotel length. Bordered by trees, the
water falls over the weir in silvery relief. Both
trout and grayling haunt the spot, which is a rare
home for fish. Another has caught the wounded
Major fishing. At this weir we watched him one
afternoon get about ten trout and grayling—the
trout of course being returned. We were both
deeply interested. The photograph shows him to
the life, with his intense keenness and concentra-
tion. As there were but few rises, he was wet-fly
fishing with three flies, wading on the shallow.
Rarely was there a surface rise to his flies, but he
got his fish all right. They took beneath the
surface without any sign, but he hooked them
none the less. It may be urged that trout and
grayling often hook themselves. They do. But
that was not the explanation this time. The

ON THE FORDS OF TEME 113

secret was that the angler watched his line with
the keenest vigilance. When there was the
slightest check or movement, he struck. Even
if a passing leaf (autumn leaves on the Teme are
numerous) came in contact with his flies as soon
as they reached the water, he struck. His argu-
ment was that if he waited for the point of his rod
to bend sharply, or to feel the fish at the fly, it was
too late for the strike. Results proved the wisdom
of his contention. I have more to say of him in
the next chapter, but here it may be said that he
landed his fish by an ingenious method. When
his trout or grayling was exhausted, he would
stick the butt of his rod into a metal-bound
leather socket attached to a belt; he was thus
enabled to reel up, because the rod was now self-
supported, and when the fish was played out and
near enough for the purpose he would for the
moment trust the rod to hold the fish by itself,
detach his net, and so finish the affair. The
net was slung so that it could be easily detached.
Naturally if a friend was handy he would desire
to act as gillie. The Major (of this book) and I
both counted it an honour to serve in that
capacity to so good a fisherman and fellow.

A MEMORY OF THE LUGG

“When the frost has wrought a silence.”

“The Meres of Shropshire,” by George Christopher
Davies in “ Anglers’ Evenings.”

x
A MEMORY OF THE LUGG

HE four of us had been offered a day on
the Lugg and we felt ourselves fortunate
and gratefully accepted it. We woke
early to a frosty morning which was in
itself a good omen for the chances of grayling.
Thymallus likes a touch of frost at night. We
started from Tenbury in a motor-car which was
suffering from bronchial catarrh, but consoled
ourselves with the thought that Hereford is a
restful shire for travelling. We were well
wrapped up, especially the Major, who has
decided views about the English climate. He
was covered by that massive sheepskin coat which,
with his usual kindness, he had insisted on lending
me for a car drive, one March day, two years
before, from Dulverton across bleak Exmoor and
back. This cold-resisting coat was the cause, he
told us, of a picturesque little incident. Attired
in it, he was standing not long before outside his
hotel at Penzance, when suddenly a bright little
eight-year-old girl danced up to him. “ Oh, have
you just come from Russia, please ?”
“No, my dear,” replied the Major, who,

118 THE TROUT ARE RISING

though an old bachelor, is very human (between
ourselves, I might even say susceptible). ‘ What
makes you think that ?”’ he smilingly asked.

“Oh,” said the little lady, “ we've just come
from Russia, and they all wear coats like that !”

Very pleasing are the friendly approaches of
childhood. The world would be drear without
them. It reminded me of a little memory
cherished for many years. Ai little maid of some
five summers one wintry Sunday afternoon was
carrying and nursing a huge Teddy bear, almost
as big as herself. I could not but admire the
little fairy, all in woolly white, so devoted to her
charge. She evidently caught my eye as it
wandered from her to Teddy. She advanced
toward me, and with great gravity gave me a
piece of information. “ J?’s the first time he’s been
out /”” she said,

The fishing to which we were making lay
beyond Mortimer’s Cross, and the journey was
delightful. People are apt to say of their country-
side, “ You should see it in the Spring!” But
strangers may be quite content to see Hereford-
shire on a sparkling, frosty day in mid-November,
We passed through such pretty hamlets as you
will only find in rural England and noted many
beauties. One building especially interested us.
It was the school at Lucton to which “The
Amateur Angler” went as a boy. Few writers
have given more pleasure to angling readers than
the late Mr. Edward Marston, who as “ The
Amateur Angler” described his fishing adventures

A MEMORY OF THE LUGG 119

with such freshness and zest. As you read him
you are with him all the time on the river bank.
Two or three miles beyond Mortimer’s Cross,
the scene of the battle which secured the throne
for Edward IV., brought us to our starting point.
Close to a bridge was a stationary caravan, used
as fishing headquarters, and this marked the end
of our journey.

“Are you gentlemen in possession of a
permit?” the keeper courteously inquired, and
the production of the warrant, duly signed by
the kind lady who had given us permission, eased
his mind. He wished us good sport, with the
comfortable assurance that there were grayling in
the river.

The frost was still pretty keen and tying on
flies with benumbed fingers was not easy. The
Major, who lavished testimonials on “this
climate,” was the first to complete his equipment.
Long service in the army perhaps helped him in
this respect. His evolution as a grayling fisher-
man had been interesting. Before coming to the
Teme he had done very little of it. He had
caught a few, but did not think much of them,
and had never considered it worth while to take
them seriously. The Teme fishing, however,
had fascinated him, and he now spoke of the
graceful, gliding grayling with respect, even with
admiration. He had experienced, and learned to
appreciate, the fighting qualities of November
grayling, braced by crisp vigorous weather.
Always careful with his first cast, like the shrewd

120 THE TROUT ARE RISING

fisherman he is, he now found the benefit of the
habit, for while the rest of us were still finishing
details, we heard his cheery announcement, “I’m
in him!” His little eight-foot rod, kept well
up and busy, was bending double, and we were
uncommonly pleased to see him land a good-
sized glittering grayling. It promised well.

Long experience has shown that, grateful as
it is, a trout or a grayling, risen, struck, played,
and landed to your very first cast of the day, is
not a sure forerunner of sport. But you always
hope that it will be. The omens on this occasion
were only in part propitious.

It was not a blank by any means on the Lugg
that day. Fish were caught in fair numbers.
But there was one angler who had nothing to
show for it. And here is the said angler
audaciously writing a book connected with the
subject! It served me right. Our kind hostess
had given definite instructions: “If the grayling
are rising, put the dry fly on; if they are not,
then fish wet.” The grayling were not rising.
The three others faithfully followed the hostess’s
injunctions, and profited. I alone disobeyed and
had an empty bag. The reason, I suppose, of
my unwisdom was that fair success with the dry
fly on the Teme had cast a glamour over me. I
could not do without the amusement and pleasure
of watching the dry fly sail along, with the
succeeding fascination of tightening on a rising
grayling at the right moment. I saw my fly sail
along all right on the Lugg, but that was all. I

A MEMORY OF THE LUGG 121

only got one rise in still, deep water at a bend.
Whether the fish was trout or grayling, I do not
know; but there was such a boil as to indicate a
big one. Just before reeling up for the day, I
ve on wet flies, but repentance had come too
ate.

The Major had a fair basket. He rejoiced
over one fish exceedingly —“ fought likea trout!”
he said. The other Major, the one-armed angler,
also got several grayling. He fished with
his usual keenness and managed his rod, net and
fish with the dexterity which I have before
described. It was a real pleasure to the rest of
us that this valiant English gentleman, who bore
his wounds without complaint, was able not only
to hold his own in the matter of catching fish, but
as a rule to do better than we did. The third
member of the party fished hard and got a few
grayling also. Only the fourth—but it was my
own fault and I shall not complain.

It is two months since that day on the Lugg,
and, although not a written note was made at the
time, yet how clear is the scene, as I write in
London. The purling river, the Major’s “I’m
in him!” the hillsides, the woodland, the frost-
bound earth, the Hereford cattle, the great calm,
and—*“ Oh! have you just come from Russia,
please?” Kind hostess, here is a message of
thanks.

THE ARM OF THE LAW

“Would you kindly show me your licence, sir?”
(Familiar question.)
“This is a very bad case.”
(A water-bailiff to the writer.)

XI
THE ARM OF THE LAW

r “HEY have the Law at the back of them,

these water-bailiffs, and the majesty of the

Law is an imposing thought. Perhaps

it is that which gives to water-bailiffs
some of their quiet dignity, though the fact that
they seem a race of naturally dignified men, is no
doubt due in part to their living near Nature.
Probably most of them have been keepers and
outdoor men all their lives. Those who live
much by meadow and stream, near copse and
spinney, watching with open eyes the seasons
changing in the procession of the year, absorb
into their character something of nature’s
“ bigness,”

Sometimes the water-bailiff is a pensioned
policeman, spending the evening of his days in
the country, the professional instinct still alive.
If he be a practical angler, or one who in his
earlier days liked his little bit of fishing, and
never has lost the love of it and its associations,
then to anglers he is all the more interesting as
a personality. To the retired policeman clings
some of that official manner acquired during his

126 THE TROUT ARE RISING

service. He is still an Important Person. Also,
of course, he never loses the capacity of inspiring
awe in wrong-doers, or the reputation for being
“a man of his hands” which come to wearers of
the blue. All that counts a good deal in
keepering.

The roving days fitfully described in this
book gave me opportunities of studying the water-
bailiff and the keeper in various districts, When
the president of a medical board at a military
hospital near Portsmouth early last year said
spontaneously and suddenly ::“ Do you like trout
fishing ?”’ the question thrilled me with antici-
pation. “ Yes, sir!” I replied with the promptness
of a good conscience. After service abroad in a
climate so warm that the partition between it and
a climate still warmer (““H.E. 2 sticks,” the
Major calls it) is, so the irreverent ones say, only
a cigarette paper, it appeared that the best medicine
was “open air and pottering about with a rod by
a trout stream.’ So it proved on two months’
sick leave, in Devon and Cornwall. Then when
demobilization came in due course, and strength
came with it, pottering about was promoted to
active, regular fishing.

Wherever chance took me, there was the
water-bailiff sooner or later to be found. Now,
the peripatetic fisherman, wherever he goes—in
England, at any rate—must take out a fishing
licence if the river concerned comes under the
control of a Board of Conservators. In addition,
if the water or any part of it may be fished by

!

GOT HIM

THE ARM OF THE LAW 127

favour of an Association, he must secure a daily,
weekly, monthly, or season ticket. There are, of
course, Associations and clubs to which admission
is not to be had for love ‘or money, or in which
vacancies only occur at intervals. ‘To get into the
best fishing clubs nowadays I fancy an infant
ought to have his name put on the books the
day he is born! He should at any rate make
an early point of asking his father to look into
the matter and use foresight !

Water-bailiffs are employed both by Boards
of Conservators, and by Angling Associations,
with waters to protect. Thus if you are on
Association water, within the jurisdiction also
of a Board of Conservators, you are liable to a
two-fold visit, one from the Association’s keeper,
who will courteously ask if you have the
Association ticket, and if not why not, and so
forth, with the climax, “ Will you please give me
your name and address, sir?” and the other
from the Conservancy bailiff, with his, “ Will
you kindly show me your licence, sir ?”

It is no good explaining, when you have not
the vital document, that you are only on a day’s
visit and that you already have a licence for the

river, not far away. He will explain,
with precise geographical detail, that the river on
which you are now fishing—caught red-handed—
is not a tributary of the ———— ; that it comes
within the jurisdiction of the ———— Board of
Conservators, which is “an entirely separate
body,”—these words are uttered in solemn,

128 THE TROUT ARE RISING

judicial tone. You already begin to feel you
will be taken forth from that place to be hanged
by the neck until there is no more question of
licence or anything else.

Then the worthy man, expounding in words
with which he has long been familiar, goes on:
“This here river comes within the jurisdiction of
the Board of Conservators, and before you
can fish in this here river you must take out a
licence to fish in it.” Now, if you are a wise
man, you will already have taken out the
necessary licence, and done all things lawful. If
you have by ignorance, or whatsoever the reason,
omitted so to do you will, without waste of
words, ask his worship if he has a book of licences
on him, and if so will he of his kindness sell you
one on the spot? As you scan him hopefully,
you will notice that maybe he has grown grey in
the service, that he wears hand-sewn boots, with
smart leggings, not to speak of a jay’s feather in
his hat, token of an intimacy with outdoor
life. Seeing what kind of man he is, it can do
no harm to add that you are sorry for the trouble
you have caused him, and would he kindly
convey personally to the Chairman of his Board
of Conservators an expression of your regret that
you have unwittingly offended. Sometimes a
water-bailiff, for convenience in remote rural
districts, is empowered to sell the fishing licence.
Clearly, it ought always to be taken out before
you fish, But if by mis-chance this has not been
done, and if the water-bailiff is empowered to sell

THE ARM OF THE LAW 129

licences, and if he is given discretion—which he
is not likely to abuse—then, when he is satisfied
that no trickery is intended, he will in all probability
sell you the licence on the spot.

But, if you defy the Law, if you begin
bandying words, or in any way transgress against
the code of a gentleman, temporary or otherwise,
then you are “for it.” These water-bailiffs serve
under important chairmen, with pretty blue blood
in their veins, and, moreover, the Board of Con-
servators has a learned clerk to whom they
report. They know a gentleman and a sports-
man, and how he should behave, and frankly,
and rightly, they will not have any nonsense.
From instinct, discipline, and training they know
how to do their duty, and they seldom make
mistakes. I remember once conversing with a
water-bailiff in a famous fishing district, a splendid
man of the old school, and I asked him if ever
he had trouble with fishermen. His reply was
quaint: “No, sir, not as long as they take out
their licence, and behave like gentlemen, and
agree with me.” Personality tells !

If in England and Wales you fished succes-
sively through the spring, summer, and autumn
seasons, and visited a different river each week,
you would come within the jurisdiction of a good
many different Boards of Conservators, and would
have to take out a good many licences, The cost
of these licences varies, but it does not amount to
much for trout-fishing in most cases, though a

salmon licence costs an appreciable sum, usually
K

130 THE TROUT ARE RISING

about £1. I did not incur great expense for
licences, The Severn licence costs two shillings,
and the possession of this document entitles you
to fish not only the great river but also its
tributaries. Taking out a Severn licence in the
early summer, for fishing the Tern round about
the old home in Shropshire for a few days, I put
the licence away, thinking it would not be my
fortune to need it again. But then I had a few
days with the trout at Craven Arms, where runs the
Onny. This is a tributary of the Teme, which in
turn is a tributary of the Severn. So the licence
served. It made me feel thrifty. Then, after
visiting in turn the Manifold, in Derbyshire, the
Border and Westmorland, I came back to the
Tern, and once more the Severn licence came
in. The long journeys seemed almost justified
because of the saving on the licence! Then
came my October visit to Tenbury, for grayling ;
another trip to Craven Arms, for grayling this
time ; a journey to Cound in late November—
the Severn licence albeit getting a bit tattered
franked me everywhere. A fragrant memory, by
the way, is the last trip, brightened by the
prospect of a chance grayling on the fords; by
the anticipation of seeing old friends ; by the lure
of the cloud-effects in the Severn valley, which
in winter seem to me more wonderful at Cound,
with its wealth of woodland and fresh fields, than
in any place I know, unless it be Richmond Park
on a grey wintry afternoon with just an occasional
glimpse of sun. Also I wanted to see once more

THE ARM OF THE LAW 131

those richly-plumed wild duck in flight by Eyton
Rock. I came to Cound all the more gladly for
the recurring thought that already I held a Severn
licence! But I did not get even a stray grayling.
The water was beginning to run into order, and
I had seen a good fish rise near Eyton Rock way,
when down came the rain from the hills, as they
say, and for a fortnight or so fly-fishing was
impossible.

Instead of fishing, therefore, I turned to and
wrote some of this book. The landlord and
landlady of one of the homeliest, cleanest-roomed,
brightest-shining, most-severely polished little
hotels in all the United Kingdom, showed sym-
pathy in my literary labours, and placed every
convenience most kindly at my disposal. Soon,
what with pages of manuscript and sheaves of
notes, the trout were rising all over the table.

But I must return to my water-bailiffs from
whom I have wandered. These functionaries
come on you so quietly. The soft turf helps
them. Usually you are so intent on your casting
that the first sign of them to reach you is a cheery
“Good morning, sir!” or “Good afternoon,
sir!” If the water-bailiff is an Irishman, there
will be added : “And it’s good sport I hope ye’ll
be having!” It is all a preliminary canter; a
sort of conversational hors d’euvre, leading up to
the piece de resistance: ‘Will you kindly show
me your licence, sir?” The nearest thing to
the water-bailiff's quiet arrival on the scene that
I remember was the advent of our Colonel, him-

132 THE TROUT ARE RISING

self, by the way, not long ago happily converted
to the gentle art. It was in a huge R.A.S.C.
depot, and he wore rubber heels, which made his
approach, even on a stone floor, quite inaudible.
Some of us, subalterns at that time, thus suddenly
visited in our sections, were pleased to say
(privately) that it was not quite fair! But that
was many, many years ago—away back in the
middle of the war.

At first, until you have had experience of the
river, you may perhaps wonder who your charm-
ing visitor is. After the time of day has been
passed conversation expands. He descants in-
telligently on the crops, discourses wisely on the
news of the day. You wonder whether he is
the squire’s bailiff, just having a walk round
the farms, or some farmer taking the air for the
good of his health, and glad to pass a few remarks
with a stranger. Then, as you think he is pre-
paring to depart, and you begin to brace yourself
up for a long cast to cover that rising fish on the
other side, a slight change is to be detected in his
accent, which assumes a velvety tone, as he says:
“ Will you kindly show me your licence, sir?”
It insinuates, as plainly as possible, “I know of
course a gentleman like you would not be fishing
unless you had a licence, and I am asking only as
a mere matter of form.” The good man is doing
his duty. The manner of his doing it reminds
me how I once went to cash a cheque at a bank
in Egypt. On presenting it, I said to the clerk,
a stranger, “‘I have the money in the bank.”

THE ARM OF THE LAW 133

“ Oh, yes, sir, I am sure that’s all right,” replied
he. But all the same I saw him looking up the
books. It is a sound motto for bank clerks,
water-bailiffs, or anybody in a position of trust or
responsibility, to take nothing for granted.

The first water-bailiff I struck—that seems
an unfortunate word now | see it set down!
but it is only the colonial word for “ met”—was
early on in Cornwall. The usual greetings took
place, with the same “ pleased-to-meet-you ” kind
of conversation, followed in this instance by a
speedy piunge into the subject of licences, That
proved all right. And then, as generally happens
with a fisherman new to the district, there was
a series of questions which elicited sound in-
struction as to the right size and kind of fly,
the best spots, and so on, It necessarily takes
a stranger days or weeks, you may even say
years, to understand a river’s full fishing values,
and the help which a thoughtful water-bailiff can
give is very considerable.

Another interesting meeting was with the
head water-keeper on a big estate, where a day’s
fishing had been kindly given me. He was an
interesting man, from whom much could be
learned. He understood most matters, I should
imagine, connected with trout, and he had that
good Scots’ accent which from boyhood has always
made such an appeal to me. It was early in the
year, and when he came along I already had
several trout. Feeling a bit tired, I asked him
to take a hand and try myrod. It is a good rod,

134 THE TROUT ARE RISING

one of the best, but the way he handled it sent it
up in value at once. ‘True, he was standing on a
high bank—it was on the Tamar—but what a
line he threw, and with apparently so little effort !
Clearly, he was a masterhand. Moreover, he had
perfect control of the very long line he was getting
out, and when a trout rose to the fly, as one soon
did, it was that trout’s last rise. After that he
soon caught another. No, he would not keep the
trout, thank you: those were for the guests who
had been given a day’s fishing. I was much
impressed both by his courtesy and his skill, and
was grateful for what really amounted to a useful
lesson in fishing. For that keeper taught me,
amongst other things, what shooting line was, I
had a notion of it before, but he showed me
what you could rea/ly do with it. Afterwards on
the Teme my friend the Major supplemented
the teaching by showing me how shooting the
line is assisted by lowering the point of the rod
at the right moment.

A friend of mine once had an amusing en-
counter with a water-bailiff. He was but a
novice then. It was in the morning, and he was
just about to enter the water, when a benevolent-
looking gentleman suddenly appeared from _no-
where, and greeted him kindly. They talked
about many things, and my friend wondered who
the distinguished-looking, nicely-spoken stranger
might be. The newcomer said it was better to
start grayling fishing, those days, at ten o’clock
instead of an hour later. Thanking him heartily,

THE ARM OF THE LAW - 135

my friend waded into the water, was just about
to settle down to good, hard casting, when a
gentle voice from the bank said: “I suppose you
have a fishing licence ?”

One can imagine that some men with a turn
for humour and a dislike for being “ put-upon”
would have said, “Yes, I’ve got a licence. If
you're the water-bailiff you might have asked to
see it when I was on the bank. If you do want
to see it I suggest that you come in and look at
it here.” My friend, however, is of most placid
temper, so he waded to the bank and displayed
the document. But he appreciated the inwardness
of the situation. Some day, perhaps, that bailiff
will try the game on a less amiable individual, in
which case he may have to wait awhile.

The nearest I got to being “for it” was
too funny to be serious and too serious to be
funny. I was by myself in a remote little village.
On arrival I went to the post office, and asked for
all the necessary fishing licences. One of the staff
explained that they did not handle fishing licences,
and referred me to a local gentleman, the repre-
sentative of the squire through whose land the
river ran. So I went off to the estate agent’s
residence, two miles away through lovely country,
only to find the good man out. However, I had
been informed that the permit was half a crown
per week, a merely nominal charge for first-rate
fishing on good water; so I left name, address,
and the necessary fee, with one of the staff, and
in due course the permit to fish arrived. Stupidly,

136 THE TROUT ARE RISING

I left it at that ; and went on fishing. One even-
ing the sea-trout were moving, and I was getting
sport. Just as I had landed a sea-trout, two
gentlemen came to the bank. ‘Nice fish this,”
said I. “Yes,” said they. One of them seemed
particularly interested. Courteous, polished, dis-
tinguished-looking, he seemed like an ambassador
on holiday, staying at a country house, perhaps,
and just out for a walk. No doubt the gentleman
with him was his private secretary. I spoke most
respectfully to them, but as the sea-trout were still
showing I was in hopes of increasing the bag, I
started casting again, when a chill came over the
proceedings.

The distinguished-looking one said : “‘ Would
you mind showing me your licence, sir?” (a
slight variant on the usual formula).

“Certainly,” said I, calmly producing the half-
crown permit to fish for a week. ‘“ Here it is.”

He glanced at it. A touch of the autocrat
entered into his bearing as he said: “Oh, this is
not enough! This is merely a permit to fish from
a gentleman’s land. You ought to havea sea-trout
licence! You have just caught a sea-trout |”

As, only a minute ago, I had triumphantly
exhibited a sea-trout in his august presence, this
last statement of his was indisputable. It would
be first-rate evidence in the police court. Visions
of standing in the dock, answering to a charge
of “in that he wilfully and maliciously...”
floated before my mind; and there would be
nothing for it but to plead guilty.

