No pursuit is more sedentary, if one may talk of a sedentary pursuit,
and none more to my taste, than trout-fishing as practised in the South
of England. Given fine weather, and a good novel, nothing can be more
soothing than to sit on a convenient stump, under a willow, and watch
the placid kine standing in the water, while the brook murmurs on, and
perhaps the kingfisher flits to and fro. Here you sit and fleet the time
carelessly, till a trout rises. Then, indeed, duty demands that you
shall crawl in the manner of the serpent till you come within reach of
him, and cast a fly, which usually makes him postpone his dinner-hour.
But he will come on again, there is no need for you to change your
position, and you can always fill your basket easily--with irises and
marsh-marigolds.
Such are our country contents, but woe befall the day when I took to
salmon-fishing. The outfit is expensive, "half-crown flees" soon mount
up, especially if you never go out without losing your fly-book. If you
buy a light rod, say of fourteen feet, the chances are that it will not
cover the water, and a longer rod requires in the fisherman the strength
of a Sandow. You need wading-breeches, which come up nearly to the neck,
and weigh a couple of stone. The question has been raised, can one swim
in them, in case of an accident? For _one_, I can answer, he can't. The
reel is about the size of a butter-keg, the line measures hundreds of
yards, and the place where you fish for salmon is usually at the utter
ends of the earth. Some enthusiasts begin in February. Covered with
furs, they sit in the stern of a boat, and are pulled in a funereal
manner up and down Loch Tay, while the rods fish for themselves. The
angler's only business is to pick them up if a salmon bites, and when
this has gone on for a few days, with no bite, influenza, or a hard
frost with curling, would be rather a relief. This kind of thing is not
really angling, and a Duffer is as good at it as an expert.
Real difficulties and sufferings begin when you reach the
Cruach-na-spiel-bo, which sounds like Gaelic, and will serve us as a
name for the river. It is, of course, extremely probable that you pay a
large rent for the right to gaze at a series of red and raging floods,
or at a pale and attenuated trickle of water, murmuring peevishly
through a drought. But suppose, for the sake of argument, that the water
is "in order," and only running with deep brown swirls at some thirty
miles an hour. Suppose also, a large presumption, that the Duffer does
not leave any indispensable part of his equipment at home. He arrives at
the stream, and as he detests a gillie, whose contempt for the Duffer
breeds familiarity, he puts up his rod, selects a casting line, knots on
the kind of fly which is locally recommended, and steps into the water.
Oh, how cold it is! I begin casting at the top of the stream, and step
from a big boulder into a hole.
[Illustration]
Stagger, stumble, violent bob forwards, recovery, trip up, and here one
is in a sitting position in the bed of the stream. However, the high
india-rubber breeks have kept the water out, except about a pailful,
which gradually illustrates the equilibrium of fluids in the soles of
one's stockings. However, I am on my feet again, and walking more
gingerly, though to the spectator my movements suggest partial
intoxication. That is because the bed of the stream is full of boulders,
which one cannot see, owing to the darkness of the water. There was a
fish rose near the opposite side. My heart is in my mouth. I wade in as
far as I can, and make a tremendous swipe with the rod. A frantic tug
behind, crash, there goes the top of the rod! I am caught up in the root
of a pine-tree, high up on the bank at my back. No use in the language
of imprecation. I waddle out, climb the bank, extricate the fly, get out
a spare top, and to work again, more cautiously. Something wrong, the
hook has caught in my coat, between my shoulders. I must get the coat
off somehow, not an easy thing to do, on account of my india-rubber
armour. It is off at last. I cut the hook out with a knife, making a big
hole in the coat, and cast again. That was over him! I let the fly
float down, working it scientifically. No response. Perhaps better look
at the fly. Just my luck, I have cracked it off!
