It rained heavily at intervals all night, and, though it has cleared a
little since day-break, there is not a patch of blue to be seen yet in
the sky, and the torn skirts of the clouds are still trailing low among
the hills. The day can hardly brighten now before twelve o’clock, and
as the woods, at anyrate, will be rain-laden and weeping for hours, the
walk through “fair Kirkconnel Lea” is not to be thought of. The lawn,
too, is out of condition for tennis. But see! the burn, brown with peat
and flecked with foam, is running like ale under the bridge, and though
the spate is too heavy for much hope of catching trout down here, there
will be good sport for the trouble higher up among the moorland becks.
Bring out the fishing-baskets, therefore, some small Stewart tacklings,
and a canister of bait. Put up, too, a substantial sandwich and a
flask; for the air among the hills is keen, and the mists are sometimes
chilly.
Wet and heavy the roads are, and there will be more rain yet, for the
pools in the ruts are not clear. The slender larch on the edge of the
wood has put on a greener kirtle in the night, and stands forward like
a young bride glad amid her tears. If a glint of sunshine came to kiss
her there, she would glitter with a hundred rain-jewels. The still,
heavy air is aromatic with the scent of the pines. By the wayside the
ripening oats are bending their graceful heads after the rain, like
Danae, with their golden burden, while the warrior hosts of the barley
beyond hold their spiky crests white and erect.
The long, springing step natural on the heather shortens the road to
the hills; and already a tempting burn or two have been crossed by the
way. But nothing can be done without rods; and these have first to be
called for at the shepherd’s.
[Illustration]
A quiet, far-off place it is, this shieling upon the moors, with the
drone of bees about, and the bleating of sheep. The shepherd himself is
away to the “big house” about some “hogs,” but his wife, a weather-grey
woman of sixty, with rough hospitable hands and kindly eyes, says that
“maybe Jeanie will tak’ a rod to the becks.” Jeanie, by her dark
glance, is pleased with the liberty; and indeed this lithe, handsome
girl of fifteen will not be the least pleasant of guides, with her hair
like the raven’s wing, and on her clear features the thoughtful look of
the hills.
Here are the rods, straight ash saplings of convenient length, with
thin brown lines.
“Ye’ll come back and tak’ a cup o’ tea; and dinna stay up there if it
rains,” says the goodwife, by way of parting.
Jeanie is frank and interesting in speech, with a gentle breeding
little to be expected in so lonely a place. She has the step of a deer,
and seems to know every tuft of grass upon the hills. There is not so
much heather in Galloway as in the West Highlands. A long grey bent
takes its place, and on mossy ground the white tufts of the cotton
grass appear.
But here is a chance for a trial cast. A small burn comes down a side
glen, and, just before it joins the main stream, runs foaming into a
deeper pool. Keep well back from the bank, impale a tempting worm on
the hook, and drop it in just where the water runs over the stones.
Let the line go: the current carries it at once into the pool. There!
The bait is held. Strike quickly down stream: the trout all swim
against the current. But it is not a fish; the hook has only caught on
a stone. Disentangle it, and try again. This time there is no mistaking
the wriggle at the end of the rod; with a jerk the hungry nibbler is
whipped into the air, and alights among the grass, a dozen yards from
his native pool. A plump little fish he proves, his pretty brown sides
spotted with scarlet, as he gasps and kicks on _terra firma_.
Not another trout, however, can be tempted to bite in that eddy; the
fish are too well fed by the spate, or too timid. “There will be more
to catch,” says Jeanie, “higher up the becks.” She is right. Perhaps
the trout in these narrow streamlets are less sophisticated than their
kind lower down, for in rivulets so narrow as almost to be hidden by
the bent-grass there seem plenty of fish eager to take the bait. These
are darker in colour than the trout in the river, taking their shade
from the peat, and though small, of course, averaging about a quarter
of a pound in weight, are plump, and make merry enough rivalry in the
whipping of them out.
But the mists droop lower overhead, and a small smirring rain has been
falling for some time; so, as Jeanie, at least, has a fair basketful,
it will be best to put up the lines, discuss a sandwich under the
shelter of the birches close by, and hold a council of war.
Desolate and silent are these grey hillsides. Hardly a sheep is to
be seen; the far-off cry of the curlew is the only sound heard; and
as the white mists come down and shroud the mountains, there is an
eerie, solemn feeling, as at the near presence of the Infinite.
Something, however, must be done. The rain is every moment coming down
more heavily, and the small leaves of the birches afford but scant
protection. Off, then; home as fast as possible! The mountain maid
knows a shorter way over the hill; and lightly and swiftly she leads
the Indian file along the narrow sheep-path. On the moor, amid the grey
mist and rain, appear the stone walls of a lonely sheepfold; and just
below, in the channel of the beck, lies the deep pool, swirling now
with peaty water and foam, where every year they wash the flocks.
The shepherd’s wife appears at her door. Her goodman is home. A great
peat fire is glowing on the warm hearth, and she is “masking the tea.”
“Ye’ll find a basin of soft water in the little bedroom there, and
ye’ll change ye’re coats and socks, and get them dried,” says the
kindly woman.
This is real hospitality. The rough coats and thick dry socks bespeak
warm-hearted thoughtfulness; and a wash in clean water after the
discomforts of fishing is no mean luxury. The small, low-raftered
bedroom, with quaintly-papered walls, and little window looking out
upon the moors, is comfortably furnished; and the stone-floored
kitchen, clean and bright and warm, with geraniums flowering in the
window, has as pleasant a fireside seat as could be desired. Why should
ambition seek more than this, and why are so many hopeless hearts
cooped up in the squalid city?
Here comes Jeanie down from the “loft,” looking fresher and prettier
than ever in her dry wincey dress, with a little bit of blue ribbon at
the throat. The tea is ready; her mother has fried some of the trout,
and the snowy table is loaded with thick white scones, thin oatmeal
cakes, home-made bramble jelly, and the freshest butter. Kings may be
blest; but what hungry man needs more than this? The shepherd, too, is
well-read, for does not Steele and Addison’s “Spectator” stand there on
the shelf, along with Sir Walter Scott, Robert Burns, and the Bible?
With fare like this for body and mind, man may indeed become “the
noblest work of God.”
But an hour has passed, too quickly; the rain has cleared at last,
and away to the south and west the clouds are lifting in the sunset.
Yonder, under the clear green sky, glistens the treacherous silver
of the Solway, and as far again beyond it in the evening light rises
the dark side of Skiddaw, in Cumberland. The gravel at the door lies
glistening after the shower, the yellow marigolds in the little plot
are bright and opening, and the moorland air is perfumed with mint
and bog-myrtle. A hearty handshake, then, from the shepherd, a warm
pressing to return soon from his goodwife, a pleasant smile from
Jeanie, and the road must be taken down hill with a swinging step.