THE ARM OF THE LAW $137

But when you have just caught a sea-trout
you are not displeased with yourself, so I added,
gaily: “Yes, and it is the sixth sea-trout I’ve
caught here !”

“Then, this is a very bad case!” said he,
gravely,

“ Yes, it does seem a very bad case, indeed,”
I agreed, proudly.

“ Will you kindly give me your name and
address ?”” he now commanded, but still with
urbanity.

So I spelt him the name carefully—that would
be a help when they prepared the charge sheet ;
and gave him the full address.

The sea-trout were still showing !

I said: “I know ignorance is no legal excuse,
and, although I am a stranger to these parts and
only here for a few days, yet I am obviously in
the wrong. If you are empowered to sell licences,
and happen to have your book on you, will you
kindly sell me a licence on the spot ?”

“Yes,” said he, “1 can sell you a licence,
The cost is ten shillings for a sea-trout licence.”

“I shall be happy to pay the ten shillings on
the spot,” said I, after the manner of Croesus.
And I placed my hand in my pocket to produce
the ten shillings. There I found—twopence! I
had left the pocket-book containing notes in my
other coat.

Then I did what is so often a help in a crisis.
I burst out laughing! He was too well schooled
to join in the hilarity, indeed he looked the picture

138 THE TROUT ARE RISING

of austerity. But I think he must have smiled,
just a little, remembering the lordly way in which
I had promised an immediate disbursement of ten
shillings.

The sea-trout still went on showing !

I said: “Look here, as man to man, I will
meet you anywhere you like in the morning and
hand you the ten shillings without fail, and I am
sorry indeed to give you all this trouble.” It
was too much to expect of frail human nature to
go straight back to the hotel for the ten shillings—
when sea-trout were showing !

“Right,” said he. Anappointment was made,
and as he went away he left his blessing, “ Good
luck to your fishing.”

And so I fished on. At the appointed hour
next morning we met, and the licence was duly
taken out.

I asked one water-bailiff whether he had ex-
perienced much night poaching. WHe said that
little was attempted where he had worked. One
dark night, however, he discovered some men,
evidently bent on netting or otherwise poaching
the trout. He got to within a short distance of
one of them, who was holding a stick, and who
said threateningly, “Don’t you come near me !”
to which the bailiff replied: “I want to have a
few words with you.” (It was a wonder that out
of habit he did not say: ‘ Will you kindly show
me your licence?”) The poacher darted off in
the thick wood, and made good his escape.
There are districts, however, where bailiffs have

THE ARM OF THE LAW _ 139

more stirring tales to tell than this. The mid-
night dynamiter, for instance, is not unknown on
some famous streams. There the guardians of
the waters run considerable risks.

Leaving the waters, woods and fields, and the
charms of their open-air life must have been
a wrench to the keepers when they went off to
the war, as they did in such numbers, In Selkirk-
shire I came across a gamekeeper who had lost
one of his sons in France ; the lad was just in his
early manhood, and had been an under-keeper at
home. He knew all the ways of birds and fish,
and had won the regard of the countryside. The
father, as he went his rounds and arranged the
butts for the grouse-shooting, would talk of him
sadly, yet with pride. At Khartoum the sturdy
Scotch gamekeeper, whom I mentioned before,
wondered “‘ what the grouse are doing at home.”
He used to see the Field regularly at home, and
he sorely missed it out there. When I was able
to let him have a copy, his gratitude knew no
bounds, His thoughts turned ever to the purples
and browns of Scotland

So and no otherwise—so and no otherwise—hillmen
desire their hills.

AT THE INN

“The social, friendly, honest man,
Whate’er he be ;
Tis he fulfils great Nature’s plan,
And none but he.”
Burns.

XII
AT THE INN

OTEL is the fashionable word. I intend
H nothing derogatory by here resorting
to the old term, but I think the word
“inn” conveys at once something more
of the warmth and the good fellowship associated
with gatherings of fishermen. It used to be my
business as a reporter to be present at assemblies
of all sorts and conditions of men, and even now
across the span of years I remember the jovial
company of coursers when the card was drawn,
and how the expectation of the morrow’s sport
put every one in good humour. Cricket and
football reunions, when battles are fought over
again, have their attraction. In fact, every con-
course of healthy, wholesome sportsmen, whatever
be their particular form of sport, commands re-
spect. The war made soldiers of thousands and
thousands of these men. They had already
learned team work—it was instinctively part of
them—and discipline of a sterner nature came to
them as no hard lesson.
Other gatherings have their sponsors but to
me most human and friendly is a little group of

°

144 THE TROUT ARE RISING

fly-fishers, who, after a day in pursuit of trout or
grayling, at night gather in “slippered ease” in
the smoking room of the inn, fighting the day’s
battles over again, or prophesying good things for
the morrow. In this company I am at home.

It is the business of the host and his spouse
to make their guests comfortable, and for the most
part they succeed. The born landlord and land-
lady somehow manage to convey to each man a
satisfying feeling that he is a specially welcome
visitor under their roof. The guest who always
feels happy as he enters his favourite inn may
perhaps find a personal application of the
camaraderie which breathes through the lines of
the old toast—

“¢ Come in the evening, or come in the morning—
Come when you're looked for, or come without warning,

A thousand welcomes you’ll find here before you,
And the oftener you come here the more we'll adore you !”

Angler-guests, in their whole-time capacity as
anglers, are as a fact warmly welcome at the hotel.
Often this is so for their own sakes and person-
alities, but I have not been able to resist a suspicion
that part of their popularity is due to the
fact that they are generally out all day! Once
this was charmingly confirmed, One morning,
after the usual large packets of sandwiches in their
crinkly paper had been made up and duly appro-
priated, and all the anglers were supposed to have
departed to the waterside and in fact by now to
be busy at it, one angler, having forgotten some-
thing or other, returned to the hotel. He met

AT THE INN. 145

the landlady, cheery soul, who at once greeted
him with: “ There! and I thought I had packed
you all off for the rest of the day!” | grasped my
forgotten packet and fled !

Blessed be meadow and stream, which give
the hard-working landlady and her staff a chance
to get on with the day’s work !

Fishermen as a race seem to be trusted by the
landlord. I remember having a delightful and
successful holiday at a bungalow-hotel in Natal,
which lay on a height overlooking the Mooi
river. I had been fishing up to the very last
minute, and was leaving in a hurry ; in fact the
horses were inspanned already for the long journey.
“ Bill, please, landlord!” said I. “Oh,” replied
he, “‘ there’s no time now ; I'll post it on to you.”
“But,” I asked, ‘‘isn’t that rather risky ?”
“Never been done down by a fisherman yet,”
answered he. Who could help sending the
cheque very promptly when the bill arrived? It
made one feel that the honour of fishermen as a
race was at stake.

An amusing instance of easy-going trust in
fishermen occurred at a country hotel in the West
of England. At luncheon or dinner, when an
order for the bar was given, the guest would
expect to sign the usual chit. No chit was
forthcoming, though the refreshment soon was.
Asked about it, the waitress said, “Oh, you pay
in the bar afterwards.” You were never asked
definitely to pay for it, in the bar, or anywhere
else. Of course everybody made—or was supposed

L

146 THE TROUT ARE RISING

to make—a point of remembering and paying at
the bar on the way to the smoking room. But it
is possible to forget, not wilfully, but literally.
The cynic, who “ knows human nature,” may say
it was just a dodge to get customers into the bar,
to spend more money. But it wasn’t. There
was no sort of incitement, subtle or otherwise, to
such indulgence. The landlord was a prosperous
man, busy, and with a large trust in his fellows.
Told one day that guests must surely sometimes
forget to square up with the slate (not that one
existed), and thus not pay for these casual items
of refreshment at meals, all he said was: “ Well,
in that case it does them more harm than me.”
One can imagine what the manager of a London
cash-down stores would say! Anyhow, there it
was. It was very nice, too, to get a Christmas
card from that good landlord, though well over
half a year since the guest’s departure—time
enough, one would have thought, for passing
strangers to have been long forgotten.

Landlords and landladies have much scope
for observing human nature. Their guests,
with their comings and goings, fads and foibles,
must be to them a constant series of studies in
personality. One shrewd landlady in the north-
west of England said she could sum up the guests
at her hotel by the very way they entered. She
was still not pleased with those patrons who, when
the war was on, would come in and immediately
ask for the porter, “at a time when,” as she re-
called, “every fit man was away at the war, and

AT MINE INN

AT THE INN 147

we had to struggle along as best we could!”
Another landlady wanted a little more time to
size up humanity, and then she was confident.
“ Give me two days,” said she, “and I can tell
you all about their character, all about their
‘little ways’.” .
Queer characters turn up at hotels sometimes.
One, of whom I was told, remarked to the landlady
that she must not mind him, but he happened to be
a kleptomaniac. She, good soul, got it into her
head that this meant not being able to sleepat night,
and she expressed the hope that the fresh air would
soon make him better. Two or three days
afterwards the real meaning of the word flashed
across her, and at the same time she remembered
that a toast rack was missing. The visitor
happened to be out; so she paid a visit to his
bedroom. At the bottom of a drawer was the
toast rack, together with a few other pieces of
hotel property. These she withdrew, but other-
wise kept her counsel, saying nothing to anybody,
for she is not only wise, but also a great-hearted,
large-souled woman, Presumably the visitor had
missed the articles, for when he happened to pass
the room where the silver was all laid out (for the
usual cleaning) he said just one word to the
landlady : “Copped!” And that was the only
word that passed on the subject between him
and his hosts—except when, in the ordinary way,
he was leaving, and then he remarked to the land-
lord, as he was saying good-bye, “ And tell your
good wife not to worry, I’ve only got one spoon |”

148 THE TROUT ARE RISING

One landlord told me they did not get many
“orousers” at his fishing hotel. “If we do
chance on one,” he remarked, “‘ when he wants to
come again we are always full up!”

The name of the fishing inn is generally short,
not so lengthyas the Australian sign, “Come in and
see Wiggins!” The best name, perhaps, is that
which tells you where you are, such as Tushielaw
Inn, Cound Lodge Inn, Stokesay Castle Hotel, and
so forth, Then there is the Swan Hotel at Ten-
bury, with a picture of the bird, quite at its ease, on
the outside. It has sat so long that one wonders
whether there will ever be any cygnets. An illus-
tration of crossed-keys indicates the title of the
Cross Keys Hotel, whilst often a family name is
employed, such as the Crew and Harpur Arms
Hotel at Longnor, or the Arundell Arms Hotel,
Lifton, Some hotel names suggest queer adven-
tures, the “ Dog and Duck,” for instance ; or
the “Swan and Bottle.’’ Others may be heraldic,
like the “ Purple Goat.” Occasionally you get a
Trout Inn, an Angler’s Arms, and other piscatorial
titles. Cambridge men will remember the famous
Pike and Eel, while Oxford is not ignorant of the
Trout at Lechlade.

A shrewd business man once said he reckoned
it took as much brains for a housewife to run a
household well as for her husband to steer a busi-
ness organization. If this is so, then the landlady
of an hotel—a’ big house, indeed !—has to be
competent. Personality, too, is necessary. One
country hotel at which I stayed had twenty-five

AT THE INN 149

bedrooms, all coming under the landlady’s super-
vision ; she also saw to catering, cooking, and
general management. The husband was busy all
day with a big posting business, and a large
poultry farm. Everything in and connected
with this hotel seemed to go like clockwork.
A better hotel there could not be, speaking from
the guest’s rather than from the expert’s point of
view. Both host and hostess had not only capa-
bility but also personality. And that explained it.

I have before touched on the tendency of
certain people to “ crab everything.” Fair criticism
is all right, for facts have to be faced, but some
critics are apt to say only the unkind thing of any-
body, and to neglect the many opportunities when
a good word could be said honestly. Inns and
hotels are specially open to this sort of belittle-
ment. I count ita pleasure anda sporting duty to
put on record the fact that, after staying several
weeks at that hotel, I had never once in the town or
neighbourhood heard aught expressed concerning
the hostess but expressions of admiration and
sincere regard. She and her husband had brought
up a large family, and they had to mourn the
loss of a good son in the war; this was a sore
bereavement, but they suffered it bravely, and
went on with their work. Character, again! It
was quite a usual thing when one was shopping
and gave the address to which the parcels were to
be sent, to hear the shopkeeper remark : “Oh,
you're staying at the —— You'll get well looked
after there ; Mrs, —— will see to that.”

1so THE TROUT ARE RISING

The hotel charges were fair and reasonable.
The ordinary guest accepts the usual tariff cheer-
fully. One thing, however, he does not like ;
that is, in addition to a fair daily charge, to be
taxed one shilling extra for his bath, with
indifferent arrangements. It would do inns which
have such a system no harm to abolish it. In
general, except perhaps for such trifling matters as
pens—country inns seem to have the worst pens
in the world !—my testimony after experiences of
a considerable number of these inns would be
cheerfully and gratefully given, that they were
most clean and comfortable. And I have the
happiest memories of the personal kindness of
landlords and landladies, and their staffs. For
home comfort, I liked especially those inns which
had a little farm attached to them.

Sojourning in inns gives one ideas on the
subject of chairs.. It is not very common to find a
chair in which you feel you can sit down, after
dinner, not necessarily in luxury, but in comfort-
able ease. The traditional country inn chair
struck me as a stiff and formal affair, not
conducive to somnolence. But there was one
Shropshire hotel, whose lounge really possessed
CHAIRS. They were softly-embracing, sleep-
compelling chairs. I might have been in one of
them now, sweetly hibernating, but for a friend
who set me on to committing this book.

Tea-time is a great occasion for afriendly gather-
ing of all the guests attheinn. The jokes may be
small, but they thrive under the genial influence

AT THE INN 151

of the teapot. The ladies always seem to enjoy
the four o’clock muster. There was a wayside
inn which used to give us really delicious tea
after the day’s fishing in the late autumn afternoon,
before we went back to the hotel. We praised
it warmly one day. “Yes,” said the landlady,
“people often say how good it is! It’s the
quality of the water, though, that does it!”
Honest, modest people they are, in the country.

At one fishing inn, a railway line ran between
lawn and river, and this fact produced an
interesting daily occurrence, which could be
watched from an overlooking bedroom window.
The guard threw a daily paper out from his van,
and a water spaniel would regularly retrieve it,
and bring it indoors. Once the paper alighted
high up ina holly bush, and obstinately stuck
there! It quite upset the spaniel. He worried
and worried, but could not tackle the problem.
After an interval of over three years, I re-visited
that hotel, and hoped that the good old custom
still continued. Alas! the old dog had “gone
west,” and the paper now came by messenger.
It was a change from poetry to prose.

We had ascareat one hotel. Long faces greeted
the announcement that one of the guests, a lady,
had, it was feared, developed measles. The
doctor had just been, and he would say, definitely,
onthe morrow. The hotel was full and everybody
was miserable. Packing up was contemplated,
time-tables were studied. A brave attempt was
made to keep cheery. But measles are measles.

152 THE TROUT ARE RISING

Then there was a dire development. Somebody
said: “ Harry’s breaking out, too!” Harry is
the good landlady’s eldest son. For a big, sturdy
youth, who gained his commission in a crack
regiment for gallantry on the field of battle—he
did look downcast. “Look at the red spots
on his neck,” said somebody ; “why he’s got it
badly!” The gloom deepened sensibly. Then
somebody, looking a little closer at Harry’s red
spots, said suddenly: “Why! he’s been and
spotted himself with red ink : you can see it’s red
ink,” From the semblance of a weary old man,
Harry suddenly turned into the bright, vivacious
lad he is, and the proceedings terminated in a
mixture of abuse and laughter. And next day
the doctor was able to report that the lady guest
had not got measles after all !

IN THE SMOKING ROOM

“A laugh is just like sunshine
For cheering folks along.”
A Menory.

XIII
IN THE SMOKING ROOM

HAT delightful companions has one

\ \ / met at this little out-of-the-way hotel,

at that cosy riverside inn, to which

one had gone, not knowing a soul.

It is rare for an angler at a fishing inn not to

make friends with others of the brotherhood who

are staying there. The smoking room is a rare
cementer of friendships.

Among many good fellows whom I have met
in this way I often think of that excellent angler,
the Major, who has figured before in these pages.
The Major, by his way of doing things and by
his personality, makes friends wherever he goes.
It is part of his nature. In two days in a fishing
village he gets to know almost every man in the
place. In three days his reputation for kindness
is established. In four, he is quoted as an
authority: “The Major says” this, or “ the
Major says” that. Not that he says very much ;
on the contrary, he is a listener. When any one
tells him anything, the speaker is made to feel he
is the only man in the world.

Part of the Major’s equipment when trout

156 THE TROUT ARE RISING

fishing is a small hatchet, which he bought in
New Zealand. If you are fishing and get caught
up in a branch, a common misadventure, and if
the Major is handy, you will suddenly hear a
cheery voice singing out, “ Don’t you worry.”
He is promptly alongside with his little hatchet,
and, with the persevering precision of a wood-
pecker, he strikes blow after blow at the offending
branch until down it comes, cast and flies all
saved. One evening on the Lid in Devonshire
he retrieved seven flies, including a cast, for a
friend. Two years before, in Somersetshire, he
spent the best part of a morning cutting down
obstructing branches, so that the fishing might be
easier for others. He was then doing but little
fishing himself as he was recovering from an
operation. We spent about two months together
in various parts of England and Scotland, and
much hearty laughter do I owe to him.

The Major’s humorous experiences and stories
are well worth hearing. One, I remember, related
to the town crier of a little Welsh town, who had
given out, in Welsh, that some farmer had lost
six sheep. He then proceeded to interpret it
into English. It ran something like this (would
that the type could reproduce tone and accent !) :
“This is to give notice that Farmer ——-— has
lost six sheeps ; not the sheeps that sails on the
seas, look you! but the sheeps that you see
feeding on the grasses |”

The Major never seemed to monopolize the
company ; rather, the company monopolized him.

IN THE SMOKING ROOM 157

Somebody or other would ask him if, when he
missed a big trout, he addressed the surrounding
air in fluent Welsh. ‘Ah, that is not amongst
my accomplishments,” he would reply, “unless I
am hard put to it. . . . By the way, did you ever
hear about the two Welsh colliers coming back
from work? When crossing a bridge they saw
two men fighting below. One of the colliers,
pointing to the two men, said: ‘And who is that
down by there 1 shouldn’t wonder?’ And his
mate replied: ‘ Well, indeed, I do not know, so
they do tell me!’”” The Major was encored for
this, and he proceeded: ‘Then there is the tale
of a Welsh mate in a windjammer, having some
trouble with a young hand. The mate said to
the lad: ‘Come here, Di Jones, come here, you
little rascal ; I was tell you six or five times once
before that your face was like a mice, and if I
run you | will overtake you till I catch you, and
I will smack your back before your face.’””

One evening, at an hotel largely filled with
grayling fishermen, I fell in with rather a character.
He had just come back from military service
abroad, and was soon off to India on some
Government work. Saying he was anxious to
send his son to a good public school at home, he
asked if anybody could tell him of a really good
school. Everybody seemed interested in the
intellectual quest. A learned man said that at
one school, in addition to a sound all-round
education, the classics received special attention.
‘No, I don’t want the classics,” said he. Other

158 THE TROUT ARE RISING

schools, some of the best in the land, were men-
tioned, one by one. None seemed to satisfy.
The father’s anxiety appeared great. All were
only too desirous to help in a case so deserving
of the -loftiest advice. A stage further was
advanced. The father announced that what he
really wanted was a school where they gave the
boys beer and plenty of Rugby football. Beer
there must be, he insisted, ‘This rather puzzled
the intellectuals. It was an item which they had
not seriously considered. They-could all tell him
of schools where Rugby football was played indeed,
but of a school where home-brewed beer was dis-
pensed, as part of the curriculum, they could not
be sure. The father stuck to his point. ‘Let
the lad have a little beer at school with plenty of
Rugby football, and then he will have to look
after himself,” he said. Somebody inquired:
“And how old is your son now, sir?”’ The
reply was unexpected: “At present the lad is
two years old.” The company decided that the
matter was not pressing.

Generally, when March browns, red palmers
and all the rest of it have had their due in the
way of conversation in the smoking room after
dinner, somebody branches off into humorous
reminiscences. A good many have stayed in my
memory.

One concerned a revival meeting. A man
down at heel, but possessed of extraordinary inner
fervour, kept saying in a loud voice: ‘ Amen.
Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!” A lady next to

IN THE SMOKING ROOM - 159

him whispered gently that she could well under-
stand his being touched by such beautiful prayers,
but could he, please, try and keep silence? If
so, she would present him with a new pair of
boots. The man responded: “Thank you,
mum, I will try; I will indeed!” He strove
valiantly. You could imagine him holding him-
self back, straining at the leash like a greyhound.
At last something was said which touched the
man’s heart particularly. It was toomuch. Arms
uplifted, up he jumped triumphantly, exclaiming
with a voice that penetrated through the whole
building : “ Boots or no boots—Praise the Lord !
Hallelujah !”

Another story belongs to war time at Charing
Cross underground station : a lad was to be seen
whowas somewhat vague as tohis surroundings; he
had celebrated at least one birthday too many. A
sympathetic passer-by in mufti spoke to him and
inquired where his camp lay. The lad managed
to tell him, and the man went off to ascertain
the platform and the time of the train. He then
hurried back to the khaki lad, who still looked
very helpless. ‘Come along, my lad,” said he
cheerily, “ we have to go to No, —— platform, the
train will soon be in!” At the bottom of the
stairs the friend in need met a porter, to whom he
briefly explained matters. The porter, good
fellow, understood, and said: “ Leave him to me,
sir, I'll see him in the train all right ; why, here’s
his very train just coming in, and it will put him
down just by his camp! Come along, my lad,

160 THE TROUT ARE RISING

with me!” said he. The man who had safely
steered the lad along was touched by the railway-
man’s human kindness, and just as the lad was
being put into the train, he said, “ Thank you
very much, indeed!” Whereupon the patient
turned round, and with an old-world courtesy, said
to his original rescuer : “ Ye’re verra welcome !”’

Fishing lends itself peculiarly to the kindly
grace of humour. There is a special type of
angling joke. The “Come inside!” of Punch is,
of course, a classic—a classic with honour in its
own country, moreover. As a guest at the Fly
Fishers’ Club in Piccadilly the other day, when
looking round those wonderful walls, I caught
sight of the old familiar illustration and text, duly
framed. There is a pleasant anecdote (its printed
source unknown to me) of an angler, engaged
with his third bottle of beer, remarking, “There
is this to be said about fishing: it does keep a
man out of the public-houses.” In the Trans-
vaal two men were bottom-fishing for yellow fish.
One said he liked his friend’s float, with its ver-
milion tip. It looked cheerful in the landscape.
His friend replied : ‘ It looks much more cheerful
when you cannot see it at all!” Once, when I
was fly-fishing in South Africa in company with a
Natal policeman, it came on to rain hard and we
were both nearly drenched. ‘ Anyhow,” I said,
“it will do good for the farmers!” “Yes, but
I’m not a farmer!” quoth he. The humorist
who takes to rod and line generally gets going.
I remember one, on being told to throw in some

IN THE SMOKING ROOM 161

ground bait, inquiring whether a few old menu-
cards would do. He was later informed he was
fishing too deep. “No,” said he, “it’s the fish
that are too deep!”