Where is the fly-book? Where indeed? A feverish search for the fly-book
follows--no use: it is not in the basket, it is not in my pocket; must
have fallen out when I fell into the river. No good in looking for it,
the water is too thick, I _thought_ I heard a splash. Luckily there are
some flies in my cap, it looks knowing to have some flies in one's cap,
and it is not so easy to lose a cap without noticing it, as to lose most
things. Here is a big Silver Doctor that may do as the water is thick. I
put one on, and begin again casting over where that fish rose. By
George, there he came at me, at least I think it must have been at me, a
great dark swirl, "the purple wave bowed over it like a hill," but he
never touched me. Give him five minutes law, the hook is sure to be well
fastened on, need not bother looking at that again. Five minutes take a
long time in passing, when you are giving a salmon a rest. Good times
and bad times and all times pass, so here goes. It is correct to begin a
good way above him and come down to him. I'm past him; no, there is a
long heavy drag under water, I get the point up, he is off like a shot,
while I stand in a rather stupid attitude, holding on. If I cannot get
out and run down the bank, he has me at his mercy. I do stagger out,
somehow, falling on my back, but keeping the point up with my right
hand. No bones broken, but surely he is gone! I begin reeling up the
line, with a heavy heart, and try to lift it out of the water. It won't
come, he is here still, he has only doubled back. Hooray! Nothing so
nice as being all alone when you hook a salmon. No gillie to scream out
contradictory orders. He is taking it very easy, but suddenly he moves
out a few yards, and begins jiggering, that is, giving a series of short
heavy tugs. They say he is never well hooked, when he jiggers. The rod
thrills unpleasantly in my hands, I wish he wouldn't do that. It is very
disagreeable and makes me very nervous. Hullo! he is off again
up-stream, the reel ringing like mad: he gets into the thin water at the
top, and jumps high in the air. He is a monster. Hullo! what's that
splash? The reel has fallen off, it was always loose, and has got into
the water. How am I to act now? He is coming back like mad, and all the
line is loose, and I can't reel up. I begin pulling at the line to bring
up the reel, but the reel only lets the line out, and now he's off
again, down stream this time, and I after him, and the line running out
at both ends at once, and now my legs get entangled in it, it is twisted
all round me. He runs again and jumps, the line comes back in my face,
all slack, something has given. It is the hook, it was not knotted on
firmly to start with. He flings himself out of the water once more to be
sure that he is free, and I sit down and gnaw the reel. Had ever anybody
such bad fortune? But it is just my luck!
I go back to the place where the reel fell in, and by pulling cautiously
I extract it from the stream. It shan't come off again; I tie it on with
the leather lace of one of my brogues. Then I reel up the slack, and put
on another fly, out of my cap--a Popham. Then I fish down the rest of
the pool. Near the edge, in the slower part of the water, there is a
long slow draw; before I can lift the point of the rod, a salmon jumps
high out of the water at me,--and is gone! I never struck him, was too
much taken aback at the moment; did not expect him then. Thank goodness,
the hook is not off this time.
The next stream is very deep, strong and narrow; the best chance is
close in on my side. By Jove! here he is, he took almost beside the
rock. He sails leisurely out into the strength of the stream; if he will
come up, I can manage him, but if he goes down, the water is very swift
and broken, there are big boulders, and then a sheer wall of rock
difficult to pass in cold blood, and then the Big Pool. He insists on
going down; I hold hard on him, and refuse line. But he leaps, and
then--well he _will_ have it; down he rushes, I after him, over the
stones, scrambling along the rocky face; great heavens! _the top joint
of the rod is loose_; I did not tie it on, thought it would hold well
enough. But down it runs, right down the line; it must be touching the
fish. It is; he does not like it, he jiggers like a mad thing, rushes
across the Big Pool, nearly on to the opposite bank. Why won't the line
run? The line is entangled in my bootlace. He is careering about; I feel
that I am trembling like a leaf. There, I knew it would happen; he is
off with my last casting-line, hook and all. A beauty he was, clear as
silver and fresh from the sea. Well, there is nothing for it but a walk
back to the house. I have lost one fly-book, two hooks, a couple of
casting-lines, three salmon, a top joint, and I have torn a great hole
in my coat. On changing my dress before lunch, I find my fly-book in my
breast pocket, where I had not thought of looking for it somehow. Then
the rain comes, and there is not another fishing day in my fortnight.
