DAPPING FOR TROUT.
THIS form of angling has been brought to a fine art in Ireland, and
on many Irish loughs, in the May fly season, the heaviest trout are
brought to book by means of the natural insect and the blow line. The
columns of the _Field_ newspaper testify every year to the efficacy of
dapping, and, without doubt, many a heavy fish that otherwise would
only live to prey upon its smaller brethren is thus accounted for.
We do not all of us have leisure or opportunity to test these Irish
waters, or this particular form of sport with the blow line; but many
of us come across deep, heavy runs of water, overhung with continuous
branches, where the heavy trout lie, unapproachable and unvanquished,
to become gross and even pike-like in the carnivorous and cannibalistic
form of life.
Such fish are well worth catching, if you can get them, and far better
out of the stream than in it. Wise in their own generation, they take
up their holt in places where casting is impossible with an ordinary
fly, and where, could you by any possibility get one out, your fly
would remain almost immovable in the sluggish deeps and overhung holes.
The problem is then presented to you as to how their capture can best
be effected. This is your opportunity for trying dapping; and although,
to my unorthodox mind, such fishing is parlously near akin to poaching,
yet the accomplishment of their capture is so eminently desirable that
the end fully justifies the means.
'Twas in the lower reaches of such a stream, not many miles from
Bassenthwaite Water, that a certain number of leviathan cannibals had
taken up their station. The stream was so tortuous and overhung that no
boat could be manoeuvred through it, and a carefully constructed raft,
with anchor astern, had been tried and come to signal grief, pitching
its unfortunate occupant unceremoniously into an unsolicited cold bath,
from which he emerged with some difficulty. We then decided that it was
impracticable for fishing purposes of the ordinary kind.
Walking home along this bush-covered length we could see the fish
clearly in its waters, calculate their weight, and wonder how their
natural fortifications could be sapped and overcome. We nicknamed all
the fish, so constant and regular were they in their places. One, an
ugly, ill-shapen fish, with a heavy head, was called "Bradlaugh";
another veteran, solemn and heavy, was dubbed "Gladstone"; a third,
more dashing and combative, we christened "Randolph Churchill." There
were about seven that we knew and named, and to the heaviest and
thickest of all we gave the name of "Lord Salisbury."
It was a constant source of interest to us, in going up and down the
stream, to note what our named friends were doing and how they were
faring. Notes were compared when we came in after fishing, and they
gradually became an integral portion of our life and party. One evening
I noticed "Randolph Churchill" greatly on the move, darting hither and
thither in quest of some article of food. Peering through the bushes, I
made out that he was taking something that was falling from the trees
and bushes above, but what that something was I could not precisely
make out. A poor bumble bee that had fallen into the stream was buzzing
about, trying to free himself from his watery toils, and floating
slowly over "Churchill"; the latter came up to look at the buzzer, and
then bolted as if he had been shot. Evidently that disturbed even his
equanimity. I had contemplated dapping with a palmer or Marlow buzz;
and I sat down to cogitate. I called to mind the incident, referred to
on page 50, of the bold rises of the trout in Loch Dhu at the swarm
of bees crossing its surface. Whilst trying to reconcile their action
with that of "Churchill" I was reclining on the grass, and happened to
espy a green grasshopper. That might do, thought I, and rising, with
the captured insect in my fingers, I again approached the water side.
The bumble bee had most effectually scared "Randolph," so I walked down
to where "Gladstone" had taken up his abode. Nipping the grasshopper
with my fingers so as to kill it, I managed to flick it over the bushes
towards my friend. It happened to light on the water at the proper
place, and I had the pleasure of watching "Gladstone" sail slowly and
majestically up to the floating insect, open a huge pink mouth, and
swallow it. That was quite good enough for me, and after dinner I
retailed to my friend my evening's experiences.
We were soon busily engaged in hunting up bare hooks and stiff rods.
Fortunately for us there were some long cane-bottom fishing rods in the
lodge, which evidently had been used in former times for bait fishing;
the joints were indifferent, the whippings rotten, but the rods were,
in the main, sound.
A little waxed thread and varnish soon put them into workable trim, and
before going to bed we pledged a parting glass that some of our friends
should gain a new experience on the morrow. And so it fell out. We knew
that playing fish in such overgrown haunts was out of the question,
and that if we had the luck to hook them it would be a question of
pull devil, pull baker. Towards evening we met at our trysting-place.
Green grasshoppers were numerous, so there was no lack of bait. As I
anticipated, "Randolph Churchill's" inquisitiveness and audacity caused
him to become our first victim. The bushes were far too thick to let
us drop our bait near him in the ordinary manner. Our only chance was
to roll the line round our rods, poke it through the bushes, unroll it
carefully, dangle it before his nose, and then, if we had the luck to
hook him, to give him no law, but to trust to our tackle and to hold on
like grim death.
The next victim that evening was "Bradlaugh," a bold riser, who fought
well, and who thoroughly justified his cognomen when on the bank.
"Disraeli" was for some time our master; he knew a trick or two, and
was by no means easily beguiled, though often pricked and once lightly
hooked. Even his caution was at length overcome, and hardly an evening
passed but that one or more of these, relatively speaking, monsters of
some 2½ to 5 lb. in weight was landed.
"Lord Salisbury," however, proved to be a very difficult nut to crack,
and beyond our powers of persuasion. He would solemnly inspect our
lure, sniff round it, as it were, and then sink slowly down to his
accustomed place. He seemed to know all about it, so, intent on other
sport with the gun, we at last let him severely alone, telling the
river keeper to get him out if he could.
One evening, as we were at dinner, there came a pressing message from
the keeper to be allowed to see us; so, on ordering him in, a smiling
rubicund visage appeared at the door, that of our friend the keeper,
bearing in his hands a dish, on which reposed the vast proportions
of "Lord Sallusberry," as he termed him, a tardy victim to the wiles
of patience, combined with the reiterated attractions of a green
grasshopper.
Possibly this kind of dapping may be deemed to be a poor kind of sport,
and, speaking from a strictly orthodox point of view, the accusation
cannot be denied. But, after all, it has its merits. It enables you,
in waters where there are no May flies, to seduce the heavy fish into
unwonted activity, and into taking surface flies. Thus you remove what
are little short of pests in a trout stream, and you gain an interest
in overcoming the difficulties of an otherwise impossible situation.
[Illustration]