At the fishing hotel, especially when the even-
ings are soon dark, as in early spring or in autumn,
a move may be made from the smoking-room to
the drawing-room for some music, “sometimes
part-singing, part not,” as a professional humorist
once declared. When, as sometimes happens,
one of the guests has a good voice and knows
how to use it, he finds a very appreciative
audience in the anglers together assembled,
especially if any of them have their families with
them too. Good melodious music is somehow
very grateful after one has spent a day in the open
air. It is not, of course, always easy to get the
musical evening properly going. George Gros-
smith, the elder, summed up the difficulties.
“Those who can sing,” he said, “ won’t sing.
While those who can’t sing will!” But at the inn
the trouble is chiefly with those who can and
won't, The hotel piano is sometimes both good
and regularly tuned, and then it is a joy. Often,
alas! it needs the dentist! But the saddest
experience I ever had was in the Sudan. I was
told there was a piano at a club, and thither I
hastened as soon as I was off duty, anxious to
get my hands on the keys. Something was amiss,
however. The piano was quite dumb. I learnt
that the wires had been taken out to make traces
for fishing !

M

THE CHANCE ENCOUNTER

“Chance serves you everywhere; keep your hook always in
the water. ‘There will bea fish in the eddy where you least
expect it.”

Ovip.

XIV
THE CHANCE ENCOUNTER

HETHER one is fishing or not, when
in a part of country hitherto un-
visited, one is sure to come across
matters of interest. The local colour

of new places is so vivid to the stranger that he
finds it hard to realize that dullness is to be found
there as elsewhere. To him the everyday life of
the people is attractive, there is history to be
related of town or village, and glorious open-air
country is at hand. Perhaps most fascinating is
the prospect of a happy chance meeting. The man
to whom human nature appeals is always having
chance meetings, which may ripen into lifelong
friendships.

I shall ever be grateful to the chance meeting
which gave me the acquaintance of the Major who
figures so prominently in these pages. We came
across each other casually at Dulverton, exchanged
a few words two or three times, and met just once
on the river bank. I was greatly interested in
his enormous album containing photographs,
which he himself had taken: it was obvious he
had been in many parts of the world. Rivers at

166 THE TROUT ARE RISING

home, on the continent, many pictures of New
Zealand waters and incidents, scenes in the South
Sea Islands—it was the record of a mighty
traveller. Though I had seen comparatively
little of him the Major and his travels stayed in
my memory.

Then, after the war, we met unexpectedly
again at a little hotel in Devonshire. I bless the
day. The memory of those two or three little
chats at Dulverton two years previously seemed
to have made us old friends—that is one of the
charms of angling, if you please—and all through
the season we fished much together, for chance
brought us together on other occasions,

So long as he is by a river the Major is
happy. Now and again he would not fish, but
would come with me, and watch, and if he could
put his little New Zealand hatchet to good use
he was indeed a boy at school. Be it said, though,
that he never used it to do damage, only to repair
disaster. When he came as spectator, his com-
panionship was quite an education. It was never
superior, patronizing knowledge he threw at one.
Patronage is not pleasant ; indeed it is insuffer-
able. But good-humoured chaff, such as he gave
me, was both interesting and useful. I would
throw over a rising fish, and when it rose to my
fly I would strike—maybe a fraction of a second
too late. The Major would remark : “ Promising
style, just a trifle too late ; exactly three minutes,
twenty seconds too late. I timed you by my
watch!” I gave him plenty of occasion for such

THE MAJOR OF THIS BOOK

THE CHANCE ENCOUNTER 167

comment, I fear. But once, happily when he
was watching me, I made a really good cast over
a rising trout, just under an overhanging bough.
The fish rose, was hooked, and played to. the net,
which he handled for me himself. Altogether
not a discreditable performance, which caused him
(in a weak moment !) to exclaim, “I must say
you did that very well!” His words of approval
echo pleasantly in my ear to this day, A parson,
a brother of the angle, once said to me, at a little
riverside inn in Scotland, “It is the little things
in life that are so important.” That Lancashire
vicar had keen insight into human affairs. We
are apt to get touchy when the wrong thing is
said, huffed when our sense of importance is (as
we think) assailed ; our nerves are likely to be
ruffled when somebody or other seems all out of
sympathy with our (of course correct) attitude.
Contrariwise, we cherish—there is a lot of human
nature in man, to quote the old saying—the golden
word, said at the right moment. I think the
charm, the value, of the Major’s companionship
was that he never laughed at, but always with
one. The Major would describe himself as “a
hard case.” Yet he took me across the street
one day on seeing a poor cripple whom he had
got to know. “Come along,” he said, “we
must go and have a talk to that old man; he
likes any one to have a word with him.” Then
there was the day on which we were due to fish
on one of the choicest trout waters in England,
He received word that an old friend of his was

168 THE TROUT ARE RISING

seriously ill. We were two hundred and fifty
miles away from London at the time, but ignoring
both fishing and distance, the Major went off
by the next train to see his old friend. These
things were typical of the man; and it would
be typical of him, if he knew what I was saying
about him, to ejaculate, “You blithering idiot !
Cut it out !”

One never knew, in the course of a long
holiday, what interesting personality one would
meet, either when fishing or when seeing the
country. Calling one day at a hotel on the Welsh
border, I found that the host was formerly a
member of the Metropolitan police force ; testi-
monials and addresses on the walls showed good
work done. At another hotel, in the neighbour-
hood of which the rivers Lugg and Arrow meet,
I was struck by the musical speaking voice of the
landlord. I later remarked on this to a friend,
who told me that mine host used to be a member
of Lincoln’s Inn choir, that he afterwards joined
the Temple choir; and that he had sung at the
coronations of King Edward and King George.

Another landlord, of an inn in a Shropshire
town, was one of the best fishermen in the town
and district, and he was also the possessor of quite
a valuable collection of antiques. He loved his
collection, and though he had been offered two
thousand pounds for the contents of one room,
he could not part with the things. They “be-
longed” to him. In collecting them, year after
year, in arranging them, and tending them—as

THE CHANCE ENCOUNTER 169

a devoted gardener tends his plants—he had made
them part of himself. Each time I went to that
delightful town I visited his spotless little inn to
enjoy the atmosphere of the past which the
landlord’s talk as much as his collection recon-
structed so vividly. One day while we were
chatting he suddenly noticed a figure in another
room, ‘Ah, gentlemen, come along into this
room,” said he, “here is a living piece worth all
these relics put together !’’ We went into the
other room, and the landlord said : “‘ Now look at
this dear old lady!” Truth to tell she was a
goodly sight. Her age was great, her face
“wrinkled, but still rosy.’ The landlord con-
tinued : “She is actually ninety-three years old.
She lives by herself, walks into Ludlow by her-
self, does her own needlework, her own reading
and writing, all without glasses, and she has a
cottage as clean as any palace ; and now, granny,”
he said, turning to her, but evidently forgetting
her deafness, “ will you kindly tell these gentle-
men how as a _ girl you remember seeing
Queen Victoria when she came to Ludlow!”
Granny looked up at him, and replied, very
sweetly : “I'll have a glass of port wine, if you
please.”

Sometimes at an hotel, when you are just
doing up your tackle, ready for a long day, a
stranger who is preparing to go out and do the
day’s work for which he has specially come into
the district, looks longingly at the rod and basket,
and is evidently with you in spirit, I always

170 THE TROUT ARE RISING

think it a good omen if some one in this way
wishes me “Good luck!” or “ Tight lines !” or
“Hope you'll have sport!” And it often
happens, for angling is productive of much good-
will and fellowship. One morning, just as I was
starting out in waders, a stranger remarked,
cordially : ‘“‘ Wish I were coming with you!”
Obviously, he was a fisherman. I found later
that this was the case. Formerly a distinguished
barrister, he was now a County Court judge, and
he was there on his circuit. It was a human
touch, “ Wish I were coming with you!”

I remember a similar expression of quick
sympathy of much older date. It was in the old
reporting days in Johannesburg, when I was
“‘ diarized,” as the phrase is, to report a sermon
by one of the Church of England mission which
came to South Africa in 1904. It was a sermon
worth listening to, and worthy of the space the
Press gave to it. In the vestry I had to see the
preacher afterwards. He remarked on the variety
of a reporter’s life, and I confessed that I had not
expected to be doing a sermon. I had, in fact,
hoped to be at the big boxing encounter that night
at the Wanderers. “I should very much have
liked to be there myself,” said he. Afterwards,
I learned that he had been a great boxer at
Oxford! If his attainments in that direction
were as powerful as his preaching, he was a host
to reckon with. .

What angler does not retain happy memories
of “the friendly lift” which is the result of a

THE CHANCE ENCOUNTER 171

chance encounter? Last October three of us,
walking to our fishing ground, were overtaken by
a horse and carriage. A genial “Jump in,
gentlemen !”’ greeted us. Wejumped in. We
chatted gaily, and the distinguished-looking man
who had put his carriage at our disposal made us
thoroughly at our ease. He put us down near
our fishing beat. It appeared that this was one
of the big landowners of the district. Thank
you, squire, from three strangers in the land !”
Some people, travelling life’s round, seem rarely
to run across old friends in unexpected places
or to renew old acquaintances just by accident.
But the world is a small parish after all, and to
others of us chance meetings seem to be a matter
of course. We are always knocking-up un-
expectedly against somebody whom we have
met before or who has come from, or been in,
similar parts. I have come across Shropshire
folk all over South Africa, even on the borders
of Swaziland. A Scotsman of my acquaintance—
now a leading architect in South Africa—was
going over a mine on the Rand with a party
of friends. Underground he came across a miner
whom he felt sure he had met somewhere before.
A few questions confirmed it. In the miner the
architect had recognized an old acquaintance from
his own village in Fifeshire, though he had no
idea that he had come to South Africa. He
remembered, too, that the miner used to have
a beautiful tenor voice, and that one of his
favourite solos was ‘ If with all our hearts ” from

172, THE TROUT ARE RISING

“ Elijah.” He asked his old acquaintance if he
would sing it to them, which he did there and
then. I wonder how many people have heard
that glorious aria ringing out in the bowels of the
earth !

WHEN LADIES FISH

“Woman, once made equal to man, becomes his superior.”
SocraTEs.

‘For a generous rival, commend me to a woman.”
Dr. Henry Van Dyxg, in “ Little Rivers.”

XV
WHEN LADIES FISH

N my wanderings 1 have come across a good
many ladies who are skilled in fishing, and
from the pages of the sporting papers I
deduce that women are taking to the sport
in ever-increasing numbers, while their success
with both trout and salmon is proportionate to
their zeal. Indeed some of the most important
entries on the “big fish list” have ladies’ names
against them. South Africa has had its lady
anglers. Miss Rhodes, sister of Mr. Cecil
Rhodes, fished regularly from a little boat in
Kalk Bay, near Capetown. Lady Farrar used
to fish with her husband in Durban harbour, and
they used to take me with them sometimes, I
well remember her getting into a big one once.
As it was evidently a monster I carefully timed
the play. After fifty-five minutes, however, the
fish got off. It was probably a skate, These
brutes sometimes take well over an hour to bring
to boat. I thought the angler’s wrist would have
given out, but she held on, enjoyed every minute
of it, and, when the fish got off, behaved like a
true sportsman.

176 THE TROUT ARE RISING

Prominent among lady anglers is Mrs, R. B.
Marston, which is very fitting considering her
husband’s position in the fishing world. Indeed
he says she is the keenest fisher he has ever met—
and he must have met quiteafew ! Mrs. Marston
delights in dry-fly fishing, watching for rises in
the approved manner and observing what Mrs.
Battle called “the rigour of the game.” “The
weather does not matter to her, and the difficulty
is to get her away from the water when she is out
with rod and line.” Her daughters are anglers
too.

Some women throw a very pretty fly. I
watched a lady fishing on Torquay reservoir last
year, and admired the way in which she handled
a three-quarter pound trout. I admired also the
ease with which she cast. She did it equally well,
it seemed to me, with either hand. Ambi-
dexterity in fishing is not only admirable, but also
of physical benefit; obviously, the muscles get
relief.

Once when wet-fly fishing in Natal I essayed
seriously to throw with the left hand. Being
naturally right-handed, I found my left awkward,
but I got along pretty well and made fair practice.
But the thing was spoilt by the periodical convic-
tion that at certain spots I was sure to get a good
rise—and then almost unconsciously back went
the rod to the right hand! In England, last
year, I sometimes threw with the left hand, but I
found myself afflicted with the same tendency to
trust only the right hand in times of need. Asa

WHEN LADIES FISH La7

fact never have I risen a trout when casting with
the left hand. I recognize clearly that it is
advantageous to be able to throw with either
hand, and the lady of the reservoir—I never knew
her name—showed me how it could be done.

Fishing has somehow always been associated
with singing in my mind, and it struck me that it
would be interesting to find out whether any of
the leading lady singers were also attracted by a
sport which is beloved by Mr. Plunket Greene
and other famous male artists of song. There-
fore, I asked Mrs. Francis Muecke (Madame
Ada Crossley) whether she had ever been an
angler. “Yes,” said this fine artist and very
charming Australian lady—“I used to go deep-
sea fishing as a girl in Gippsland; we used to ride
to the Ninety Mile Beach, about sixteen miles
away from my old home—of course every
Australian rides! We always had wonderful
sport, and we girls just loved the riding, the deep-
sea fishing, and the fun of it all!” At the same
time, I asked her husband, Mr. Francis Muecke,
also an Australian, whether he had ever plied rod
and line, and he spoke with glee of an occasion
on which he went trout-fishing—on a river near
King’s Lynn—and caught two trout, “and, what
is more,” said the genial surgeon, “they were
sizeable, by which I mean eatable!” I hope my
good friends, Mr. and Mrs. Muecke, will take up
fishing on their next Scottish holiday.

The musical profession no doubt numbers a
good many other lady anglers. That great

N

178 THE TROUT ARE RISING

contralto, Dame Clara Butt, for instance, is very
fond of fishing, a taste which she shares with
her husband, Mr. Kennerley Rumford. She had
great fortune the first time she tried, in Norway,
whither she and her husband went for their
honeymoon. In the first quarter of an hour she
hooked a salmon, kept her head, played it and
had the satisfaction of landing it in forty minutes,
twenty-eight pounds, and “a very fine first
effort” as her husband observed with just pride.
Mr. and Mrs. Kennerley Rumford do not, I fear,
get so much fishing as they would like, so heavy
are the demands made upon their time by the
concert platform. But the keenness is there.
And their two sons love fishing also, as a part of
an enthusiasm for sport generally.

Miss Carmen Hill, daintiest of mezzo-
sopranos, sent a charming reply to my inquiries,
“When first I began fishing I think I had the
usual beginner’s luck and caught a few trout, but
I think I loved the peace and rest which the
whole day in the open air gives one rather than
the actual fishing. My jimest catch was at
Dubhgharadh in Isle of Arran, where I spent a
week about two years ago, and there I caught a
lovely trout, weighing nearly three pounds (two
pounds fourteen ounces, to be exact), and several
others from a half-pound to three-quarters of a
pound, but I am afraid it is much more luck with
me than good management! 1 couldn’t tell you
now what flies I used!”

It was very pleasant in various places to find

WHEN LADIES FISH 179

husbands and wives in sympathy on fishing
holidays. In Devonshire in the spring of 1919
one married couple used to go off together every
day. On reaching the water they would go their
several ways, meeting to compare notes at.lunch-
time or in the evening. This had long been
their invariable custom. The lady, of course,
depended on herself for landing fish and every-
thing. Devonshire streams are well suited to
ladies who fish by themselves. The trout there
run small and do not take so much landing or
unhooking as the pounders or two-pounders of
chalk-stream districts, though it would be hard to
find fault with their sporting qualities.

The husband of a wife who fishes ought, I
think, to be a pretty good hand at it himself.
I knew of one sad case in which a man was
always urging his wife to fish. At last she took
his advice, and applied herself to the art seriously.
She happened to be a very clever woman and in
course of time she not only equalled her adviser
in skill but surpassed him in basket. The last
state of that man was that he gave up fishing and
was to be seen meekly accompanying his wife as
she fished. She allowed him to carry her landing
net !

In Scotland I met a honeymoon couple who
had angling gear with them. He was an ex-
perienced fisherman, she a novice. They were a
happy couple, but fishing was too much for them,
and once they had begun they got so interested
and absorbed that they were very soon out of sight

18 THE TROUT ARE RISING

of each other. The newly married might do worse
than follow their example, for such partings mean
all the more happy meetings. I don’t think she
caught anything, but she got rises from trout,
here and there, and she was very ambitious to
land one some day. This couple had come from
England to Scotland by motor-bicycle, and the
side-car enabled them to get from the hotel to
the best fishing grounds conveniently and quickly.

Great is the pride of the sportsman who sees
his son bring down his first pheasant, or bowl
over his first rabbit. I think it must be so
equally with the fond father whose daughter gets
her first fish. One father not long ago related in
The Field the achievement of his daughter, a
young lady of nineteen, who hooked a salmon on
the Don and played it unaided for five hours and
forty minutes! It was a fish of twenty-six
pounds.

A friend of mine in Birmingham sent me an
interesting account of his young daughter’s first
trout, a three-quarter-pounder caught on the first
day she had a rod all her own. “ With regard
to my daughter catching the three-quarter pound
trout: I had taught her to fish a few times when
I had been going for chub from a boat on the
Avon, but she had not had a rod of her own
until the day she caught this particular fish, We
had been fishing on a July afternoon on the
Warwickshire Blyth, each independently, and at
4.30 1 called her to come to tea at a cottage. On
the way there was a fair hole in the stream, and I

WHEN LADIES FISH 181

asked her to cast a fly on it; I-wanted to see how
she was progressing. The fly was an olive, fished
dry. Her first two casts were good, and the fly
floated down nicely, with its wings cocked. I
said, ‘ Well done,’ and at the next cast, after the
fly had floated about two feet, up came a trout,
which she hooked. Seeing that the fish was
going for the roots of a tree, I took the rod and
held the trout till I had reeled in the line taut.
I then handed back the rod to my daughter, and,
after the trout had jumped out of the water twice,
I got the landing net under him, and his tale was
told,”

A London fishing-tackle manufacturer told
me the other day of what happened with a fly-
rod bought from his establishment by a father for
his little daughter. She had seen men fly-fishing
on her father’s stream, and she herself became
keen on learning to throw the fly. The kind
father therefore bought her a new fly-rod, to be
all her very own, also the necessary reel, line,
cast, flies, basket, and landing net. Next morning
he had to go away, but he put the rod and line
together, and completely equipped the little angler
for her first attempt at fly-fishing that morning.
When he returned home in the afternoon he
was greeted by his beaming daughter with: ‘‘ Oh,
daddy ! I caught a trout with that rod you gave
me! It gave me such sport, and it just sent me
hot and cold, all over, until it was landed! It
was simply splendid, daddy, and do come and
look at the trout!” One can imagine the whole-

182 THE TROUT ARE RISING

some look, the clear complexion, the bright eyes
of a little girl revelling in the open air, catching
her first trout.

It is a picture I prefer to that of the girl who
was lunching with two other ladies at a table near
mine in a London restaurant. Between two
courses she produced a bag, from which she.sud-
denly extracted a small looking-glass. The result
of careful inspection was the adjustment of a few
wisps of hair. Afterwards out of the bag came a
powder puff, which was duly and artistically
employed. I rather enjoyed the observation of
one of the other ladies who had been watching all
this. “I say, Gertie, haven’t you brought your
tooth-brush ?”

Another instance of fisherwoman’s luck occurs
to me. It was on the Mooi river in Natal. The
family came down to the river where I was fish-
ing, and my host and his two daughters threw a
fly for the first time. Fishing had not much
appealed to them, although they delighted to see
their guests having sport and being happy. But
this time they had a try. Before long my host
got a small trout, and then came an excited call,
‘“Oh! I’ve got one!” from one of the daughters,
With a light fly-rod and a Hardy’s favourite the
fair angler had hooked what was obviously a good
trout. She made an appeal for the rod to be
taken over, but this was firmly vetoed. It is a
sound principle for each angler to catch his or her
own first fish, unless, as in the case mentioned
before, it is making for tree-roots, when a little

WHEN LADIES FISH 183

assistance is permissible. But here was a clear
field, and no need for favour. “I’m sure the
rod will break!” said she. ‘Never mind if it
does!” Oh, but I shall lose the fish!” she
exclaimed, only to be told that “those who
hook a trout must catch it or lose it.”

So the lady, proving an apt pupil, kept her
head and a tight line, with the rod well up,
letting the trout have a run when he insisted on
it, and reeling-in when possible. At last, after
many hopes and fears, the net was slipped under
a fish which, when weighed at the farmstead,
amidst the congratulations of the family to the
successful fisherwoman, turned the scales at one
pound three ounces,

Perhaps I cannot close this chapter better than
by showing that ladies are able not only to catch
trout but also to write charmingly about the
sport. I venture to quote the following extract
from an article entitled “ A Day on the Stour,”
which appeared in the fishing Gazette. It is
proof positive.

“The hours passed, the shadows lengthened; sheep
gathered round me as if attracted by some family likeness,
which rudeness on their part I was far too dejected to resent.
At last I knew it was time to return to the inn. I was
beaten, defeated. The glorious opportunity of being the first
woman who had ever caught a fish on these waters was for
ever gone. One more attempt I would make over the shiny
green stuff by the bank, and then I must go, Whir-r-r!
away rushed my line, round and round flew my reel, I
nearly fell into the water at the suddenness of the occurrence,
but, as yards of my line disappeared rapidly, so did my

184. THE TROUT ARE RISING

despondency. I was all alertness and keenly alive to the
necessity of calm behaviour and cool action. Oh! the excite-
ment of such amoment! The fears, the hopes, the thousand
tremors that make each moment appear an age! Would my
slender rod bear the strain? Would the fish reach the rapids
beyond, or perhaps dive under the bridge and break my line?
What if, after all, I should lose it! It is so difficult in such
cases to convince your absent friends of the great size of the
lost fish. Oh! joy! The trout at last shows signs of
exhaustion. Nowis the time to be cautious. At last I could
sing victory! For the glorious creature was lying on the grass
at my feet, while I stood gazing with rapture on the very best
fish ever taken from the Stour with a fly. I make this state-
ment in the full assurance that there is not a single member of
the association who will venture to contradict me.”