Still, it decidedly was "one crowded hour of glorious life," while it
lasted. The other men caught four or five salmon apiece; it is their red
letter day. It is marked in black in my calendar.
* * * * *
To WELL-INFORMED PISCATORIALS.--_Query._ What sort of fish is a Nod?
_Note._ A Nod is a sea-fish, and is, probably, of the limpet tribe. This
we gather from our knowledge of the Periwinkle, known in polite circles
as the 'Wink. The value of the Nod has come down to us in the form of an
old proverb, "A Nod is as good as a 'Wink," and this no doubt originated
the query to which we have satisfactorily replied.
* * * * *
[Illustration: "What bait are yer usin', Billie?"
"Cheese."
"What are yer tryin' ter catch--mice?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "A SALMON TAKING A FLY"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: TRIALS OF A NOVICE.--_Friend_ (_in the distance_).
"Enjoying it, old chap?"
_Novice._ "_Rather!_"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Diminutive Nursemaid_ (_to angler, who has not had a
bite for hours_). "Oh, please, sir, do let baby see you catch a fish!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "NOT PROVEN."--_Presbyterian Minister._ "Don't you know
it's wicked to catch fish on the Sawbath?!"
_Small Boy_ (_not having had a rise all the morning_). "Wha's catchin'
fesh?!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Old Gent_ (_who has recently purchased the property_).
"Now, don't you boys know that nobody can catch fish in this stream
except with my--er--a--special permit?"
_Youthful Angler._ "Get away! Why, me and this 'ere kid's catched scores
of 'em wi' a worrum!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Angler_ (_after landing his tenth--reading notice_).
"The man who wrote that sign couldn't have been using the right bait!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: MISPLACED SYMPATHY.--"Well? Have you caught any fish,
Billy?"
"Well, I _really_ caught _two_! But they were quite young, poor little
things, and so they _didn't know how to hold on_!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: TRIALS OF A NOVICE
_Angler._ "Hush! Keep _back_! Keep _back_! I had a beautiful rise just
then; shall get another directly."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: DREADFUL SITUATION!
_Party in Waders_ (_on the shallower side, with nice trout on_). "Now
then, you idiot, bring me the net, can't you, or he'll be off in a
second!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "Deuced odd, Donald, I can't get a fish over seven
pounds, when they say Major Grant above us killed half a dozen last week
that turned twenty pounds apiece!"
_Donald._ "Aweel, sir, it's no that muckle odds i'th' sawmon,--but thae
fowk up the watter is bigger leears than we are doon here!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "ONE GOOD TURN," ETC.--_City Man_ (_to one of his clerks
he finds fishing in his ornamental water_). "Look here, Smithers, I've
no objection to giving you a day now and then 'to attend your aunt's
funeral'--but I think you might send some of the fish up to the
house!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: MISSED.--_Angus._ "Eh, man, that wass a splendid cod! If
we had gotten that cod, noo, we micht ha' been ha'ein' a dram."
_Mr. Smith_ (_from Glasgow_). "Indeed, and ye would, Angus."
_Bauldry._ "Mebbe, Maister Smuth, if we wad have had a dram afore ye
wass lettin' doon yer line, we micht have grappit that muckle fush!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Friend._ "Hullo, old chappie! Fallen in?"
