MUSINGS OF A BUSH RIDE
Here I am riding along the sandy track all alone in the Australian
bush, flicking off a wattle blossom singled out from the yellow mass
with my hunting crop, fancying it is a fly rod, and rehearsing the old
trick of sending a fly into a particular leaf. Ah! little mare
Brownie, what are you doing? Did you never before see a charred stump
that you should shy so? Do you fancy that you are a thoroughbred that
you should bolt at such a gentle touch of the spur? So you espy the
half-way house, do you, and fancy that fifteen miles, up and down, in a
trifle under two hours, has earned you a spell, a bit of a feed, and
something of a washing? And you are right. Take charge, Mr.
Blackfellow-ostler, and while you do your duty let me amuse myself with
my notebook. After all, memory is even-handed. It keeps us in
remembrance of many things we would fain never think of more; but it
performs similar service for others that are pleasant to ponder over.
Out of the saddle bag I have taken a copy of the _Gentleman's
Magazine_, newly arrived by this morning's mail, and while the mare
took her own time up the hills I have been glancing through a "Red
Spinner" article on "Angling in Queensland," with an author's
pardonable desire to see how it comes out in print. That was why I
took to making casts at the leaves with the riding whip. That is why,
halting here for an hour on the crest of a hill, overlooking scrub of
glossy green, bright patches of young maize, and a river shimmering in
the valley, I am noting a few of the best-day memories which the easy
paces of Brownie have allowed me in the saddle.
What a day was that amongst the trout on the Chess! I wrote for
permission to spend one afternoon only upon certain private waters, and
the noble owner by return of post sent me an order for two days. It
was June. The meadows, hedgerows--ay! and even the prosaic railway
embankments--were decked with floral colouring, and at Rickmansworth I
had to linger on the platform to take another look at the foliage
heavily shading the old churchyard, and at the distant woods to the
left. When I came back to quarters, after dark, having fished the
river for a few hours, I began to think I might as well have stopped in
London. The fish would not rise that afternoon, and there was but a
beggarly brace in the basket. Some wretch above had been mowing his
lawn and casting the contents of the machine into the stream at regular
intervals. He got rid of his grass, certainly; but this was no gain to
me, whose hooks perseveringly caught the fragments floating by. At
last the grass pest ceased. The mowing man had left his task at six
o'clock, no doubt, and the soft twilight would soon come on--time dear
to anglers. But the cattle had an innings then. During the most
precious hour they waded into the river--higher up, of course--and a
pretty state of discolour they made of it. In this way the first essay
left me abundance of room to hope for the morrow.
Fresh, sweet, and dewy it was at four o'clock on the next morning. The
keeper had told me of a certain upper reach of quiet water where,
during the Mayfly carnival a fortnight before, Mr. Francis Francis had
astonished the natives. As a rule the fishing is not good until the
trout have got well over their Mayfly debauch, but I determined to work
hard, nevertheless, if haply I might experience that traditional
exception by which the rule is proven. The fish in this part, which
was in truth practically a millhead, seemed to be feeding close to the
bank. The first cast secured something--but what was very uncertain.
A trout would not wobble and tug in that sullen, carthorse manner. Lo!
it was a pickerel. A second time, lo! it was a pickerel. The next
fish, however, was a trout--a big and somewhat lazy fellow, who allowed
me to bring him to the top of the water, and to wait (with him well in
hand, however) to see what his next movement would be. As he appeared
to be reticent about troubling me with an orthodox tussle, I gave him
no further grace, but winched him in and netted him out. His colours
faded at once, and the dirty grey mottlings which broke out upon his
sides proclaimed him a degenerate. One other big fellow--they were
each 2 1/2 lb.--went to keep him company, and then, the sun being now
high in heaven, I returned to breakfast.
About three o'clock in the afternoon it was cloudy, and a gentle,
melancholy, sighing west wind wafted to my assistance in the lower
meadows, where the stream is small and typical of perpetual motion.