BLANKS AND TROUBLES

“ Give me a supple fly-rod, equip me in all respects in light
marching order, introduce me to a few miles of stream that
meanders through flowery mead and leafy dell ; that now rolls
dark and deep and anon splashes and foams over stones and
shallows ; that at every bend opens up a new prospect ; that
brings me here to a rustic, weather-browned footbridge, and
there to a ford through which the ploughman or harvestman
takes his team; or to a simple hamlet, perfumed with wood
fire, thatch and homeliness, where morning newspapers are
unknown ; thence into the sheltered glade, and, by smiling
homestead, away from the haunts of man; give me all this
on a day when the larks sing loud and untiringly, and the
insects rehearse in happy chorus; when ‘waves of shadow’
pass over the glad fields and woods, and all God’s beautiful
earth seems to murmur in grateful softness of spirit—give me
this and you present to me one of the masterful attractions of
what has been so appropriately termed the ‘ contemplative
man’s recreation.’ I shall like it all the better, to be sure,
if my fly be not cast upon the water in vain; but in no case
shall I bewail the day as a positive blank.”

Wi tiam Senior (Red Spinner), “ Waterside Sketches.”

XVI
BLANKS AND TROUBLES

FTER reading such persuasive words as
A those which are quoted from “Red
Spinner’s” “ Waterside Sketches,” none
of us should complain overmuch even if
we have caught no fish to-day. ‘Red Spinner”
says all that can be said concerning a day in the
country when the tally of fish caught stands at
nil, but when the surroundings have been
beautiful and the spirit has been refreshed and
strengthened. But there are blanks and blanks.
Those discussed in the following pages are mostly
of the second kind !

I think that one of the worst blank days is
one not caused by your fishing merits or de-
merits, but by such a malign chance as causes you,
when you have gone miles to fish and are safely
arrived, to find that you have left your reel behind
you. It adds to the blankness if the car which
brought you has departed and is already out of
sight before you discover the fatal fact. One
worthy angler at a Devonshire hotel had a tre-
mendous tramp back to get his forgotten reel and
it took a large piece out of the day’s fishing.

188 THE TROUT ARE RISING

The Major, too, had a sad experience. He and
I had a permit for a day on a strictly preserved
water, and the old pony in the jingle landed us,
supremely happy, in the forenoon at a spot about
seven miles from home. We were just about to
put our tackle together, when the Major ex-
claimed : “There! I’ve left my fishing bag, with
my reel, casts, and all my flies, behind at the
hotel, or dropped it on the road.” We came to
the conclusion it could not possibly have dropped
out of the jingle. The Major rose to great
heights. He was philosophical and would not
hear of my going back. “You go on with the
fishing, old chap, and I’ll be back in the after-
noon.” So off he drove, and I, feeling heavy-
hearted and somewhat selfish, went on fishing.
But the trout were rising, and I fear I did not
let my uneasy conscience prevent me from taking
advantage of the fact. Three or four hours later
he returned with his fishing bag, and he had rare
sport after all ; indeed, by 7 p.m., when we started
for home, he had nearly caught me up. The old
pony that day had done nearly thirty miles. If
there are such things as stable prayers a petition
surely went up that night, “. .. and please do
not let these fly-fishermen be so careless again,
for my feet still ‘vex me’” (as they say in
Wales).

Another angler told me that once when he got
to the waterside he discovered he had left his reel
behind him, and was correspondingly depressed.
However, he betook him to the water-bailiffs

BLANKS AND TROUBLES 189

cottage hard by, thinking he might perhaps have
the good fortune to borrow one, else would his
day’s fishing be lost. The water-bailiff was in.
“Qh, yes,” said he, “I can lend you a reel, and
a line on it, with pleasure ; in fact, I always keep
a spare one by me for you gentlemen who leave
your own behind. It’s surprising the number
who come to borrow it, and” (he added diplo-
matically) “they always return it to me.”

Various devices are employed to ensure not
forgetting things, I wish it were possible, in
buying a reel, to make a point with the tackle-
merchant that the article purchased shall be one
that will never leave itself behind. I like to put
my reel into my fishing bag, and to keep it there
when not in use. Then it is always there. The
danger, of course, is when you are cleaning and
oiling it overnight, or if you have run off line to
dry. In either case, when the job is done, the
wise procedure is to put the reel back at once
into the fishing bag, which one should habitually
have handy. ‘To extract the reel from the bag in
the hall, and to leave the bag there, while the
reel is placed on the mantelpiece in the smoking-
room, perhaps some distance away, is fatal. Some
fishermen, before starting out in the morning,
catechise themselves thus :

HaveI my . . Rod?
HaveI my . . Reel and line?
HaveI my . . Cast box, with cast or casts,

and damping pads?
HaveI my . . Fly case and flies?

1909 THE TROUT ARE RISING

HaveI my . - Odourless paraffin and line
greaser?

HaveI my . . Fishing bag?

HaveI my . . Landing net?

HaveI my . . Waders ?

HaveI my . . Wading socks ?

HaveI my . . Brogues?

HaveImy . . Sandwiches ?

HaveI my . . Refreshment ?

Once, when I was fishing the Onny in Shrop-
shire, I had, not a blank day, but a day which
looked like having a blank in it. I had forgotten
my luncheon ; and I did not realize it until I was
miles away from the hotel. The sandwiches I
knew had been carefully put ready for me, but, in
the rush of starting and with the car waiting to
take me to the waterside, I had omitted to pick
them up. After a hard morning’s fishing in air
which acts like a tonic, the ministry of the interior
reminds one if luncheon has been missed. It was
about 2 o'clock. I might, perhaps, have lit a fire
and done a trout to a turn—for some nice trout
had been caught—but trout by itself lacks some-
thing. I set off to explore the resources of the
country.

Coming at last to a cottage by the roadside
I approached it. By the garden gate was a little
maid of about fourteen, hard at work, her face
“like morning roses newly washed with dew.”
Would she, I entreated, please go and ask mother
if she could kindly supply a passing fisherman
with a little bread and butter and a cup of tea, as
he had forgotten to bring his luncheon? Off

BLANKS AND TROUBLES 191

went the little lass to the cottage, returning soon
with a white-clothed tray, on which were dainty
biscuits and a steaming cup of tea. All soon
disappeared. The little caterer evidently observed
that there was a rustic appetite to be appeased, for
she said: “If you will come up into the cottage,
sir, I will lay the cloth for you, and you can have
a proper meal.” “But,” I said, “will it be
convenient for your mother?” ‘My mother’s
dead, sir,” was the simple reply.

I went. The dear little girl soon had the
cloth laid, and a simple but an appetizing meal on
the table. It was a time when the rationing
difficulty was not yet solved, and I said : “ But what
about your father?” “Oh,” replied she, “he’s
at work in the fields, and I’ve plenty of food for
him.” She was ready at every turn, this good,
capable, little hostess.

I asked her if she ought not to be careful
before letting strangers come into the cottage.
“Oh,” answered she, cutting more bread and
butter, “I feel quite safe; besides there’s a gun
in the next room!”

So, thus entertained, I made up for the missing
luncheon and, on leaving, handed over a few
shillings as a return. I asked her if her father
would like a grayling, for I had one of about
three-quarters of a pound, in beautiful condition,
in the bag. ‘Oh, yes, thank you, sir,” was her
quick, grateful reply.

Good little housewife! I used to think no
little hostesses in the world could compare with

192 THE TROUT ARE RISING

the colonial girls in South Africa, who, if father
and mother happened to be out, would take
charge, and make friends feel at home. Their
youthful self-possession, tact, and hospitality was
a real live welcome. But after this Shropshire
display—I rejoice that it happened in my own
native county—I am pleased to be able to report
that the Old Country is still holding its own.
Most of us have fished on association or hotel
water where “the feesh . . . is not so numerous
as the feeshermen, but more wise.” I remember
one morning casting the fly on the Coln at
Fairford (where the trout are numerous and
wise), just by a bridge. Looking up, I perceived
a bystander, with a humorous eye. “Those trout
have the names and addresses of all you gentle-
men,” he said. An old joke, but it seemed
fitting and fresh. Certainly, those trout made
one think about blanks. Did one put the fly
over them ever so temptingly, they would have
none of it. Concerning chaff from bridges, the
fisherman gets plenty of it. But once, at any
rate, the biter was bit. A youthful fisherman
planned revenge, and he won his victory oddly.
Rigging up rod and line, he made the motions of
fishing in an impossible ditch off the main stream,
The inevitable “ Caught any?” soon came from
the bridge, and he replied, “Yes.” How
many ?” continued the questioner, to receive the
grave response, “ Well, you're the fifteenth !”
To revert to the Coln, which is dry-fly water,
anglers who have fished at Fairford will remember

BLANKS AND TROUBLES 193

the stone wall which runs alongside the opposite
side of the association water, not far from the
hotel. The other day a brother angler mentioned
an interesting fact about this spot. At the lower
end of the stone wall, under the first bush, there
was a continuous rise of trout, but none ever
seemed to be taken there, on account of an eddy
or undercurrent which was visible only through
strong glasses. It seemed to interfere fatally with
the whole career of the dry fly. Just above and
below this eddy, however, trout were caught
all right.

On a blank day, say when the water is out
of order, the angler can at any rate console
himself by seeing something of the country,
especially if he is in a district which is new to
him. It is not fishing, but it “fits in,” and of
course there may be other compensations, Devon-
shire primroses in the spring, for instance, are a
feast for the eye. From the train, even, in April
you may rejoice in the masses of blooms which
cover every embankment.

‘‘ Long as there’s a sun that sets,
Primroses will have their glory.”

Once an Englishman came across wild prim-
roses in a Canadian wood; looking long at
them, he remarked : “Now I know why I love
England !”

In summer, the hayfields—except for those
who have hay-fever—are a delight. In August
there are the golden cornfields picked out with

fo)

194 THE TROUT ARE RISING

scarlet poppies, or the “ stubbles dotted o’er with
sheaves.” In autumn, of course, nature’s hues
are so wonderful that a day stolen from fishing
for a country walk is not regretted. The pursuit
of grayling on the morrow will be all the more
enjoyed. It is noticeable how often one’s wander-
ings on these “off days” bring one to the old
grey church which is so essential a feature of
rural England. Mellowed by time, with the
atmosphere of centuries of prayer and praise about
its ancient stones, the old village church is a
refreshment to mind and soul. Izaak Walton
must have spent many hours in and about the
precincts.

When fishing one must obviously take the
luck of the game as it comes. The more cheer-
fully this is recognized, the more is the enjoyment.
Laughter is a good cure for misfortune, if you can
apply it. Itcalls for some measure of philosophy,
but the thing is possible. I remember one ex-
cellent fisherman, a parson, who told me of an
unfortunate day in Natal when he lost fish after
fish, an unusual thing for him, but at last got
hold of a big one which was well hooked and felt
like a certainty. And then the gut, frayed perhaps
by earlier contests, parted and the fish was gone.
“It had been such a run of disasters,” said he,
“all the afternoon, and this was the climax. I
just burst out laughing.”

Sometimes the trout rise freely but with
singular consistency every fish may be missed or
only just pricked. Possibly one fails to strike at

BLANKS AND TROUBLES 195

the right moment, possibly the trout come short,
possibly something is wrong with the hook.
Whatever the reason, nothing goes right. The
only comfort I ever had on such an occasion was
when a Devonshire lad at Lifton sagely observed
to me: “Them as you miss don’t count, sir.”
That was at any rate a new point of view.

One of the worst experiences of this sort I
ever had was on the old Tern which I was fishing
once more after several years abroad. I missed
every trout that rose to my fly, and the rises were
many. I imagined that they were coming short
and thought out other convincing excuses. But,
when in despair I handed over the rod to my
brother, he succeeded in hooking nearly every
fish that rose and made a handsome bag. So my
excuses lost much of their plausibility. A day or
two later, I remember, on a lower reach of the
same river I happily redeemed my credit, getting
almost every trout that came at me fairly. And
one of them was a beauty of 32 lbs., which took
that excellent fly for big trout, the Sarcelle.

TROUT FISHING IN SOUTH
AFRICA

“Tt must be a delightful experience for one who has
memories of trout fishing in the Old Country.to land a trout
in the country of his adoption.”

Mr. R. B. Marston, in the Fishing Gazette.

XVII

TROUT FISHING IN SOUTH
AFRICA

APPILY, trout fishing is not confined to
H the United Kingdom. It is to be had in
4 America, Australasia, Africa, India and
Ceylon, to say nothing of the various
countries of Europe. In New Zealand, trout
acclimatization began in 1868; in South Africa
(in the Cape and Natal) in the early eighties. In
neither Dominion nor Union were trout in-
digenous, but they have done well in both
countries. Colonial Governors under the British
flag have at all times shown their sympathy with
trout acclimatization. The Briton is a sportsman
wherever he goes, and it has been recognized that
trout fishing not only adds to a country’s sporting
attractiveness but is an economic asset of some
importance.

In South Africa, generally speaking, brown
trout, Loch Levens, and rainbows all flourish.
Cape Province possesses many trout rivers, and
here the fly-fisherman can be thoroughly at home.
The Hex River, with its picturesque scenery, is
one of the finest trout streams and one of the

200 THE TROUT ARE RISING

most popular. The late Mr. Lachlan Maclean
was apparently the first active mover in trout
acclimatization in the “Old Colony.” He did
great good in this respect and he was. always very
willing to give information to inquirers. He
helped me much as a journalist, and our acquaint-
ance, started on the introduction of Mr. Senior in
1901, was always a happy one.

The nearest trout river to Cape Town is the
Eerste (Dutch for “ first”). This stream, which
is not big, runs through Stellenbosch, joining the
sea near Somerset Strand. The wet fly is always
used here, good patterns being March brown with
silver body, cow dung, small Jock Scott and small
Silver Doctor. The Eerste holds both rainbows
and brown trout of good average size. Stellen-
bosch is roughly thirty miles from Cape Town
and can be easily reached by train. There are
trout also in the Laurens River which runs from
Somerset West to the sea. The Brede, flowing
through Michell’s Pass (Ares district), holds many
trout, though the season of 1919-1920 was not
so good as its predecessor, The Hex River,
Worcester district, is another good trout stream.
The flies mentioned should serve in all these
streams. I should also mention the Berg River,
from which in 1918 Mr. J. McKenzie, of Meer-
lust, caught a fine trout on a small black gnat
(No. 14, Limerick scale), a brown trout 244 ins,
long, 15 ins. in girth, and weighing 7 lb. 9 oz.
an hour and a half after being landed. Generally,
for trout fishing in the Western Division of the

TROUT FISHING IN S. AFRICA 201

Cape Province the best time is from the beginning
of October to mid-December, after which every-
thing depends on the rains, Without them the
water gets too low. In the Eastern Division of
the Province there is trout fishing to be had also,
the best of it being in the Transkeian Territories.

East Griqualand (Transkei), noted for its
rugged scenery, possesses fine rainbow trout
fishing. Natal possesses fine trout streams.
Every Natal resident who has studied the subject
will agree that Mr. John Parker of Tetworth,
Howick, should have the credit for the intro-
duction of trout into Natal.

The Transvaal, which, after useful individual
essays, took up the work seriously about 1903,
has had success in various parts, notably in the
Broederstroom, Carolina, Dullstroom and Macha-
dorp districts. In the Lydenburg district the
resident magistrate, Col. Damaut, and Mr. Gehrs
have taken an active interest in promoting trout
acclimatization. The Elands river at Waterval
Boven should be doing well. The Mooi at
Potchefstroom did not appear to give the results
expected, but in the Transvaal are some “ heaven-
born” trout streams, as Col. John Buchan, when
on Lord Milner’s staff, described them. Regard-
ing the beginning of trout acclimatization in the
Transvaal, the pioneers, I remember, were Sir
Percy FitzPatrick, who made experiments in
October, 1900, and Mr. D. C. Greig, of Johan-
nesburg, who also worked in the same direction
towards the end of 1902. The Transvaal Trout

202 THE TROUT ARE RISING

Acclimatization Society was formedin Johannesburg
on 4th November, 1902. Lord Milner was the
first president, with Sir Arthur Lawley as vice-
president. Sympathy and practical or financial
support were received from Sir George Farrar, Sir
Percy FitzPatrick, Col. W. Dalrymple, Col. John
Buchan, Mr. A. E. Balfour, Mr. E. T. Baines,
Mr. Harold A. Fry and others. Mr. Harold
Fry was honorary secretary for several years, and
did sound work for the Society.

As regards the Orange Free State, “ The
South and East African Year Book and Guide for
1919” (Union Castle Steamship Co., Ltd.) states
that “trout have also been placed in the rivers.”
This is good news. The Wilge river, as seen
from the train, looks very suitable for them.
Sir Harry Wilson with whom I discussed the
subject when he was acting Lieutenant-Governor
of the Orange Free State, expressed himself as
desirous of seeing trout flourish in the Free State.

In Rhodesia, where I have not been, there is
native fishing, and I remember the late Sir Starr
Jameson saying that bream, which ate well, were
to be had there. In Rhodesia in water near
Umtali, Penhalonga valley, an endeavour has
been made to acclimatize trout. Trout are
reported to be doing well in Nyasaland.

Colonel G. Stanley, C.B., whom I had the
pleasure of meeting in London again just before
I was leaving for Johannesburg, kindly gave me
some interesting information. Although more
interested in the rifle—as the trophies (heads) of

=
a
Q
oe
°
is

RGE FARRER

OF

HOME

THE

TROUT FISHING IN S. AFRICA 203

his prowess in Africa which I saw in the R.A.S.C.
mess at Woolwich testified—than in the fishing
rod, yet he had seen not a little of angling in
Africa. When soldiering near Eshowe, South
Zululand, in 1883, he saw frequent catches of
yellow fish, taken on the fly, and he himself
caught scalies ee which I say something later)
in Natal. In British East Africa he took yellow
fish in the Chamya and Thika rivers, and he told
me that Sir Henry Belfield, sometime Governor of
British East Africa, took great interest in the
question of trout acclimatization. ‘There are trout
in the highland streams of British East Africa.
Colonel Stanley said that in the West Kenia
district, East Africa, there is a stream which looks
ideal for trout, the West Kenia river, running
down from the mountain to the plains.

The London office of the High Commissioner
for South Africa is at 32, Victoria Street, West-
minster, S.W.1. Here of course all South African
matters are dealt with, The Trade Section of the
High Commissioner’s Office, which deals with
export matters of the Union, is, however, at
present at 90, Cannon Street, London, E.C.4. It
strikes one as only a matter of time before the
Union authorities will be compelled to build or to
acquire a London building appropriate to the
importance and volume of the work involved.
Betaking myself one day to the Trades Section at
go, Cannon Street, E.C., with one especial object
(you can imagine it: hoping to see some South
African trout !), I noticed in the window and in

204 THE TROUT ARE RISING

the exhibition hall specimens of South African
products, That it was a miniature exhibition in
itself can be imagined from the fact that the
Union of South Africa (i.e. the Cape, Natal,
Transvaal, and Orange Free State Provinces)
to-day produces and exports—

Gold Wool Fruit (fresh) Beef Dried fruits
Diamonds Hides and skins Maize Pork Raisins
Copper Mohair Maize meal Bacon Jam

Tin Ostrich feathers Beans and peas Butter Wine
Asbestos Leather Lucerne seed Cheese Sugar
Corundum Mimosa bark Sunflower seed Eggs Tea

Tale Crayfish
Mica

Remarkable agricultural and manufacturing
expansion has taken place in the Union during
the last few years. After providing for its own
requirements, the value of the Union’s exports
(including gold) during 1918 was approximately
£65,000,000. Manufacturing development on an
extensive scale has taken place during recent years.
Statistics of production show an annual value of
approximately £50,000,000, Amongst the more
important manufacturing industries established
may be mentioned—

Boots and shoes Tron smelting
Woollen Calcium carbide
Biscuits Cardboard
Confectionery Anhydrous ammonia
Soap Concrete piping
Explosives Cement

Bottle and glass Starch and glucose
Salt Breakfast foods
Sugar Toys

Industrial alcohol Cattle cake
Wattle extract Rubber

Furniture Tobacco

TROUT FISHING IN S. AFRICA 205

It was all most interesting, and there was
a South African atmosphere about it all. In
the window were, amongst other views, three
illuminated pictures, one of them a South African
vineyard at the Paarl; and in the exhibition hall
were large photographs of Pretoria, Capetown,
Durban, Port Elizabeth, and other places.

But what I most wanted to see was South
African trout in glass cases, and photographs of
South African trout and streams. Respectful
inquiry was therefore made about trout, and it
was explained to me at 90, Cannon Street, that
the exhibits principally represented export trade,
and that, as it happened, trout did not come
within that category; in other words, that this
Section of the High Commissioner’s Office looked
after the export trade of the Union of South
Africa.

It occurred to me—I express a personal view—
that there is a link missing, somewhere. It
seems that scope exists for extending knowledge
not only of South Africa’s industrial features, but
also of its residential and sporting attractions.
True, there were trophies of native antelope in
the exhibition hall. Shooting men are always
interested in these. I think that exhibits of that
sort could be more numerous with advantage.
African antelopes are varied and fine. Possibly
specimens of sporting birds, such as the red wing
and the grey wing (partridges), and the khoorhan,
could be introduced. I do not know how far
there would be accommodation for all this,

206 THE TROUT ARE RISING

or what points of detail have to be considered,
but having seen onlookers gazing into the
South African window, deeply interested in the
illuminated pictures, in the ostriches (especially
the six weeks’ old chicks), and other things, |
feel sure that glass cases showing South African
trout would be of general interest, and would
appeal specially to fly-fishing enthusiasts, Men
who might possibly be thinking of a long holiday
abroad, but had not quite made up their minds
where to spend it, would perhaps find the re-
minder that South Africa could give them trout
fishing just the incentive required to send them
thither. Such a result would be good for South
African business. For it is impossible that any
one should visit that grand country without
enjoying it, without being interested, and without
being glad to see the land and its people.

The time will surely come when South Africa,
like New Zealand, will have its holiday visitors
who go out very largely for the sake of the trout
fishing. It has already attracted some who took
the opportunity, whilst seeing the country, of
renewing old pleasures by the riverside, Amongst
these visitors was Mr. Cecil Harmsworth, M.P.,
who made practical and pleasing reference to the
trout fishing in a volume entitled ‘‘ Pleasure and
Problem in South Africa.”

I have not quite done justice to the Trade
Section at 90, Cannon Street,though. Let me make
amends. There was some solid information to be
got about trout. The lady working at a desk in

TROUT FISHING IN S. AFRICA 207

the calling-room, who came to answer my pre-
liminary inquiry, referred me, when I mentioned
trout, to one of the other officials, at the same
time asking if I had seen a booklet entitled
“ Official Hlustrated Guide to Trout Fishing in
South Africa,” which she handed to me. As it
happened, I had two copies, one of them sent to
me in England by an old Capetown friend, who
had written inside it: “To tempt you back again,”
None the less I thanked the young lady for her
kindness. Her attitude, moreover, showed the
indispensable quality in this or any office, viz.
intelligent interest in the object of an inquirer’s
call, Two other officials in the same office gave
me information. I received much courtesy, kindli-
ness, and business-like treatment which I gladly
acknowledge.