_Dripping Angler._ "You don't suppose this is a perspiration, do you?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE GENTLE CRAFTSMAN (?).--_Irascible Angler_ (_who
hasn't had a rise all day_). "There!"--(_Throwing his fly-book into the
stream, with a malediction_)--"Take your choice!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: UNLUCKY.--_American Cousin_ (_last day of season_). "What
sport? 'Guess I've been foolin' around all day with a twenty-five-dollar
pole, slinging fourteen-cent baits at the end of it, and haven't caught
a darned fish!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "THERE'S MANY A SLIP," ETC.--Waggles saw a splendid
three-pound trout feeding in a quiet place on the Thames one evening
last week. Down he comes the next night, making sure of him! But some
other people had seen him too!!]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Contemplative Man_ (_in punt_). "I don't so much care
about the sport, it's the delicious repose I enjoy so."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: MENACE
_Little Angler_ (_to her refractory bait_). "Keep still, you tiresome
little thing! If you don't leave off skriggling, I'll throw you away,
and take another!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: A BLANK DAY
_Old Gent_ (_greeting friend_). "Hullo, Jorkins! 'Been fishing? What did
you catch?"
_Jorkins_ (_gloomily_). "Ha'-past six train home!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: AN OBVIOUSLY UNKIND INQUIRY
_Brown_ (_to Jones, who has, for the first time, been trying his hand at
fishing from a boat_). "Well, old chap, what sort o' sport?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: SEIZING HIS OPPORTUNITY
_The Major_ (_on his way to try for the big trout, and pondering on his
fly-book_). "Now I wonder what he'll take? What d'you say, Smithers,
eh?"
_Smithers_ (_pulling up with alacrity_). "Take, sir? Well, sir, thanky,
sir, sup o' whisky, sir, for choice!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: CONSCIENTIOUS FLATTERY.--_Boatman._ "I canna mind a finer
fesh for its size!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: WET AND DRY.--_Careful Wife._ "Are you very wet, dear?"
_Ardent Angler_ (_turning up his flask_). "No, dry as a
lime-kiln--haven't had a drop these two hours!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: DRY-FLY ENTOMOLOGY.--(Scene--_The banks of a Hampshire
stream in the grayling season_). _Angler_ (_the rise having abruptly
ceased_). "I think they're taking a _siesta_, Thompson."
_Keeper._ "I dessay they are, sir, but any other fly with a touch o' red
in it would do as well."]
* * * * *
[Illustration: EGOMANIA.--(Scene--_The Bar Parlour of the "Little
Peddlington Arms" during a shower._) _Little Peddlingtonian_ (_handing
newspaper to stranger from London_). "Have you seen that account of our
fishing competition in the _Little Peddlington Gazette_, sir?"
"No, I'm afraid I've not!"
"It's a _very_ interesting article, sir. It mentions my name several
times!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: BOTTOM FISHING.--_Piscator No. 1_ (_miserably_). "Now,
Tom, _do_ leave off. It isn't of any use, and it's getting quite dark."
_Piscator No. 2._ "Leave off!! What a precious disagreeable chap you
are! You come out for a day's pleasure, and you're already wanting to go
home!"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: TRIALS OF A NOVICE.--_Unfeeling Passer-by._ "Say, mister!
Are you fly-fishing, or 'eaving the lead?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Piscator, Senior._ "What! yer want to chuck it up jus
because we never catches nothing. Why, I'd like to know how yer proposes
to spend the remainder of yer 'olidays, eh?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: A BROAD HINT
_Piscator._ "Yes, I like a day at this time of year. Get all the _water
to myself_, you see."
_Yokel._ "Ah! And mayhap have a sup o' the whisky to spare for somebody
else, governor?"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Tom_ (_writing_).--"I say, Bob, I'm rubbing in the local
colour for the benefit of the folk at home--could you help me to some
correct _fishing_ expressions--just to give the thing an atmosphere?"
_Bob._ "I've heard a lot one time and another, old man, but the only one
I remember is--_'Pass the flask'!_"]
* * * * *
[Illustration: "MIGHT BE WORSE!"--_First Jolly Angler_ (_peckish after
their walk_). "Got the sandwiches and----"
_Second Jolly Angler_ (_diving into creel_). "Oh, yes, here they are,
all right, and here's the whisk--but--tut-t-t, by Jove!--I've forgotten
the fishing-tackle!!"
_First Jolly Angler._ "Oh, ne' mind--we'll get along quite well without
_that_!"]
* * * * *