After leaving there, I proceeded to the Office
of the Government of the Dominion of New
Zealand in the Strand, and in the main hall I
chanced to see Captain Donne, who was passing
through. Of course I had gone to see trout,
but it was a pleasure to meet this official again.
He may not say in so many words, “Go to New
Zealand,” but when you chat with him you feel
that that is what you ought todo. The power
of his personality and his intense love of New
Zealand combine to make you want to go out at
once. And he can, if you want them, give you
facts and figures which strengthen this desire.

The trout that I wanted to see were there all
right, in the main hall, five magnificent rainbows

208 THE TROUT ARE RISING

and two brown trout. As I looked, and looked,
at those splendid creatures I was thrilled by their
beauty. Comparisons are sometimes unwise, and
nothing is further from my mind than to wish to
indulge in them here (besides, I have not been to
New Zealand), but the thought came to me, why
should not South Africa, too, attract trout-fisher-
men oversea, in spite of Captain Donne and his
persuasive powers? But I hasten to add that,
whilst sure of and secure in the claims of his
beloved New Zealand, he is the broadest-minded
of men, and he would not object. There are
plenty of anglers in the world.

When a fly-fishing enthusiast can spare the
time and money for a long holiday, with the
advantage of a sea voyage, and decides to visit
South Africa, he has to remember that the seasons
there are the reverse of those in the United
Kingdom. For instance, instead of a Christmas
with folk bewrapped and befurred, he will find a
Christmas with a blue sky and people dressed in
summer attire—for it is midsummer there. June
and July, on the other hand, mean winter in South
Africa, and, though it may not be generally
realized, it is then sharply cold last thing at night
and first thing in the morning in South Africa,
especially in Johannesburg, which is 5740 feet
above sea level. Rain falls in the Transvaal,
Orange Free State, and Natal in the summer; it
is exceptional for it to occur in these Provinces
in the winter. On the other hand, rain falls in
some parts of the Cape Province in winter.

TROUT FISHING IN S, AFRICA 209

If English people decide on the trip to South
Africa, with trout-fishing as one of the main
objects, their best plan would be to leave the
United Kingdom, say, in August. The sea journey
by the Union Castle mail boat from Southampton
to Capetown ordinarily takes seventeen days, and
from Southampton to Durban twenty-two days.
By leaving at the right time in August, the Cape
and Durban would be made in September. The
trout would be rising by then. The trout fishing
would have begun, and it goes on until or nearly
until the end of April. As the South African
trout-fishing season closes generally in April (the
Eerste river, Stellenbosch district, is an exception,
ending 31st January), the visitor, if he be leaving
the country about April, could easily arrange to
get back to the United Kingdom in time for the
May-fly. And he would have plenty to tell his
friends at his club, For South Africa is a won-
derful country. It is a land of surprises, Sun-
shine is over everything and the atmosphere is
buoyant. The rarefied air is a tonic.

Railway travelling, by the way, is good. The
railways come under the Government. The third
class is used practically exclusively by natives.

The trout fishing must not be regarded as
wholly free. Here and there land bordering the
river may be equivalent to commonage ; but, as
a general rule, inquiries should always be made
and if necessary (as it generally is) permission
must be sought. It is only fair to landowners to
say that permission for a visitor to fish from their

P

210 THE TROUT ARE RISING

land can be refused. A ten-shilling licence is
necessary to “ fish for trout in any public stream
or waters in the Cape Province.” Generally
speaking, the artificial fly only is allowed. All the
fishing is practically wet-fly so far, though there is
no reason why dry-fly should not succeed in certain
circumstances.

It may be urged that South Africa is a country
_of long distances, ie. that you have far to go
before you get to your fishing. This has, on the
whole, to be admitted. But an angler from the
United Kingdom or America who visits South
Africa on a trout-fishing holiday should have
ample time to make even a two-days’ railway
journey, if he specially wish to reach some spot
a long way off. For town-dwellers in South
Africa a railway journey—or at any rate some sort
of journey—is generally necessary in order to get
trout-fishing. For that matter, the same thing
applies almost the world over to town-dwellers.
But fishermen can often manage a week-end,
especially if a National or a Bank Holiday is
included in it. Many times have two or three
of us had fishing trips from Johannesburg. We
have been to the Klip river at Meyerton and to
the Vaal at Vereeniging, though in neither river
at present do there seem to be any trout, only
yellow fish, which, however, give quite good
sport. ‘Trout were distributed in the Klip river
at Wittkopjes, near Meyerton, but they did not
flourish. This river joins the Vaal at Vereeniging,
on the Transvaal-Orange Free State borders,

TROUT FISHING IN S, AFRICA arr

Vereeniging is in the Transvaal. Once a friend
and I went for two days to Waterval Boven
(Elands river) in quest of trout; on the one day
we had no luck, on the next the water was in
flood. In the Heidelberg district—not a far cry
from Johannesburg—excellent native fishing is to
be had. Johannesburg has an Anglers’ Club.
Angling is to be had on the Witwatersrand in
some dams or reservoirs, some containing carp.
It is good to realize that in a mining district like
Johannesburg all the usual open-air sports and
pastimes are keenly followed, and you can imagine
how a miner who has been down below most of
the week enjoys his little bit of fishing when he
can get it in the glorious open air. Cricket, foot-
ball, tennis, bowls (for the good old game
flourishes in South Africa), are all played with
zest, for in Johannesburg sportsmen abound, as
indeed they do all over South Africa, It was
delightful to hear in England the tributes paid to
the cricket, football, and lawn tennis representa-
tives of South Africa. They were acknowledged
to be “white men.”

Inquiries about travelling, cost of living, and
other useful details, would, I feel sure, be answered
as fully as possible at the High Commissioner’s
Office for South Africa, in London. Officially-
published facts and figures connected with trout-
fishing are to be had in book form, thanks to the
enterprise of the Publicity Department, South
African Railways, Johannesburg. Managing this
Department comes within the duties of the

212 THE TROUT ARE RISING

General Manager of the South African Railways,
Sir William Hoy, who is himself a keen fly-
fisherman when he can find time. An “ Official
Illustrated Guide to Trout Fishing in South
Africa” is thus published. In addition to the
text, which gives information as to trout-fishin
over a large area, it contains a wealth of delight-
ful illustrations. South Africa is a vast country,
and dwellers in towns were probably unaware of
some of the many trout rivers till they saw these
pictures. One enjoyable holiday which I had on
the Bushman’s River, Natal, was due to my
finding it pictured in the guide. The picture
pulled and I went. ‘Trout Fishing in the Cape
Colony,” by Mr. Dumaresq W. Manning, of
the Cape Civil Service, was issued in 1908 with
the approval of the Government of the Cape of
Good Hope. The merits of this book are
indicated by the following passage from an article,
by John Bickerdyke, in the summer (1919)
number of The Fournal of the Fly-Fishers Club.
He says, “On arrival in Capetown the fly-
fisher should get in touch with the Secretary of
the Publicity Association, and purchase Mr.
Manning’s book on ‘Trout Fishing in Cape
Colony,’ which is published at the ‘ Argus’ office.
It contains a most useful map.”

Although we are primarily concerned with
trout, yet it may be added that South Africa’s
various native fish are not to be despised. Among
them are : the tiger fish, a rare sporting fish, the
yellow fish, which gives sport to fly and bait, the

TROUT FISHING IN S. AFRICA 213

scalie, which also can be taken with fly or bait,
and the silver fish ; also the baba or cat fish, the
culper or burrowing perch, and the mud fish.
The baba or cat fish and the mud fish are not
interesting. On account of the formation of its
mouth, the mud fish often gets foul hooked.
The tiger fish, is, I believe, found in both the
Olifant’s river and the Crocodile river (Transvaal),
in the Zambesi, and in some of the rivers running
into Lake Mweru.

Crocodiles do not occur in the Cape, Orange,
Free State, and Natal provinces. Where they exist
in the Transvaal the rivers (such as the Crocodile)
are well known. Ifareader should fish in any river
where there are crocodiles, he should be careful ;
he must keep a good distance away from the
edge of the water—the Union Castle guide book
says at least three feet—and he must not run any
risk of a sudden attack from a crocodile or of a
blow from its tail. The advisability of taking
precaution against snake-bites is referred to in
the next chapter. Leggings are useful in this
respect,

THE FLY-FISHER’S EQUIPMENT
FOR SOUTH AFRICA

“But you must have all these tackling, and twice so many
more, with which, if you mean to bea fisher, you must store
yourself.”

Izaax Watton.

XVII

THE FLY-FISHER’S EQUIPMENT
FOR SOUTH AFRICA

HOULD a British or an American angler
—for they are rare travellers, the
Americans — decide on a trip to South
Africa for the trout-fishing, they will

naturally ask : What kind of rod am I to take and
what flies? It is hoped that the information
following may be useful not only for travellers
visiting the country for the first time, but also
perhaps for South Africans themselves who, for
one reason or another, have not yet done any
trout fishing.

First comes the question of a rod. If the
angler wants to make one rod serve all his
purposes I would advise him to select a wet-fly
rod of from g ft. to 10 ft. It can be light but
should be of the best quality. A man who is
likely to do all his fishing on a small stream
might do well to choose the shorter length. In-
deed, if the water is much bushed he might be
wise to get a still smaller rod, 7 ft. to 84 ft., so as
to throw under or around the branches. But for

218 THE TROUT ARE RISING

a wide and an open stream, the 10 ft. rod is
recommended. On the whole, for a man who
may be fishing first one year in this river, and
then another year in that river, or even in several
rivers in the same year, Io ft. is the best all-round
length. If plans admit of two rods, then choose
one of 10 ft. and one of say 8 ft. or even 7 ft. for
little overgrown waters. And if the angler be
one who likes plenty of tackle in his den—like a
housewife who has a well-stocked larder (happily
always in use !)—then he could go in also for
a third rod, and if so I would advise a good
dry-fly rod of about to ft., one from a high-class
maker. Shoddy stuff stands self-condemned, It
must not be inferred that three rods are recom-
mended for South Africa as a necessity. ‘They are
not. Many anglers have one fly-rod only ; they
have had it practically all their fishing life; they
know its strength, its weakness (if any); they
have learned to love it ; it always does its best ;
and probably it has been the means of catching
hundreds and hundreds of trout. The young
angler need not worry. If he takes to trout
fishing, and is dissatisfied with the rod he
possesses, he will sooner or later meet other
fishermen ; and he will no doubt be able to get
practical hints and information as to various kinds
of rods at the riverside. Anangler with a good rod
is not unwilling—nay, he is often rather proud—
to show it to a beginner. Nor should the beginner
be surprised, in case the owner invites him to
“have a throw with it,” if he catch a fish with

EQUIPMENT FOR SOUTH AFRICA 219

it! Twice, in England, did I have this joy. In
the one instance, Dr. Clapham handed me his
excellent dry-fly rod, “just to try it,’ when we
were on the Colne at Thorney Weir, and he
kindly put me on to a rising trout, which I
succeeded in catching. In the other instance
my good friend the Major asked me to “ have
a chuck” with his light little 8 ft. rod on
the Teme, and I got a good grayling. The
Major has already enough impedimenta to stock
a fishing-tackle shop, but I was not a bit surprised
when he told me the other day in London that he
had just bought another fly-rod.

One hint may here be given to the youthful
fly-fisher: watch, for all you are worth, the
experienced fly-fisherman: study his _ easy,
finished methods. His performance will make
you wonder how it is done; you will wish you
could only throw a fly like that, and also strike
your fish so imperceptibly but so effectively.
Take heart. He was once a beginner, like you.
Watching another fly-fisherman at work is fasci-
nating and often educative. Once when I was
fly-fishing in East Griqualand with my friend
Mr. W. Stuart Barclay, of the Johannesburg
Stock Exchange, we came, on the river Pot, to
a pool where the water was quite clear, and where
the trout were rising. He said: “I’m going to
watch you.” I promptly missed a trout. He
reported, “I could see everything! I saw the
trout come, and you struck too late.” The on-
looker was able, as it happened, to keep concealed

220 THE TROUT ARE RISING

so I asked Barclay to have a try, so that I could
watch and see how things went with him ; and
very soon I was able to tell him, when he was
playing a fish, “The identical moment the
trout came at your fly you struck him. Well
done!”

This reminds me of a personal performance
which the reader will forgive me for relating. I was
fishing in that district one afternoon by myself,
when a friendly farmer rode by with his “ boys ”
(Kaffirs, no matter what age, are called ‘“‘ boys”
in South Africa) in attendance ; they were off to
a distant sheep farm, part of the routine pro-
gramme of the sheep farmers in those parts, Out
of sheer gaiety of heart, I said: “Tl see if I can
catch a trout for you to take with you.” No
sooner had the words been said than I bethought
me : “ What folly to hold out such a rash hope !”
But sometimes the fireworks go off at the right
time. A nice trout was at once risen, hooked,
played, and landed, and duly handed over to the
farmer, whose grateful acceptance of it made me
remember the little incident with pleasure.

It will have been noted that a dry-fly rod has
been recommended for consideration in planning
out equipment. Confession shall be made that,
until coming back to England towards the end
of 1915, 1 never possessed a dry-fly rod, having
always previously been a devotee of the wet fly.
Furthermore, I am of opinion that the wet fly
in South Africa is, on the whole, more effective
than the dry fly. But the delight I have had in

EQUIPMENT FOR SOUTH AFRICA 221

England with the newer method impels me not
to omit it from South African plans.

In concluding my thoughts on rod-buying—
they are not meant for the experienced angler,
who knows all about these things—I would
earnestly say: See that rod, reel, and line all
balance. In buying your fly-rod, get one with
a cork handle, with a good spike for the end of
the butt, and be sure that the stoppers are there.
Sentiment, pure sentiment, is at the bottom of
this last piece of advice. An authority, for whose
opinion on any piscatorial subject the angling
world has regard, once showed me his favourite
fly-rod. Its workmanship seemed perfect. It
must have been a costly rod. But—the stoppers
were missing! In a fashionable fishing-tackle
shop in London the other day, one of the
assistants took down a rod-case, extracted the
rod, and—joy !|—began to remove the stoppers.
He must have been amused at my request : “‘ Oh,
do put those stoppers back, and then take them
out again, please /’’ The sound of rod-stoppers
being removed is like that lovely, spontaneous
bark of laughter when, a humorist having told a
joke perfectly, the audience, as one man, explodes
with laughter. When you go a-fishing always
put the stoppers in your right-hand trousers
pocket. If you prefer it, you can put them in
your hat or underneath your socks—fishing is a
go-as-you-please game. - But, if you have put
them in your right-hand trousers pocket, they are
always there when you wind up and are preparing”

222 THE TROUT ARE RISING

to encase your rod at night. It is pleasing always
to be able to find these beloved stoppers at once.
In any case, whatever I write on this subject,
anglers can, and will, please themselves—some of
them will lose their stoppers to a certainty !

As for reels and lines, buy good ones. If you
want a headache, or at any rate are prepared to
depart somewhat from your usual sweet temper,
use a crochety, disgruntled reel, get a big fish on,
and find that the reel does not respond. Take
care of your reel; as the rifle is one of the
soldier’s best friends, so is the reel to the angler.
Cleaning and oiling the reel occasionally help it;
the reel says “ Thank you!” after it has been
attended to, just as (on a bigger scale) does the
engine of a railway train, after the railwaymen
have given it of their best in this direction.
About lines—whether I fish dry or wet, I like a
tapered line, though it is not absolutely necessary
in wet-fly fishing. Always dry your line after
use. Wind it round a chair, or lay it in long
coils on the floor, if you like, so long as nobody
treads on it. But dry it after use. Some careful
anglers, after it has dried, rub the line with a
piece of chamois skin.

Please yourself whether, in South Africa, you
use thick or thin gut. The usual strength perhaps
is 3X. If heavy trout are expected, then 2X might
more safely be used. But, on streams where the
trout run from about half a pound to three-
quarters, capital sport may be had with 4X,
Obviously, the finer grade is less for the trout

EQUIPMENT FOR SOUTH AFRICA 223

to see. In any case, there is not much to
remember gratefully about the capture of small
trout with an anchor for a hook, a cable for a
line, a bowsprit for a rod,

Keeping out of sight and using fairly fine gut
may be condensed into “fish fine and far off.”
This may not be generally approved. Some
anglers prefer not to risk getting broken on fine
tackle, Therefore they adopt, say, 2X gut. Again,
some fly-fishermen do not like fishing far off,
and swear by a short line; their argument being
that, once you have risen your fish, you stand a
very much better chance of a successful strike
than with a long line. The creed of those who
will not have very fine gut, and who prefer a
short line, was translated by a master angler and
writer as: “Fish with gut as thick as you dare,
and fish as near as you can.” But try these
things for yourself. Make your own experi-
ments. Learn. You will sooner or later teach
yourself; or rather Experience will be your
teacher. Writing according to my own experience
and especially my own enjoyment, for trout I still
extol the adage, “ Fish fine and far off” —though
I am not ignorant of the risks, difficulties, and
even disasters that may come by reason of a long
line.

All gut should be soaked beforehand. With
fine gut, especially, the cast must be thoroughly
soaked beforehand. Soak it for a quarter of an
hour before use. Put the cast in a saucer con-
taining sufficient lukewarm water. A little

224 THE TROUT ARE RISING

glycerine in the water helps. With good gut,
thoroughly well soaked, you will fish with con-
fidence. The South African trout play lustily.
One of the London staff of a leading firm of
tackle manufacturers told me that the late Lord
Hardwicke, for his salmon fishing, took the
soaking of gut much more seriously than merely
putting a cast in lukewarm water. He kept his
salmon casts in his damper box, with the flannel
pads continually wet, right through the season.
By this means the knots were softened.

The beginner will no doubt be worried if he
has an adverse wind to contend against, especially
when he is using fine gut. With a sound rod,
» though, he can do a good deal, and anyhow he
must do the best he can, It will help him against
the wind if he halve the length of his cast and
fish with just a tail fly.

Coming to flies, most of the standard wet flies
are likely at some time or other to be useful, but
if for some reason or other you were limited to
six varieties (wet) for South Africa, you could
safely choose these : Blue dun, March brown, red
spinner, butcher, woodcock-wing-and-hare’s-ear,
and coachman (for evening). This selection will
carry you a long way.

Supposing that one had to select half-a-dozen
specially for Natal, perhaps the blue dun should
be omitted in favour of the blue jay, an attractive
pattern which was very effective on the Mooi
(Natal) in the season of 1919-1920. One would
hardly have thought that it much resembled any

EQUIPMENT FOR SOUTH AFRICA 225

natural fly. Yet the President of the South
African Fly Fishers’ Club, Mr. E. Chappell, told
me recently that one day he saw on his lawn at
Parktown West, an object which looked so much
like a blue jay that he thought one of the
specimens from his fly box must by some
mysterious means have wandered thither. It
was, however, no artificial fly but a live creature.

The size of the fly used must depend a good
deal upon the river itself. For big rainbow trout,
if they are rising to the wet fly,a No. 7 (Limerick,
old scale) is not too big; for Loch Leven and
brown trout the size may be anything between,
and including, No. 12 and No. 9 (Limerick, old
scale). Ina dry climate eyed flies are obviously
better than flies tied to gut, and hackle patterns
are as a rule better than winged. Even if I were
tied down to six varieties of wet fly, I should
personally like to have also a few varieties of dry
fly.

: As receptacles for the trout when caught I
have seen all sorts of things used, from the simple
haversack to the wicker creel. Baskets have the
advantage of letting more air in, and therefore
tend to keep trout fresher, but a fairly big wicker
basket is bulky and therefore may be incon-
venient. A suitable bag is made of twill or
canvas, with leather fastenings and straps. Inside
it I like a waterproof compartment, fastened by
buttons. These waterproofs, which hold the fish,
are of course washable. A landing net capable of
being slung or otherwise attached to the angler or

Q

226 THE TROUT ARE RISING

his bag is more convenient than one with just a
plain staff. The beginner may be tempted to buy
himself a small shallow net. That is a mistake.
Have a net which is deep and roomy, as you
never know what big trout fortune may have in
store for you. Once on the Umgeni I had a
shallow landing net and a trout actually got out
of it and back into the water. Fortunately the
fish was well hooked, but the incident taught its
lesson.

All the angler’s requirements can be obtained
in South Africa, unless, of course, the world-
shortage in production has caused a temporary
deficiency in stock, perhaps in special makes of
rod, for instance. But supplies will, no doubt,
in good time be made up. Human nature
(especially business nature) is the same the world
over, Shops and stores want to sell goods to
you, and, if they have not a special line in stock,
and if you give the order for it, they will as soon
as possible do their best to give you satisfaction.

The trout fisherman about to visit South
Africa for the first time will naturally ask if
waders are necessary. The reply is that, taking
South African trout rivers as a whole, wading
can be dispensed with. A man should be able to
cast satisfactorily from the bank, The drawback
about wearing waders in South Africa for any
lengthy period of the day is this: the climate is a
warm one, and waders are heavy. In Natal and
East Griqualand, particularly, they are practically
unnecessary. Of course if the angler’s head-

EQUIPMENT FOR SOUTH AFRICA 227

quarters are handy he may—especially if he fears
rheumatism—wade for a brief spell and be able
then to have a speedy change of clothing. In
the Cape Province it is urged that on the Eerste
(Stellenbosch) and the Buffalo River (King
William’s Town district) wading is necessary ; but,
generally, waders are proportionately much less
used in South Africa than in the United Kingdom.

Whatever you do, do not imitate my supreme
folly. Once—for one day only—lI attired my-
self in football shorts, It was on the Umgeni,
when I was staying with hospitable friends,
the Ross family. Sentiment alone was the
cause of my turning out in those football shorts.
They were those in which I last played foot-
ball for Shrewsbury Town. I had kept them as
a kind of trophy. It pleased me to wear them
again, and as I walked down to the riverside,
knowing sport was practically sure, I had happy
memories of matches at Copthorne (now the site
of many buildings). But to fish in shorts was
foolish, because there was no precaution against
snake-bites. You will be on the safe side if you
include in the equipment a proper remedy for the
unfortunate chance of asnake-bite. A Natal friend
who was bitten bya snake and had no preparation
handy, as a rough-and-ready form of treatment,
instantly applied a small quantity of gunpowder
to the wound in order to cauterize it, with
beneficial results.* Wearing shorts was also

* The snakes of South Africa, “their venom and the treatment
of snake-bites,” form the subject of a fully illustrated book by F. W.
Fitz Simmons. (Published by T, Maskew Miller, Cape Town.)

228 THE TROUT ARE RISING

foolish because of the sun. When fly-fishing,
one may stand some time in practically the same
position, and if the trout are rising one is apt to
be oblivious of other matters. My legs began to
burn, but still I went on, until an accident com-
pelled me to stop. Sport was good, and I sat
down on the bank-side to exult over my catch.
Whether it was because I weigh a good deal or
because the ground just at that particular spot was
cracking I know not. Anyhow, something gave
way and I fell flop into the river! Fortunately it
was shallow, but, as against that, there was a sharp
stone, with which my left knee came into sudden
contact, ripping the flesh severely. My limbs
were now the colour of “where the rainbow
ends,” and I had no alternative but to return at a
crawling pace to the farm. How good and kind
were Mr, and Mrs. Ross, and their family.
They bandaged me up, and generally put me
under repair: but there was no sleep for me that
night, The legs still burned from the heat of the
sun, the wound on the left knee reminded me
that it is not always safe for a fat fellow to sit
down by the side of the river.

Further fishing being impossible, I went back
to Johannesburg. With the optimism of thirty
years I then began to bicycle, until a friend (Mr.
Birch, chief clerk then on Lord Milner’s staff)
insisted on my seeing a medical man. Mr. Birch
spoke of the possibilities of gangrene and other
cheerful prospects. Therefore I went to a
Johannesburg doctor—an old friend, who married

THE EERSTE RIVER (UI'PER KEACHES)

THE EERSTE RIVER (JONKER’S HOEK)

EQUIPMENT FOR SOUTH AFRICA 229

the daughter of Captain Dunne (Hi Regan)—
and he put me under treatment, with the result
that I was soon better. It was eleven days after
the accident when I consulted him, and so deep
had been the wound that the bone was still bared.
The mark remains to this day.

Football boots with strips of leather across
the sole help to keep one from slipping on
slippery stones. Some fishermen always wear
leggings, if only to act as a guard against snake-
bites. There may be a heavy dew on the grass
first thing in the morning, in which case, if long
grass has to be encountered on the way to the
waterside, stout boots and leggings or long field
boots are obviously desirable.

It is a spacious country. In the dark you
can lose your way, with ease, and it is useful to
have a compass. Even a farmer friend, who had
been long in the country, after fishing the Umgeni
until dark, was returning, as he thought, to his
hostess’s house, when he suddenly realized that he
was in the farmyard of an adjoining farm, and near
the pigsty !

If you go fly-fishing with the sun on the
water you will no doubt get arm exercise and
possibly some scalies (unless you are on a length
with no scalies), but probably no trout. These
fish are then taking a siesta. This refers espe-
cially to Natal, where there are not many rainbows,
though some flourished in a little river at Tet-
worth, near Balgowan. In East Griqualand,
however, the rainbows—up to one pound in

230 THE TROUT ARE RISING

weight—rise merrily in the sunshine. If it isa
grey, cloudy day (in Natal) go by all means,
The best time with the artificial fly for big trout
in the summer is before breakfast and for half an
hour or an hour before sundown: the latter
period is bewitching when the trout are rising.
Keep out of sight. If there is only one tall blade
of grass by the riverside, get behind it for cover’s
sake. Never give up hope. When you do, give
up fishing. If you hook a trout for the first
time, and things go awry, experience will teach
you where you erred. Peg away until you a
land your first trout. Every fisherman, even of
the highest repute, was once at the stage where he
had not yet caught his first trout. To Theodore
Roosevelt is attributed a pithy, an inspiring state-
ment, “I put myself in the way of things happen-
ing, and they happened.” Some fishermen pride
themselves on getting their trout into the net
in extra quick time, which is all very well if the
fish does not get away in the process ; others—
for instance, Mr. K. Suter, one of the most
capable fly-fishermen in Natal—play their trout
until it has not a kick left in it.

An English angler, by the way, asks whether
the rule in South Africa is “up stream or down.”
One has a natural preference for the up stream
plan, but as a matter of fact experience shows
that advising it as a general rule for South Africa
would be a counsel of perfection. You can
effectively fish up stream, down stream, or across
stream. In other words, you must adapt yourself
to the conditions of the water on which you are.

NATAL’S EARLY TROUT

“What great events from little causes spring.”
(Old Proverb.)

XIX
NATAL’S EARLY TROUT

ODEST but thorough, describes the
\ /| attention paid by the authorities in
Natal, in the early days, to trout
acclimatization. Compared with the
work done in the Cape Colony, the preliminary
attempts in Natal were on a small scale. As
I have before said, to Mr. J. C. Parker more
than to any other is due the progress made there.
In the Cape Colony, as it then was (now it is a
Province), there were at least two hatcheries, one
at Pirie Bush, near Kingwilliamstown, and the
other at Jonker’s Hoek, Stellenbosch, near Cape-
town; at both of which institutions, Mr.
Chaplin, a professional pisciculturist, has done
devoted efficient work. Numerous indeed have
been the official supplies of ova from Jonker’s
Hoek to other parts of South Africa,

So much enjoyment has been received by
wielders of the fly-rod in Natal that a retrospect
can fittingly be made here. Many men on leaving
the homeland for Natal, have had hopes of finding
trout-fishing there. Of these hopeful wanderers
I myself was one. Our wishes in respect of

234 THE TROUT ARE RISING

trout-fishing in Natal have been fulfilled. For
to-day it is well established there, and it is
enjoyed to the full by farmer, townsman, and
visitor. What capital fishermen, too, were many
of the old Natal police, who, on days off, or even
on a few hours off if the river ran near their post,
used to revel in casting the fly ; no mean tackle
had they, either. Some distinguished officials too,
Colonial Governors and G.O.C.’s, have also had
happy hours with Natal trout.

Much of this, as indicated, is due to the early
work done by Mr. John Parker. Of course he re-
ceived sympathy and encouragement, but always he
was the life and soul of the movement. Coming in
1881 to Natal from Barnsley, Yorkshire, he settled
with his brother Edward at Tetworth, a typical
Colonial farm, about fifteen miles across country
from Howick, near Pietermaritzburg. Yorkshire-
men have amongst their loves horses and fishing.
Both appealed to Mr. John Parker. Regarding
the fishing and the possibilities of trout for Natal
—he soon began to make inquiry. The Field
is associated with the first steps taken. Requiring
advice how to proceed, he wrote to the editor of
that paper, who forwarded the letter to the late
Mr. Buckland, who in turn sent it to the late
Sir James Maitland, whose reply took the form
of a generous offer to supply ten thousand trout
ova, This offer was gratefully accepted. The
ova duly arrived—result, failure. Only eighteen
eggs hatched, and the alevins were so weak that
they soon succumbed. Again Mr, John Parker

NATAL’S EARLY TROUT 235

consulted Sir James Maitland. Another ten
thousand trout ova were most kindly sent.
Complete failure had to be recorded this time.

But the determined Yorkshireman does not
accept as final a preliminary set-back. In his
lexicon there is no such word as “fail.” Mr.
Parker induced the Natal Government to take
an interest in the possibilities of trout acclimatiza-
tion, and in 1889 they madea grant of £500 in
this direction. A committee was appointed, and
a site for the official hatchery was selected on a
farm between Balgowan and Lidgetton. The
hatchery box and filters, copied from the designs
in Sir James Maitland’s “‘ History of Howietoun,”
were erected under Mr. Parker’s superintendence.
The first ova under the Government regime arrived
in 1890, and between then and 1893 a number of
trout were reared and distributed in various Natal
rivers. Not satisfied, however, that the venture
justified further outlay, the Natal Government
stopped their grant in 1893. But Mr, Parker
did not abandon hope, and in 1899 a cheering
discovery was made. In some of the rivers, in
which distributions had been placed between 1890
and 1893, trout were thriving !

The number (9098, to be exact) of young
trout distributed in Natal rivers between 1890
and 1893 formed the basis of trout acclimatization
in Natal. More distributions were subsequently
made, but in point of fact the observed results of
those 9098 young trout induced the Natal
Government, even though they had temporarily

236 THE TROUT ARE RISING

dropped active attention to trout acclimatization,
to renew their interest in it, to sanction further
expenditure, and to encourage the movement
generally. When a reporter on the Natal
Witness, about nineteen years ago, I saw Mr.
Winter, then Colonial Secretary of the Natal
Government, at Pietermaritzburg, and it was a
pleasure to see that he was in complete sympathy
with the undertaking ; I remember well, even at
this distant date, how he pressed the point that
good trout fishing was not only an asset in itself
to a Colony, but also that it was a distinct source
of attraction to visitors.

The Natal Government now invited Mr.
Parker to superintend the hatcheries. His was
an honorary post, the Government paying out-of-
pocket expenses. The original plant was trans-
ferred to Tetworth, and was supplemented by
two stock ponds. The work flourished, and
as honorary superintendent Mr. Parker was
responsible for various distributions of trout in
different parts of Natal. The happy days which
anglers have had on the Mooi, the Umgeni, the
Bushman’s, and other Natal rivers are thus all
traceable to the pioneer work at Boschfontein
(where the plant originally was) and at Tetworth.

Eternal vigilance is the physical price of
success in running a trout hatchery. I recall
a day spent at Tetworth in 1901. Mr, Parker
took me to a spruit close to the farmstead, where
he had made a little dam, from which the water,
led away through a wooden spout, fell into the

NATAL’S EARLY TROUT 237

hatching box, 7 ft. long, 10 in. deep, 18 in. wide.
Across the lower end of the box was fastened
a perforated zinc screen to prevent the troutlets
escaping. In this hatching box were 110 trout
fry, hatched from ova supplied from the Cape.
The two stock ponds were each 30 ft. in length,
and 4 ft. wide; the depth could be altered from
2 ft. 6 in, to 4 ft. The object of the two stock
ponds was to rear trout from Natal-bred ova. In
one pond were fifty trout about eighteen months
old, fed daily on dog biscuit, What ravenous
appetites have hatchery trout! As soon as they
were fed, they were after the morsels of biscuit
like so many streaks of lightning, and apparently
not a particle could have gone undevoured. In
addition they got natural food in the water.
They looked a fine, vigorous lot of fish. In the
second stock pond were only two trout, half
a pound each, caught from the Umgeni. Origin-
ally there were five trout here, but an otter came,
and three obituary notices had to be written.
Such was the Tetworth hatchery in those early
days. Its work has long been accomplished,
handsomely, and Mr. John Parker can look back
with pride upon a fine achievement. The cost of
trout acclimatization to the Natal Government
was comparatively small. Good trout fishing was
available in the Umgeni and the Bushman’s rivers
before probably £2,500 had been spent. Sucha
record of success may be an incentive to other
colonies which have suitable waters but are not
yet committed to trout acclimatization. As a

238 THE TROUT ARE RISING

magnet to attract sporting visitors trout fishing
has real value. Moreover, once a wanderer has
been to a Colony and likes it, though he may not
stay at the time, he may later on return and settle.
If good trout fishing is to be had, it is a pull.
The Old Country is overcrowded. Anyhow one
gets that impression in London nowadays when
trying to board an omnibus or strap-hanging in
an underground railway. They tell us, too, that
the man who can find a house (the kind he wants)
to let, in London, or a provincial town, is one of
the world’s wonders, A vacant house in England
nowadays seems as welcome to house-seekers as
the biscuits were to those little trout at Tetworth,
and to produce rather similar manifestations of
eagerness! The call of the colonies should
become all the clearer with the homeland in so
congested a state.

Mr. Parker’s loyal, cheerfully-rendered ser-
vices were officially recognized, but he probably
enjoys his best reward in the realization that he
has been the means of providing healthy, whole-
some sport for his fellows. He has earned and
won the gratitude of colonists and sportsmen.
A man who is a keen trout fisherman and who
runs a trout hatchery must be unselfish, because
after a time he surely finds the personal zest of
catching trout diminished. He must be inclined,
one would think, to remember the anxiety and
labour connected with rearing the fish, and so to
regard catching wild ones as in a measure an
undoing of his own work,

ON THE MOOI OF NATAL

“I love any discourse of rivers and fishing; the time
spent in such discourse passes away very pleasantly.”

Izaak Watton: “The Compleat Angler.”

XX
ON THE MOOI OF NATAL

HE Mooi is one of four really good trout
rivers in Natal. The other three are the
Umgeni, the Bushman’s and the Loteni.
The Mooi used to be the most popular
not only with anglers in the old Garden Colony,
as Natal used to be called before legislature
promoted it, on 31st May, 1910, to the status of
a Province, but also with anglers farther afield.
In Johannesburg, for instance, its fame is
established. From Park, the principal ‘station at
Johannesburg, golfers go, when on holiday, to
the Kowie, Cape Province; those who love the
seaside make for Natal in winter, and for favourite
haunts in Cape Province in summer; anglers
generally make it their starting point for Notting-
ham Road, Natal, to fish the Mooi.

On leaving Johannesburg for an angling trip
in Natal you feel much as you would were youa
hard-worked professional or business man in
London awaiting at Paddington or King’s Cross
a train to bear you away on a fishing holiday to
Devonshire or Scotland. Of course, you get no
salmon in South Africa, yet if it is late September,

R

242 THE TROUT ARE RISING

or early October, and the blessed rains have fallen,
it is grateful to see from your railway carriage
window, instead of a land dried-up by winter, the
fresh, green grass of the Natal veld. England’s
green fields contrast with similar charm with the
arid London streets.

The Mooi was stocked by the Natal Govern-
ment in 1899, and its upper reaches—from
Rosetta upwards—are distinguished for attractive
trout-fishing. Both Loch Levens and ordinary
brown trout were introduced, One has only to
realize how, on many a hard-fished stream of
England, one could work all day and be satisfied
with two brace of trout, to appreciate at its full
value the fact that on the Mooi on a good day
you may get your four, five, or even six brace.
My best day was six-and-a-half brace. Many
anglers get much bigger bags. And such trout,
too! Fat as butter, and rare fighters. A half-
pounder will often put up such a gallant fight
that, should he free himself from the hook, the
generous sportsman will say: ‘ He deserved his
liberty.”

Those who christened the river the Mooi
(the Dutch word for beautiful) knew the value of
an adjective. Thrice does the name occur in
South African river nomenclature : once in Natal,
once in the Transvaal, and once in East Griqualand,
The Natal Mooi is the best for trout. Often,
when fishing, does one pause to take in its rugged
beauty. AA fine river is often the most arresting
feature of a landscape. The Mooi ministers to a

ON THE MOOI OF NATAL 243

fertile stretch of land in Natal. Just above
Rosetta farm, after which the railway station is
named, the Mooi widens considerably for a
stretch. Three or four great ledges of rocks
spanning the river, over and down which the
water comes, look like nature’s staircases.
Cascades and miniature waterfalls are frequent,
in this part ; and the current, except in the still,
silent pools, is steady, though not so swift as the
Bushman’s. The Mooi, which is a trifle wider
than the Bain in Wensleydale, Yorkshire, is a
fishable river. You can get to its banks so easily.
You do not have to war your way through gigantic
grasses as is—or was—sometimes the case on the
Umgeni ; mighty water-reeds, such as are some-
times met with on the Bushman’s, are few and far
between ; and water much overhung with bushes
like that occasionally found in Cape Province is
the exception.

Happy is my recollection of an angling holiday
spent on the Natal Mooi one September. Rosetta
was my station, ‘Those who chose the names of
railway stations in Natal did their work admir-
ably. Restfulness itself is suggested by many
of the names—Sweet Waters, Avoca, Rosetta,
Cedara, and so forth; some of them eloquent
reminders of auld lang syne.

The first trout of the trip—the tangible
reward of that fascinating putting-together of the
tackle—was caught near Rosetta station, a spot
comparatively little fished then, because it was
thought that trout had not come down from

244 THE TROUT ARE RISING

"Berg way in any numbers, Yet there they
were. It was a half-pounder only, but as he
entered the landing net, he seemed enough and
pretty enough to revive “the magical rites of
reminiscence.” He was taken on a fly called the
“ butcher ”—unromantic name, simply suggestive
of slaying. Why could it not have been called
somebody or other’s Fancy? Killing fly as it is,
it does not always score. Mr. David Smythe, a
son of a former Premier of Natal, told me he
was out the previous afternoon with two flies on
his cast, the butcher and the woodcock-wing-and-
hare’s-ear. The fly which did all the business
was the woodcock-and-hare’s-ear ; the butcher
had no orders at all from the trout. That after-
noon Mr. Smythe landed seven trout, weighing
thirteen pounds. A fine basket they must have
been, judging by the brace I saw, after the other
five fish had been distributed among neighbours.
They were caught in a reach which lies, roughly
speaking, between Kamberg and Rosetta.

I only paid a brief visit to the river in the
morning when the butcher had claimed my first
trout, and did not fish again until sundown, when
No. 2 came to the net, a fitting mate for the
other. Colour was lent to its capture because it
was foul-hooked on the head-side of the dorsal
fin. It played very gamely, as all trout thus
oddly hooked do. Higher up, but still below
the picturesque Falls, trout occur in plenty, but
it is a case of (to venture on parody) :

“‘ With here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a scaly,”

ON THE MOOI OF NATAL 245

Above the Falls there are no scalies, and there
the trout reigns supreme. The scaly of Natal
reminds me of the dace of England. The trout
above the Falls, where there are no scalies, have
smaller, more refined heads than the trout below.

Really, when you come to look at the tiny
hook concealed by the dainty dressing called a
fly, and when you examine the fine cast of gut,
what a lot of luck there seems about the business,
Sometimes the hook holds ; sometimes the trout
in his dash at the fly misses the business part.
One morning on the Mooi I missed four trout,
straight off. The next rise resulted in the trout
being hooked so firmly that he would have stayed
on until Doomsday. No doubt the luckiest man
is he who always keeps his tackle in order. But
even with sound tackle there are sorrows as well
as joys in the game. One afternoon I played a
trout for fifteen minutes, timed faithfully by a
friend on the bank, and lost the fish, On the
cast were two flies, to the other of which a scaly
had attached himself. It was pull devil, pull
baker. Only the scaly was landed! Another
time, after the usual hard play, what appeared to
be a pound and a half trout was being coaxed to
the landing net, when the hook gave.

But on two occasions my luck was beyond
dispute. One grey morning, with a clouded sky
through which no sun penetrated, the fly was
smartly seized on a rapid. Line was freely taken,
and five minutes fairly flew by, without even a
glimpse of the fish to show what-like he was.

246 THE TROUT ARE RISING

Then, with a gradually lessening line, a fine trout
came in sight, and at last, completely exhausted,
he was received into the landing net. His weight
proved to be 2 Ibs. On the other great occasion,
the capture went a single ounce better. This
was at the magic hour of sundown, just prior to
packing up on the Friday for the Rand. Ambi-
tion suggested an effort to land a good-sized
trout to take back to Johannesburg for evidence,
as the lawyers say. A little earlier, a big one had
been lost. He had broken the cast just above
the tail fly, on which he had been hooked, leaving
an unwanted scaly on the second fly, and the torn
mouth of the scaly showed what a tragedy tandem
driving had been to him. So in order to try and
even things, I carried on with one fly only, the
good old March brown. Very soon a good trout
was pricked, but was no sooner on than off.
Then, a few casts later, the hook went into
another. Demanding much line, away he sped
into the pool, for he had seized the fly at the tail
of the rapid, always a desirable spot to try with
wet fly. It had been an unlucky pool, for I had
lost several hard-pulling trout there, but this time
confidence came with the knowledge that only
one fly was on, and that therefore no scaly could
be a spoil-sport. All the confidence was wanted
when he began to leap out of the water—what must
these trout be like in Leap Year? Lowering the
rod was the instant treatment. At last he rolled
over on his back, and was landed, a perfect trout.
No sooner was he in the landing net than the

ON THE MOOI OF NATAL 247

hook worked itself out—an instance of fisher-
man’s luck of the better kind. Two pounds
thirteen ounces was what he weighed, and, well
salted and peppered and with the vein near the
backbone removed, he “kept,’ and made a
delicious item on a Johannesburg breakfast table
on the Sunday morning. Trout up to four
pounds and even five pounds have been caught
towards Kamberg, so the aforesaid brace were
comparative youngsters,

These were all real “days in the country.”
Once my kind host sent me an Indian coolie to
act as gillie. When a trout was hooked, this gillie
showed remarkable interest in the proceedings,
He even used the landing net well. When, as
sometimes happened, a trout got off when being
played, he would say: “Of, Boss !”—a mixture
of sympathy and gentle reproach. It was, how-
ever, preferable to the remark of a home gillie to
a friend who had the misfortune to part company
with a big fish: “And has your honour lost
him?” One day was specially worthy of the
description I have given. To a novice who had
to do thirty miles on horseback there came sore
realization that it was indeed a day in the
country. Two farmer friends were my congenial
companions, and one of them knew the best place.
So we rode on. There was frequent temptation
to dismount and try some likely spot, but the ride
was continued steadily, with “the hobgoblin castles
of the Drakensberg,” as the late W. G. Steevens
called them, in the distance. Once, when we were

248 THE TROUT ARE RISING

overlooking the river from a height, the Mooi
shaped itself like a horseshoe: and there was
constant music from its rapids. When we reached
our destination at midday, luncheon was sug-
gested, but this seemed an encroachment on
valuable time with such trout water before us.
The younger farmer decided to have two or three
casts, just to soak his gut, and almost immediately
a bright-hued trout was leaping in the water. The
angler kept a tight line on him, and a beautiful
fish bordering on two pounds was presently landed.
Luncheon, always good by the riverside, was soon
dispatched, and the attractive fishing was con-
tinued. That day the host got six trout weighing
eight pounds, the younger farmer seven weighing
ten and three-quarter pounds, while I came last
with three of three and a half pounds. My third
trout, too, was caught in the last few minutes.
The rise had almost ceased, and then “ Cotswold
Isys’s” words about the coachman fly came to
mind, viz. :—
“ But if vainly for trout you strive,
At gloaming never despair,

Call on your coachman to give them a drive,
And he will not want a fare,”

Accordingly, a coachman was substituted as
leader fly, and a fare was soon forthcoming, this
trout being one pound and a half. The host
called it a bad day. A good day there must be
worth having! A ride back across country brought
us to the farmstead where a Colonial welcome,
typical of the whole visit, awaited us; and you

ON THE MOOI OF NATAL 249

can imagine how pleasant were good company,
a good supper, and rest after so strenuous a day.

Flies recommended for the Mooi river are
March brown, woodcock-and-hare’s-ear, Sarcelle
whisk tail, Hardy’s favourite, Vaughan’s fancy,
red palmer, butcher, and coachman at sundown.
A fly tipped with bright red is generally attractive.
If you go thither, good luck go with you. And
again I call on “ Cotswold Isys”’ :—

“ May coming days be best of all,
And fuller fill thy creel ;
And richer spoil reward thy toil
With music from the reel,”

FOUR YEARS LATER

“ Welcome these pleasant days.”
SHAKESPEARE.

XXI
FOUR YEARS LATER

ITTLE or no sun _ greeted the opening
day. It was in fact cloudy, and on the

Mooi was that ripple which maketh glad
the heart of the wet-fly fisherman. On
sunless water there cannot be the usual shadow;
trout are apprehensive of shadows. To the butcher
and the woodcock-and-hare’s-ear trout soon rose,
but were quickly missed in the old sweet way.
Each time the turn of the wrist was a fraction
of a second too late. Had the hand lost its
cunning? At last, after an hour’s honest fishing,
a half-pounder hooked itself, and, after a game
struggle, was received into the net; two more
trout were caught soon afterwards, Each fish was
in the pink of condition. Steady fishing, as time
wore on, added two more to the bag, and the
tally then stopped—total, five trout, averaging
half a pound each. It was clear that August rst
was justified as opening day. Trout could scarcely
have been in better condition.
One of the five trout had what might be fairly
termed an “appetite.” He had gone gamely for
the fly, and, on being landed, emitted a frog !

254 THE TROUT ARE RISING

This frog, whose wooing was thus for ever
finished, was looking generally pale, and ready
for digestion by the trout, but its form was still
complete. One man to whom this little incident
was related said he could never fancy trout if
frogs were their food. As against this, it is
contended in some quarters that even frogs them-
selves are a delicacy ; in fact, when certain
Transvaal delegates to the South African Nation
Convention were established at Belmont, Ronde-
bosch, near Capetown, early in 1909, and were
treated in the course of dinner one evening to
a dish described as “ snow-chicken,” eulogy of the
dainty was pronounced, Secrets of the Convention
must of course not be given away: nevertheless,
if the author of that delightful South African book,
* Jock of the Bushveld” (Sir Percy FitzPatrick),
should write personal reminiscences in lighter
vein, it may be that he will include a little narra-
tive about (a) certain artless instructions to a
chef; (4) their execution, in entire simplicity ;
(c) the appearance at dinner of “ snow-chicken ” ;
(2) its main constituents.

It is generally held that in a South African
river, in the competition between trout and scalies
for a living, the trout has the best of it. Large
numbers of scalies, however, are found in this
part of the Mooi, and they made their debut for
the season under notice on August 14th. Earlier
in the year, when it was frosty weather, hundreds
of dead scalies were found floating about in the
Mooi, in the Rosetta Station district. No evidence

FOUR YEARS LATER 255

of poisoning could be traced, and the suggestion
was made that the severe frost was responsible for
the mortality. The catastrophe, however, did not
appreciably lessen the number of scalies; on the
contrary, they seemed to be more numerous than
four years earlier. “Only a scaly!” is your
deprecatory exclamation when you find you have
one on, and are seeking higher game in the shape
of trout. Yet, after this visit, the scaly has com-
pelled respect if only for the plucky fight he
invariably puts up when hooked on the fly. This
fish fights stoutly to a finish. The difference
between his rise and that of a trout is worth
noting. The trout’s rise is all business, a simple
gulping of the fly, accompanied often by a distinct
“chop” in the water, followed instantly by a
smart run and sometimes by a screaming of the
reel, owing to the demand for line. When the
scaly rises, there is an innocent dimpling of the
water, much as if the fly is being sucked-in. It is
not unlike the rise of the grayling. A little later,
though, fury is rampant.

A scaly’s rise and subsequent behaviour
remind me of the police constable’s prisoner
who says, “I'll go quietly,” and then the next
moment becomes violent, showing himself “ ob-
streperous,” to quote the police court term. Not
only does the scaly play well, but also, properly
prepared, he eats well. Of course the bones are
a nuisance, but, nicely baked, then vinegared,
then fried, and garnished with salt and pepper
superadded, the scaly is a palatable dish ; though

256 THE TROUT ARE RISING

naturally the trout is preferred at the table,
because, in addition to the nourishing goodness
of his flesh, there is so little trouble over the
bones, once the backbone is removed. Fried or
boiled, trout are a delicacy. At one house on the
Bushman’s river I found a course of trout, boned
and rolled, and then baked, which was a positive
feast.

Though there are always incidental differences,
of course, yet one day’s fly-fishing on a river like
the Mooi, when it is in normal condition, is much
like another. No great records were aimed at,
and at intervals a day was not spent at the river
at all, or only an hour or so might be put in.
The total bag, therefore, was modest, a period of
nearly a month yielding fifty-two trout. The
number was small, but the average weight was
about half a pound, and anyhow the bag included
delightful additions in the shape of health and
happiness.

One day was red-lettered. The bag totalled
a baker’s dozen, and twice there was a double
event, that is to say, two trout on the cast at once,
one on each of the two flies in use, The first
time, when the duet was just about to be con-
cluded, and indeed when one trout was already in
the net, the other trout gave a long pull and a
strong pull and got its mate out of the net.
Eventually one of them got off, the other one
(the smaller) being finally netted. On the other
occasion both trout were secured, and one was a
good pounder. Experience by the earlier adven-

FOUR YEARS LATER 257

tures had taught me that attention with the net
should be first directed to the big one. That
done, the other, a half-pounder, could be coaxed
on to dry land without being netted.

A feature on another day was the occurrence
on a shallow stretch of river of a bewildering rise
of trout, which were feeding as if they had been
hungry all their days and as if this was to be their
only meal for years. The fly on the water was what
is called the Mooi moth in its artificial form, and
it was out in myriads. A blue dun is not unlike
it in appearance. Next day came a heavy snow-
storm. The hatch of fly would seem to have
anticipated it, and to have preferred being snapped
up by trout to perishing miserably in the snow.

Killing flies for the Mooi in August are the
butcher, Zulu, hare’s ear, Hardy’s favourite, brown
palmer, woodcock-and-hare’s-ear, teal and yellow,
blue dun, Mooi moth, and (in the evening, or
on a windy day) the coachman. I used fine gut,
and the hook was generally No. 12, which is
excellent for rapids or busy water, but too large
for still water, where it is so desirable for the fly
to fall like a snowflake ; a splash puts down trout
at once.

In August you will probably find early visits
to the Mooi river profitless—it is too cold—
while the evening rise in all its magic, resembling
a May-fly carnival in the meadow streams of
England, does not come on until September and
later.

Fish or no fish, it is fascinating by Mooi-side

s

258 THE TROUT ARE RISING

in the “ tassel-time of Spring.” You may see the
Drakensberg, with its Giant’s Castle and its
Champagne Castle. At set of sun the tips of the
mountain heights are as molten gold, while the
"Berg otherwise is a calm, soft blue; right under-
neath by way of contrast, is a patch of veld
transformed to a dull black by fire-guards (grass
burnt in order to prevent accidental fires spread-
ing), while in another direction fire-guards
themselves, serpent-like tracts of golden flame,
are ablaze. Blue smoke ascends from a farmstead
here and there, and all around cattle browse. It is
indeed a pastoral picture oversea.

The miracle of spring brings out the willows
in a dress of freshest, daintiest green, all the
more attractive because the veld generally has
not yet wholly lost its sun-scorched appearance.
Herons, kingfishers, and an occasional brace of
wild duck are to be seen. Once, at the darken-
ing, of short duration in South Africa, an otter
was disturbed; he made off, then suddenly
stopped in shallow water, turned round and
issued a challenge, as it were, like a great cat
spitting out its anger. Towards the end of that
August snow fell heavily. Then the peach trees,
already advanced in pink blossom, became
powdered with white.

A ’BERG TROUT STREAM

“Yon torrent foaming down the granite steep,

Sparkles all brilliance in the setting beam ;

Dark glens beneath in shadowy beauty sleep,
Where pipes the goatherd by his mountain stream.”

Mrs, Hemans.

XXII
A ’BERG TROUT STREAM

~ROM< the carriage window of the railway

train the traveller espies near Estcourt, in

Natal, a river gleaming white in the valley.

This is the Bushman’s, which has its
source in the Drakensberg mountains, and speeds
onward through hilly country. Even when not
in flood its current is rapid. In flood-time it is
excessively busy. Slightly wider than the Umgeni,
it is not so broad as the Mooi; but, proportion-
ately, it appears to hold more water than the
Mooi, To stock all the tempting and even ideal
haunts that the Bushman’s offers them trout
would need to be legion. There is indeed room
for them there, and happily both Loch Levens and
brownies are doing their best to occupy it. The
trout are not so numerous as in the Mooi, but
for all that the Bushman’s is a fine fishing river,
and the way in which the stock has progressed
there must be a source of gratification to the
Natal Government of the old days and to their
honorary “trout man,” Mr. John Parker, of
Tetworth, who distributed the fry at Robinson’s
drift, a score of miles from Estcourt, at about the
same time as the Mooi also received troutlets—in

262 THE TROUT ARE RISING

1899. The trout in the Bushman’s have certainly
gone up-stream, towards the preat Berg; they have
also gone down-stream, but not in the same num-
bers. Bushman’s trout are grand fighters, which,
in such wholesome, lively water, is not surprising.

Apart from the actual fishing, the scenery is
often majestic—Tabamhlope (an isolated peak),
for instance. On the upward journey, by Cape
cart, from Estcourt, the "Berg was tipped with
snow, and it was curious later on to have warm
sunny days and still to see that lining of snow on
the Drakensberg. With snow in the water it
was some little time before the river fined; in the
process, though, occasional sport was to be had,
generally in a rapid. As a matter of fact, with
the river still swollen, the first visit yielded a nice
trout. He had advertised himself by rising to a
natural fly, was seen, and succumbed to a coach-
man, a fly found effective for the evening rise, and,
if a south wind blew, in the daytime, too. Each
succeeding day saw the water clearer—the visit
covered ‘the latter part of August and beginning
of September—and sport steadily improved.

One surprise was that in certain ideal-looking
rapids, here and there, not a rise to the artificial
fly could be won. Some of these rapids seemed
to be regarded traditionally as blank places.
Other rapids rarely failed to yield a trout. With
such a frequency of rapids there was not only the
sharp water to fish, but also plenty of those choice
spots beloved of every wet-fly man, where the
foaming rush tails off into the pool :

A ’BERG TROUT STREAM 263

“Just in the dubious point, where with the pool
Is mixed the trembling stream.”

Curiously enough, the heaviest individual
trout of the visit was the least game. He
weighed a pound and a quarter, but was thin;
for his size he should have had four more ounces.
It was the beginning of an afternoon’s fly-fishing,
and this trout could be seen on the feed in some
still water. Obviously, he was worth trying for.
The first cast never got to him ; the tail fly had
hooked up in long grass behind, and stayed there.
With a big trout inviting attention, there was no
time to tie on another fly, so a second cast was
made with only a dropper (blue upright). The
fly was taken at once, and the trout played steadily,
almost lazily. Then he gave two upward leaps
that would have done credit to a performing seal ;
these two aerial excursions seemed quickly to ex-
haust him, and in two minutes or so he was netted.

A thrilling little adventure was supplied by
another trout, safely landed at the foot of a steep
bank and near a bush. Fascination was lent to
the incident because it meant casting from a reed-
covered bank—and right over the high reeds.
Trout seem to patronize apparently inaccessible
spots by instinct. But it seemed just possible,
owing to the ascending bank, to throw over the
reeds, and anyhow, it was worth a sporting effort,
as trout were rising gaily in the still, deep water.
The cast dropped beautifully two or three times
without response. But at last a trout rose and
was hooked. Away he went right across the
river, the reel singing out musically. It seemed

264 THE TROUT ARE RISING

as if the father of all Bushman’s trout was on.
Yet, when the fish appeared on the surface—some
time before being beaten—it was clear that he did
not exceed a pound weight. The secret was ex-
plained on his nearing the net; he was foul-
hooked in the anal fin.

Another time, a trout of some three-quarters of
a pound was hooked, and on the line being reeled in
he simply spun round and round in the water like
a teetotum. He, too, was foul-hooked—close to
the tail, Further details cannot be given, because
just about netting-time he made a last furious
effort, which gave him his liberty. I said—no, I
said nothing. I remembered, however, the story
of the American. He had just lost a real big one
and he called the attention of a friend, with whom
he was fishing, to a foaming, savage rapid, saying :
“You see that! Well, it mildly represents the
internal situation |”

New grass was peeping through the fire-burnt
patches, and gradually the veld was greening.
Lawns of freshest grass sloped here and there, and
willows attained to perfection of verdure, An hour
before sundown, if nowind wasblowing,a great calm
came. Infinite peace reigned in those vast spaces.

Some excellent fly-fishermen farm alongside
the Bushman’s. They are men who understand
the ways of a trout, use fine, sound tackle, cast a
fly with judgment, and strike, hook, and play their
fish in good style. Useful flies are the Mooi
moth, governor, coachman, a fly known locally as
Kerr’s special, teal and yellow, woodcock-and-
hare’s-ear, blue upright, and Hardy’s favourite.

THE RAINBOWS OF EAST
GRIQUALAND

“The spritely infusion of chance.”
Cuartes Lams: “ Essays of Elia.”

XXIII

THE RAINBOWS OF EAST
GRIQUALAND

A CHEERFUL, philosophic comrade is a

cause for thankfulness on a fishing trip.

Your companion makes or mars its social

or fraternal side. Luck came my way
on a visit to East Griqualand. My friend’s cha-
racter can be inferred from the fact that, after a
poor start by both of us, he gaily but stoutly
insisted : “It will be better further on,” That
proved literally correct, and the fact strengthened
his cheerfulness. His philosophy reached its
highest point, perhaps, when, in a weak moment,
I announced from the waterside: “I keep look-
ing for snakes.” ‘* Why look for them?” he
sagely inquired.

From busy Johannesburg, East Griqualand
seemed a far cry. Ugie and Maclear, it is true,
were referred to in the South African Railways
publicity book on trout fishing, but the difficulty in
Johannesburg was to meet with anybody who had
fished there. So we decided to go and take our
luck, just as it came. Maxims such as “ A wise

268 THE TROUT ARE RISING

man maps out his steps before he begins his
journey ” were swept overboard, and we resolved
that should things go amiss there would be no
rebellious spirit. We (my friend is on the Johan-
nesburg Stock Exchange) were buoyed up with
hopes of what Charles Lamb called the “ spritely
infusion of chance.”

It is a long journey from the Rand to Ugie,
but who ever knew a journey dull to anglers pro-
ceeding on a holiday? If you leave Johannesburg
on a Saturday night, you find yourself at Bloem-
fontein early on the Sabbath; you pass through
Springfontein later in the day, and before sundown
you arrive at Stormberg : thence the line proceeds
to Sterkstroom, where, after dinner and a short wait,
the journey is resumed the same night on the
Indwe-Maclear line. Maclear is the terminus.
When, on the Indwe-Maclear line, you look out
of the window soon after sunrise, you are greeted
with a sight as fair as any in this surprising country.
Especially after rain is the scene worth beholding.
The eye feasts on kopje after kopje, cafions lying
between, and a rolling panorama of wide veld
downs. At Elliott, a hill-embosomed village,
breakfast is announced, the train waiting while
three rival ’buses, whose drivers keenly ply for
patrons, convey passengers to the hostelry which
provides the meal and back. It is all very simple,
old-fashioned and enjoyable. Usually, meals are
served on the train in South Africa, but on this
branch line the catering is or was omitted. Break-
fast over, and the journey resumed, more moun-

RAINBOWS OF EAST GRIQUALAND 269

tainous scenery rejoices the eye. One feels, as it
were, in the presence of primeval shapings, nature
in her rude beginnings, and then—Ugie! Justa
stationmaster’s cottage and the limited structures
attached to a small rural railway station, together
with a few trees, that is Ugie, baldly described.
No hamlet can be seen, for it is a good half-mile
away, concealed below a slope. The event of the
day is the arrival of the train. Ugie station was
explained by a dweller on the spot: “ After the
train has gone, it is the silence of death.”

To the town-dweller, weary of bricks and
mortar, of the rushing motor-car and its offspring
the motor-bicycle, of clanging tramcar and of
unceasing telephone, this is just the place ; to him,
seeking rest, it is not the silence of death, but of
tranquillity and content. Inhaling grateful gulps
of oxygen, he gains strength as he communes with
mother nature.

All the while, though, he wonders, What of
the rivers? Whatofthetrout? The first river is
the Wildebeeste (fishing this and other local rivers
necessitates a ten-shilling licence), which is only a
couple of hundred yards from the hotel at Ugie,
and the spot one’s mind first fastens on is the big
bridge, a worthy piece of workmanship by the
Public Works Department of its day, The village
is just a large farmhouse, as it were ; and the day
on which we arrived was Ugie’s washing day, which
means that Kaffir women were busy doing laundry
work in the river, just by the bridge. At this spot
there seemed likely places for trout ; but the coloured

270 THE TROUT ARE RISING

folk were in possession, and an array of snowy linen
on the bank testified to strenuous hours, It recalled
an incident of old Severn days, when one of our
party, arrived at a promising spot only to find a
washerwoman in possession, inquired if there were
not other places in the river where she could do
her washing, only to receive in reply the poser:
“ And aren’t there plenty of other places where
you can do your fishing ?”

It is good to see such a river—perennial, too
—as the Wildebeeste. Free from bushes, it was
easy to fish, though no better in this respect than
the Mooi of Natal. Current and colour were
alike good, and already we felt glad at having
trusted to the “ spritely infusion.” Nevertheless,
three or four days’ fishing yielded but little sport,
though an hour before sunset small rainbows rose
freely at practically any wet fly. However, new
fishing grounds were calling to us from Maclear ;
so, with Ugie held in reserve for a return visit, off
we went by the winding railway to Maclear, well
known to Witwatersrand mining circles as a
recruiting depdét for native labour. Two ’buses
plied for patrons of the two hotels at Maclear.
Long mail-cart journeys by road are a feature of
the country. We had been lucky at Ugie in
meeting anglers and the same luck was with us at
Maclear. Incidentally we met a rector, a Devon-
shire man, in whom was a love of all men,
especially fishermen. This good man was indeed
helpful. At the same time we met a descendant,
Manley by name, of the settlers of 1820 (Eastern

RAINBOWS OF EAST GRIQUALAND 271

Division of Cape Province). In the 1911 season,
when the Mooi river, East Griqualand, was first
opened, Mr. Manley landed, on the fly, over two
hundred rainbow trout, each over 2 lbs, We
had no luck at all on our one visit to the Mooi,
and were sorry chiefly because of the disappoint-
ment to the sergeant-major (a Surrey man) of the
district police force, who had himself taken much
trouble in the hope of ensuring sport for us, and
who was a true brother to all anglers. On this
river in April, 1914, the late Major the Hon, C.
B. Mitford, who fell gloriously in France, Captain
Houston, and Sir Basil Brooke had wonderful
sport. They also fished the Wildebeeste. Their
total bag on a short holiday was one hundred
trout weighing one hundred and fifty-five pounds,
They put back all trout under one pound.

From Maclear it was our fortune to proceed
by Cape cart to new headquarters, a farmhouse in
the direction of the Drakensberg. Our baskets now
began to assume some importance. A couple of
hundred yards from the homestead was a stream,
the little Pot, and it was full of iridescent rainbows.
They were real Afrikanders, loving the sun.
Morning, noon, evening, they rose to the wet fly,
any fly. My friend from Aberdeen was justified
in his hopefulness, It was proving better further
on. These rainbows, averaging about half a
pound, fought so furiously, that a man of Devon
might have thought himself back on Dartmoor or
Exmoor. A son of Usk might have remembered
Brecon. Once I saw a good rise over what

272 THE TROUT ARE RISING

looked like a watercress bed. A Zulu fly
secured this trout and he weighed exactly 1 lb.
Higher up the stream was a valley so picturesque
that it was promptly christened Lorna Doone
glen. Here, in mountainous surroundings, the
water ran deeper, the trout somewhat bigger ;
though the only real alderman touched was one
risen by the Scotsman who, when I rejoined him
near the spot, was saying little, but thinking
deeply. He had hooked a big trout in a pool
by a rock, and after he had played the fish
for a minute or so the line came back—the hook
had broken, Asked if he had committed himself
verbally, he owned up like a man, and when
some of the grief had passed away he estimated
his fish at between 3 Ibs, and 4 lbs,

Happy days were those spent on this farm,
with its stretch of three or four miles of fishing ;
and for a holiday nothing could be better than the
wholesomeness of the country, with the peace that
was spread over all. When caves occurred near the
water, rock pigeons were sometimes to be heard.
Their call (“love in search of a word’’) corre-
sponding as it does to the cooing of the wood-
pigeon, carried the listener to quiet English
woods. In the Lorna Doone glen were caves on
whose sides bushmen’s paintings were to be seen,
wild animals, and other reminders of the chase,
being depicted on the rude canvas. When the
time came to leave—and we had a warm Colonial
welcome to stay longer—it was with regret that
we went. The kindness of our two young

RAINBOWS OF EAST GRIQUALAND 273

hosts, bachelor brothers and sturdy Colonials, had
been thoughtful and constant.

The feature of the rainbow trout was their
willingness to rise to the fly; maybe, time will
bring them more discretion, and perhaps more
ability to spurn such a lure. Be that as it may,
they rose right well when we were there, and a
basket of good takable trout, say five or six brace
in a few hours, was an easy matter.

From the farm back to Maclear, and thence to
Ugie for Christmastide and the New Year, was
the programme. At Ugie it was our special
fortune to be invited to a veld picnic. A South
African picnic with a large ox-wagon as transport
is something not to miss. With congenial com-
panions you leave the calendar behind you. You
are grateful for the open air, the fresh food, the
tea made at the open fires, the good-will, the
kindliness of your friends. During our picnic we
outspanned on the return journey for a few hours
by the Wildebeeste, and a brief visit to the river
by two rods yielded a trio of trout in the pink of
condition. Cooked on the spot, these provided a
veld meal as delicious as wit of chef could devise.

When we were at Inxu Falls—a pool on the
Wildebeeste about seventy yards wide, and a
favourite haunt of 3 lb. rainbows, which -at times
rise to the Jock Scott, Durham Ranger, and similar
flies—a native caught our horses for us when we
were about to saddle up, and was rewarded with a
small bonsella (present); he came towards the
donor with hand extended, in a manner suggestive

T

274 THE TROUT ARE RISING

of designs upon his watch-chain. A friend, how-
ever, knowing the custom, explained that the
native merely wished to kiss the hand, which was
his way of saying “ Thank you.”

The love of litigation is strong in the Kaffir.
In a local case, the trouble was over a fowl,
valued at sixpence. The Kaffir who had sued for
this sixpence lost his case: took it to appeal, lost
again: then took it to a still higher court—and
won! It cost him fifty pounds altogether. But
he evidently thought it all worth while, judging
by the triumph with which on the final verdict
being delivered he turned to his adversary and
said in his native tongue: “I have thrust into
you an assegai !”

The effect of music on Kaffirs is interesting.
The gramophone, of course, is a stand-by in some
remote places where other music would be im-
possible. One morning one of these instruments
began on the record of Sir Edward Elgar’s “ Land
of Hope and Glory.” At the moment, a Kaffir
shepherd was driving some sheep far up a steep
hill opposite. As soon as the music—it was
the glorious voice of Clara Butt—began to
ring out, the native suddenly stopped. Then he
quickly turned round. It was as if he had seen
a vision. He listened intently. The thrilling
solo continued ; and the man at the gramophone,
observing the native’s attitude, turned the mouth of
the instrument right in his direction. Apparently
recognizing that the music was thus meant for him,
the Kaffir bared his head and stood listening with
a reverent wonder which was very impressive.

OLD JOYS IN NEW PLACES

“Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?”

Burns.

XXIV
OLD JOYS IN NEW PLACES

N omnivorous reader once declared that he
could read Dickens again for the first
time. The Irishry of this will be under-
stood. By the same token, in the angling

world, one may seem to come fascinatingly near
to catching one’s first trout again! The recipe
for this enterprise is: First, in boyhood’s days,
rise, strike, play and land your first trout at home.
The memory of the juvenile hopes and fears
before that leaping trout became actually yours,
the exultation of “landed-at-last,” all the details,
will be marked brightly in the mental storehouse.
Many and much bigger trout may be yours in
the homeland, in after years; but never will that
very first trout be forgotten.

Second item in the recipe: travel to, or
take up your abode in, one of His Majesty’s
Dominions overseas, where there are trout. Go
trout fishing. You will then feel you are going
to catch your first trout again! That was how I
regarded it.

True, you caught your first trout in England,

278 THE TROUT ARE RISING

Scotland, Wales or Ireland, years ago: yet here
you are overseas, experiencing the same sensation,
all the eager, boyish delight, once more ; and, when
you have caught your first trout in your adopted
Colony or Dominion, you will verily feel you have
“caught your first trout again!” The youthful
joy comes back in its freshness. You are a boy
again! ‘The trout is examined, and looked at,
and looked at again. The old appealing details are
there, though the setting is so different. -You
will enjoy the incident all the more if you feel
you are part and parcel of your adopted new
country. You will feel that it is good to have
trout fishing in your néw home. You will realize
happily that more triumphs may await you. You
will say that trout fishing is so good for your
health, as indeed it is. Some might give greater
honour to the first salmon, the first mahseer, or
the first tarpon, but to me the capture of the first
trout in a British Dominion seems the second big
occasion ; the landing of the very first trout in
the little stream at home, in boyhood’s days,
must always remain the first. That is why I say
you may catch your first trout again when you
are overseas.

Well do I remember my “first trout again,”
I had gone down from Johannesburg to the
River Umgeni in Natal. The spot to be fished
was remote from the railway—Dargle Road was
the nearest station—and from the farmhouse
where I was staying nobody fished, at the time.
I was given directions how to get to the river.

THE WEX RIVER, NEAR WORCESTER~—A TRANSVAAL STREAM

OLD JOYS IN NEW PLACES 279

Hard and determinedly I fished all that afternoon.
Not a sign of trout was to be seen. Having
covered a mile, I came to the Dargle Falls, not
far from which spot was a Natal Police station,
near Selsley Farm. Then the secret was ex-
plained. On the side of the Falls where I had
been ceaselessly casting the wet fly, there were no
trout, or at any rate very few, then. They were,
in those days, concentrated in the length on the
other side of the Falls. Nightfall would soon
come, but there was yet time on the other side of
the Falls, and then, near the white bridge of happy
memory, was to be seen a satisfying sight: trout
rising ! By the time I got to work it was nearly
dark, but good fortune sent the fly right over a
rising trout, which took it. It was not a good
light, and the trout fought fiercely ; how I did
hope I should steer him clear of those rushes! I
did so want to catch my first trout again! At
last he came towards the landing net, and was
gathered in. My first trout in England, described
in the first chapter, was not big enough to keep,
and had to be returned to the water; but this
game South African fellow, weighing about half
a pound, was sizable, fat, and in prime condition.
In every way the sport with him was as good as
with trout on any water which I have fished.
Supremely happy, with the moon guiding the
night into the way of peace, I sought the path to
the farm ; my “first trout again” made me a boy
once more, and amongst my thoughts, I hope
was a sincere thank-you to those good, sporting,

280 THE TROUT ARE RISING

far-seeing Colonists who had so successfully
developed trout acclimatization abroad.

Those of us whom fortune has favoured in
allowing us to fish for and catch trout both at
home and oversea, and especially those of us who
have been long in the Colonies—though South
Africa is now a Dominion—can rejoice at and
enter heartily into the unconcealed pleasure which
it gives a Colonial-born man to come and fish in
the Old Country, Countless kindnesses, thought-
ful consideration, great hospitality, friends un-
changed with the changing years—such in brief
has been my experience of South Africans during
many years’ stay amongst them. It was therefore
delightful, when fishing in Devonshire, to meet a
young South African, Major Blackburn, who
came to the same hotel. He was having a few
days’ leave before he returned to his home at the
Cape. In keenness for trout-fishing we could all
learn something from him. He fished, and fished.
Big bags he got, too. Cold days, chilly water,
had no terror for him. One early spring day,
when two or three of us were on the river bank,
and feeling cold at that, he was, if you please,
wading in the water, fishing hard. Even that
day he got trout. No wonder he won the D.S.O.
and the M.C.

Incidents at home connected with the thrilling
moment—when a fish hooked needs playing—
have curiously repeated themselves abroad. For
instance, I have witnessed the nervousness of a
novice whose first fish is tugging hard both in

OLD JOYS IN NEW PLACES 281

England and South Africa, ‘ On a certain trout
water in Staffordshire a big, strapping man had
asked for a few hints as to throwing a fly, and,
the hints given, he was performing promisingly.
Then suddenly he had a rise, and the trout stayed
on the hook, It was not a large fish, but the man
with the rod became helpless, amusingly helpless ;
he fairly pleaded for the management of affairs to
be taken off his hands. “TI shall only lose the
trout,” he urged, pathetically. It seemed’ strange
that a man keen to learn fly-fishing as he was
should be not only willing but anxious to forego
the thrilling moment. So it was, however, in
spite of his being quietly encouraged to hold on;
and the fish was therefore played for him, and
duly landed. This little incident came swiftly to
mind when, several years later, I was bottom-
fishing for yellow fish in the Klip river, Trans-
vaal. A friendly neighbour, coming up, was
invited to join our little party. A rod was handed
to him. He had never fished before, but, as so
often happens to novices, he had good luck.
Scarcely had he put in before he exclaimed: “1
have one!” Sohe had. The thrilling moment,
however, had no attraction for him, He implored
me to take the rod. The information that it is
better for each man to catch his own fish did not
appeal to him. He replied with great earnestness
that he did not know how, that he was sure he
would only lose the fish, As he seemed to be
qualifying rapidly for this result, the fish was
therefore caught by proxy. It was a silver fish,

282 THE TROUT ARE RISING

turning the scales at exactly two pounds. Diffi-
dence is an attractive quality, but if a man would
learn to be an angler, it seems better for him to
risk losing his first fish or so, and thus to acquire
experience, than to hand over the rod tamely to
some one else.

An adventure of old days on the Severn im-
pressed me much at the time, and was carefull
stored in my memory, so that I should profit by
it should the occasion recur, On a summer
evening, when wading on a ford between Cressage
and Buildwas, I got attached to a trout apparently
between two and three pounds in weight. After
a fine fight, lasting several minutes, he escaped,
When I reeled up the line I found that a small
fish was on the hook. It proved to be a samlet
showing signs of having been in trouble, The
explanation of course was that the samlet had first
taken the fly and that the trout had immediately
taken the samlet. Had only the true state of
affairs been grasped sooner, the obvious procedure
for that special emergency would have been to
allow the trout more time instead of never giving
him a moment’s rest.

The incident in a measure repeated itself
about nine years later, when I was fly-fishing on
the Umgeni in Natal. The Severn incident
leaped swiftly to my mind when two small scalies,
having respectively taken each of the two flies on
the cast, a big fish was seen darting at one or
other of them. A pause, identically as resolved,
was made, so as to give the cannibal time. But

OLD JOYS IN NEW PLACES 283

it happened to be a profitless wait, for the big fish
was evidently a thought-reader: anyhow, not
taking any risk, he departed. For consolation
there was the recollection of the thrilling moment
nine years previously on the Severn, and the
reflection that I had profited by it, at any rate so
far as effective policy was concerned.

When a bigger fish attacks a smaller fish
which is hooked, the angler may have an exciting
experience, that is, if the bigger fish becomes
involved in the fray. On the Severn one fisher-
man of my acquaintance was playing a grayling
on very fine gut, when a jack, estimated at about
three pounds, went for it, and got a hold. Both
were played for several minutes, but the jack
escaped, Mr. R. B. Marston had better luck once
when May-fly fishing on the Piddle, near Ware-
ham, He had risen a trout and was playing it,
when a pike dashed out at it. Mr. Marston was
master of the situation, Skilfully and patiently
he played both pike and trout—though the trout
was a comparative infant, and helpless at that,
and eventually he landed both. The pike weighed
twelve pounds, the trout one and a half pounds.
The gut used was 2X. A double trophy in a
glass case—the May-fly still in the trout’s mouth,
the trout still in the pike’s mouth, just as when
they were landed—now bears testimony to a very
remarkable feat, which only a very clever angler
could have accomplished. The sight of these
specimens—I have been privileged to enjoy it—
makes one realize what possibilities fishing holds.

284 THE TROUT ARE RISING

But not many of us, I’m thinking, need order
a glass case in advance for pike and trout of
these dimensions, to be caught under such
circumstances !

One of the avenues through. which memory
works is the mind’s eye, and among sportsmen
to whom are given rich opportunities to enjoy
visual memory the angler holds high place. The
quietness of the scenes in which the contemplative
man’s recreation is followed invites him to take
in his surroundings, and willingly does he accept
the invitation. However concentrated his atten-
tion on a rising fish, however keen he be on
dropping the fly just on the desired spot, there
come moments when he looks around him, satisfied
that everything is very good. Then it is that the
impression is made, then it is that Nature in her
own way causes a mental snapshot to be taken ;
and months, it may be years, afterwards, that
particular scene suddenly leaps to life again,
through the mind’s eye—visual memory. No
doubt the mental photograph is best taken when
the angler is at his happiest. For instance, he
may have had to work hard for a 2-lb. trout,
have had to change his fly three times before
getting on terms with his fish; and what with
weeds, and what with occasional leaps out of the
water, there may have been crises during which
he feared the worst; but the angler’s skill prevails:
and then, in the lush meadow grass, the river
gliding, here and there an ancient tree towering

OLD JOYS IN NEW PLACES 285

out benignly, the sunset gilding the sky, is it any
wonder that Piscator, having unhooked his fish,
and gently, proudly placed it in his creel, and at
the moment realizing that the tobacco in his pipe
has a pleasant flavour, does greatly enjoy the
harvest of the quiet eye, and that the sight of a
like landscape, some similar surroundings many
miles away, maybe overseas, causes the old scene
vividly to be re-pictured ?

An angler, arrived abroad when young, may
sometimes seek deliberately to see, in the new
scenery, features reminding him of home—an
endeavour which, if unaccompanied by morbidity,
and if there is no likelihood of too much living
in the past, is happily loyal. When I was trout
fishing in Natal, in the meadow-land of the
Umgeni river, a scene of hay-harvesting called to
mind the old familiar sight of the English hay-
field, though, of course, the presence of coloured
labour made me quickly realize that I was in
another clime, A valley in East Griqualand is in
a measure suggestive of the Blackmore country ;
hence its name, Lorna Doone glen. At Alexandria
is a massive bridge with arches over a waterway
near Gabbarri; something about it awakened a
clear mental picture of the bridge at Dulverton,
observed and taken-in on a six-days’ leave. In
the Sudan the sight of a small boat suddenly
brought to mind a magazine illustration of panama-
hatted “Red Spinner ”—in a punt, roach fishing
in a bulrush-fringed river. This illustration had
been seen abroad, was greatly enjoyed at the

286 THE TROUT ARE RISING

time, and visual memory had done its kindly
work,

The Blue Nile has many moods, and one day
it was in peaceful humour, having a silvery look ;
its main characteristic then was that of a gliding
river—and it awakened a clear vision of the Itchen
in the meadow-lands at Winchester, and of the
Avon at Amesbury. A group of palm trees
somehow made one see again the Twelve Apostles,
a row of poplars alongside the main road between
Buildwas and Iron-Bridge in the Severn valley.
Again, to quote an instance of the past happily
persisting, the sight of a sakieh at work on
the Nile at Khartoum somehow caused a mill-
wheel at Bibury to occur to memory, though the
likeness was not strong, the sakieh dating back,
in type at any rate, to the days of Joseph, while
the mill-wheel at Bibury is comparatively modern.
The point, however, is the same : that on a fishing
excursion Nature takes photographs for the fisher-
man through the medium of his eyes—both
physical and mental—the negative is mysteriously
stored away, and long afterwards the fully-
developed photograph is presented in a flash, and
the presentation inspires a sportsman’s grace for
good things received from meadow and from
stream—from rod and line and landing net.

POSTSCRIPT

In January of this year (1920), I was on top
of a bus going over London Bridge. I heard a

OLD JOYS IN NEW PLACES 287

fellow passenger, on the seat behind, say to his
friend: ‘* Old England’s the best country, after all,
to live in! It has its faults”—(this judicially).
“But, with all its faults, it’s the best country
in the world to live in!” His companion agreed.
And, while the mirrored lights were twinkling
on Old Father Thames, I remember how a Natal
lady, who loved South Africa with a deep love,
once remarked, with the firmest conviction, to a
party of us sitting on a Natal stoép: “I don’t
care what anybody says, South Africa is the best
country in the world to live in! There cannot
be, in all the whole world, a more beautiful
country than South Africa!”

I have had happy experience that both
speakers were right, and in this little book I
have tried to depict a few scenes, record a few
impressions, that help to prove it.

The iRise is Over.

INDEX

ACCLIMATIZATION of trout, 18,
25, 199-203, 210, 233-238,
242, 261

Alexandria, 19, 20, 285

America, 80, 199

Angler, one-armed,
121

Angling good for body and soul,
23, 243 increase of, 28-31;
literature, 29, 30, 207, 212

Arrow River, 2, 64, 168

Atcham, 74, 79

Australasia, 177, 199

Avon River, 286

110-113,

Barnes, E, T., 202
Balfour, A. E., 202
Barclay, W. Stuart, 219, 220
Barle River, 35-38

Bela River, 63

Berg River, 200

Birch, Mr., 228
Birthplace, pride of, 85
Blackburn, Major, 280
Blank days, 187-195
Blore Heath, 81, 86
Blyth River, 180, 181
Botha, Capt. Louis, 19
Bowling, 65

Boxing, 170

Bradbury, John, 84, 85
Brede River, 200

Bridges, use of, 50, 52, 80
British East Africa, 203
Brooke, Sir Basil, 271

Buchan, John, 201, 202

Bucktrout, American, 80

Buffalo River, 227

Bushman’s River, 212, 236, 237,
241, 243, 261-264

Butt, Madame Clara, 178, 274

Canat and River contrasted, 4

Canonbie, 52, 53

Cape Province, 204, 208, 210,
212, 233

Capetown, 74, 175, 200, 212

Cartage Contractor, The, 91-99,
WI

Casting, 8-10

Chamya River, 203

Chance Encounters, 165-172

Chaplin, Mr., 233

Chappell, E., 225

Cheswardine, 4

Chetwode family, 81

Clapham, Dr., 219

Clive, Robert, 82, 83

Coln River, 192

Colne River, 22, 26, 107

Cornwall, 133

Cound, vii, 71-73,
148

Cow hooked, 83

Craven Arms, 130

Crocodile River, 18, 213

Crocodiles, 213

Crossley, Madame Ada, see
“ Muecke, Mrs. Francis ”

Daddy-ruffes, vii, 3

U

130, 131,

290

Damaut, Col., 201

Dartmoor, 41

Darwin, 71, 72

Dawson, Geoffrey, 21

Dent, A. J., xii

Deptford Plumber, The, 91-99,
111

Derwent River, 17

Determination, 42

Devon, 39745) 166, 179, 187,
270, 280; dialect, 40; land-
lord, 40

Don River,.180

Donne, Capt., 207, 208

Dry-fly fishing, 104-109, 192,
218, 220; fisherman’s champ-
ion, 38

Dulverton, 110, 165, 166, 285

Dumfriesshire, 50

Durban, 25, 175

East Griqualand, 201, 219, 226,
229, 242, 267-274, 285

Eerste River, 200, 209, 227

Eland’s River, 201, 211

Esk River, 50-52

Ettrick River, 53, 54

Farrar, Sir George, Vili, 24, 25,
202

» Lady, 25, 175

»{Mrs., 25

——, Miss Helen, xii

—, —— Muriel, xii

Field, xi, xii, 18, 26, 139, 180, 234

Fish attacking hooked fish, 282-
28

Fishing and men of energy, 24—-
26; and nature study, 26, 27,
193, 194; and warfare, 18-21 ;
diary, 17 ; licences, 119, 126—
138, 210, 269 ; memories, 27,
28; without bait, vii, 2, 3

Fishing Gazette, xi, 183

FitzPatrick, Sir Percy, 201, 202

INDEX

Fly-fishing, antiquity of, 15, 16

Fly-rod, the first, 6

Forgetting things, 187-191

France, 19

Frogs, food for fish and man,
253, 254

Fry, Harold A., 202

Geurs, Mr., 201
Germany, British prisoners in,

29
Greene, Plunket, 177
Greig, D. C., 201
Gudgeon, 3, 72
Gut, 66, 222-224

Harmsworth, Cecil, 206

Hatchet as aid to fishing, 156,
166

Hex River, 199, 200

Hill, Miss Carmen, 178

Hinstock, 83

Horne family, 84

Hotels, see “Inns and Hotels *’

Houston, Capt., 271

Hoy, Sir Wmm., 212

Hughes, Charles, 8

Inp1a and Ceylon, 199

Inns and Hotels, viii, 30, 31,
143-152

Inny River, 42

Jack-SHARPS, 1

Johannesburg, 4, 23, 170, 208,
210, 211, 219, 228, 241, 24.6,
247, 268, 278

Jones, Major Wykeham, xii

KEEpPErs, see “ Water-bailiffsand
Keepers ”

Kennet River, 37

Khartoum, 20, 139

Kington, 2

Klip River, 18, 210, 281

INDEX

Lapigs fishing, 175-184
Langholm, 50-52
Laurens River, 200
Left-handed fishing, 176, 177
Liddle River, 52

Life without fishing, 10
Lifton, 110, 148, 195
Longnor, 110, 148

Loteni River, 98, 241
Luderitzbucht, 19

Ludlow, 74

Lugg River, 117-121, 168

Macteav, Lachlan, 200

Maitland, Sir James, 234, 235

Major, The, 108-121, 134, 155-
157, 165-168, 188, 219

Manifold River, 130

Manley, Mr., 270, 271

Market Drayton, vii, 1, z, 5, 28,
79, 82, 84, 85, 108

Marston, Edward, 118, 119

——, Mr, and Mrs. R. B.., xi, 8,
176, 283

McLean, Mr., 25

Meal-worms, 91, 92

Measles at the hotel, 151, 152

Middle-aged beginners, 11, 14

Milnthorpe, 61-64

Mitford, Capt. the Hon. C. B.,

271
Mooi River, Natal, 97, 98, 182,
224, 236, 241-258, 270
Muecke, Mr, and Mrs, Francis,
177

NATAL, 19, 28, 98, 176, 194,
199, 201, 204, 208, 224, 226,
229, 230, 233-264, 278, 279,
285, 287

Natal Witness, 236

Newspaper dog, 151

New Zealand, 44, 156, 166, 199,
206-208

Nile River, 20, 286

291

Norris, W. C,, xii

Norway, 178

Notes and Queries, 1§

Novices who “shaped well,”
96-99

Nyasaland, 202

OAKLEY, 81, 82

Olifant’s River, 213

Onny River, 130, 190

Orange Free State, 202, 204,
208

Otter, “tailing” the, 82

Parker, John,
261

Parr, Thomas, 75

Payton, Sir Charles (“Sarcelle’’),
16, 17

Piano wires, use for, 161

Piddle River, 283

Poachers, 138, 139

Port Sudan, 20

Pot River, 219, 271

Price,'Mr, and Mrs, Walter,

Xi

201, 233-238,

RAINBOW trout, 229, 270, 271,

273

“Red Spinner,’ see “Senior,
Wm.”

Reservoirs, 17, 176, 211

Rhodes, Miss, 175

Rhodesia, 202

“Rising” but “no good,” 63—
65

River and Canal contrasted, 4

Robinson, Geoffrey, 21

Roman remains, 74

Ross family, 227, 228

Rumford, Kennerley, 178

“ SARCELLE,” see ‘ Payton, Sir
Charles ”
Scalies, 213, 229, 245, 254-256

292

Scotland, 17, 20, 49-57, 98, 130,
133, 139, 167, 171, 177-180,
271, 292

Sea-trout, 51, 52, 65, 66, 136,

137

Senior, Wm. (“ Red Spinner ”),
v, xi, xii, 28, 31, 99, 187, 200,
285

Severn River, vii, 5, 7, 10, 69-76,
130, 270, 282, 283, 286

Shaw, Mr. and Mrs, Geo. E.,
xii, xill, 91-99, T11

Sheringham, H. T., vii-ix, xi

Shifnal, 74

Shrewsbury, 71, 74, 227

Shropshire, 1, 69-76, 130, 168,
171

Singing, 161, 171, 172, 177, 178,
274.

Smoking-room, viii, 155-161

Smythe, David, 244

Snake-bite, 213, 227-229

Somerset, 22

South Africa, viii, ix, 11, 17,
44, 160, 171, 175, 192, 199-
287 ; flies for, 200, 224, 225,
249, 257, 2643 gut for, 222—
224 ; native fish of, 212, 213 3
products of, 204; reels and
lines for, 222 ; rods for, 217-
222

Spectators, 55, 65, 66, 192

Stanley, Col. G., 202, 203

Star, Johannesburg, xii, 21

Stoke-on-Tern, 86

Stoppers, 221, 222

Stour River, 183, 184

Sudan, 161, 285

Sun-burn, 228

Suter, K., 230

Tamar River, 42, 43, 134

Tayleur, Willie, 82

Teme River, 91-113, 130, 134,
219

INDEX

Tenbury, 16, 95-117, 148
Tern River, 3, 5,28, 79-87, 108,
_ 130, 195

Thika River, 203

“Throw-in,” the first, 2

| Thrush River, 42

Torquay, 176

Transvaal, 18, 19, 201, 204,
208, 242

Transvaal Leader, Johannes-
burg, xii

Trent River, 10

Trout, first sight of, 3; first
caught, 5, 230, 277-2793 in
aquarium, 3, 4 ; see “ Acclima-
tization,” “Rainbow trout,”
and “Sea-trout ”

Trout-fishing, adverse criticism,
43-45; labours to obtain,
16-18

Turner, Mrs, Basil, xii

Tushielaw, 53-37, 148

UmcEnNI River, 236, 237, 241,
243, 278, 282, 285
Usk River, 4

VaaL River, 210

WADERS, 35, 36, 226, 227

Warfare and Fishing, 18-21

Water-bailiffs and Keepers, viii,
125-139

Watson, Miss J., xii

Webb, Capt., 74

Wemmer River, 25

West Kenia River, 203

Westmorland, 61-66, 130

Wildebeeste River, 269-274

Wiltshire, 31

Worcestershire, 31, 91-113

Zululand, South, 203

rt

Bie