The keeper and his boy strolled along towards five o'clock, and the
game was by this time so merry that they never left me so long as I
could see to throw a fly. Smooth water or broken, deep or shallow,
alike gave up its increase. The fish were not particular as to the
fly, with the one exception of the black gnat, which they would not as
much as look at. Replace it with a governor or coachman, and they came
with a heartfelt eagerness most charming to behold. As day declined
they rose short, and when the vapours began to distil from the meadows
they retired from business.
The keeper volunteered a statement. He said he would not care to carry
the basket half a dozen miles; whereupon I offered a suggestion.
Acting upon this, he turned the spoil out upon the buttercups. There
were thirty trout, averaging 3/4 lb. each, and not reckoning the
invalid, which came out on the top of the heap, so mottled and dull
that it bore no resemblance to its beautiful associates. The keeper
that night received double largess. I had to exercise much
self-control to keep myself from smiting him familiarly on the back and
executing a Red Indian war dance around the victims. He said he hoped
I would come again to those regions, turned over the coin I gave him,
and intimated that if the trout (which he was now packing neatly into
the creel) were not satisfied with the gentlemanly manner in which they
were treated they would be pleased at nothing. And it was not for me
to dissent or rebuke.
My best-day memory of grayling fishing up to my colonial interlude is
of a wet, muggy November day in Herefordshire. It was late in the
month, and as the previous week had been marked by early frost, the
sere leaves, having lost their grip, were rattling down on the water
with every gust, and, indeed, from the mere weight of the rain. It was
pretty practice, dropping the flies so as to avoid these little
impediments; but it wasted time and strained the temper, for, according
to custom in grayling land at that period, one had attached three or
four flies to the cast, and thereby increased the chances of fouling.
Yet I finished the day with eighteen grayling, to be placed to the
contra account against a most complete soaking. The better fish were
invariably found in the eye or tail of a moderate stream, the rest on
gravelly or sandy shelves where the water was about 2 ft. deep. The
former hooked themselves, taking the fly fairly under water; the latter
came direct to the surface, and demanded careful striking and playing.
Picking my way through a copse where the banks were high, I sat down on
an overhanging rock to rest. When the eye became accustomed to the
water and its buff bed it detected a couple of grayling that had before
escaped notice, so closely were they assimilated in colour to the
ground in which they foraged. Of course, I had always accepted the
teaching of my betters that this fish rises perpendicularly from the
bottom in deep water after the fly, but I had never verified the
statement for myself. I did so now. By proceeding quietly I could
"dib" the fly over the fish. It darted straight upwards, missed, and
descended again. As it seemed uneasy after the exercise I repeated the
experiment, with precisely similar results. The fish, agitating its
fins at the bottom, was evidently excited, perhaps angry, and it
behoved me to restore tranquillity, if possible, to its perturbed
spirit. Instead, therefore, of dibbing, I now allowed the fly to
float, a little submerged, from a couple of yards above the fish,
which, I fear, had never in its youthful days been taught the mystical
proverb, "First, second, but beware of the third." It came up with a
gallant charge, and went down soundly hooked.
There was no possibility of getting the landing net to the water, and
no opportunity of travelling the grayling up or down stream to a
convenient place. I had to make the best of the position, and the best
was the employment of brute force. Hauling up a 1/2-lb. fish bodily a
distance of several feet, when the said fish is held only by a tiny
golden palmer on the finest gut, is not a likely manoeuvre. The
grayling behaved well for a couple of yards or so, and then bethought
himself of plunging, the consequence being that I lost my hook, and he
dropped into a tuft of bracken in a niche below, to die uselessly.
Down in Wessex lies the scene of a memorable day with pike. There were
occasions when I caught more fish at live baiting, but that is a
process of which one ought not to be as proud as of the more
workmanlike method of spinning. This was a spinning day pure and
simple. The sport was good; the adjuncts were enjoyable. It was a
fine lake in an ancient park, and on Guy Fawkes Day I found the autumn
tints such as I have never seen them for magnificence at any other
time. Then I had a comfortable boat, an intelligent keeper to pull it,
and plenty of fresh, medium-sized dace for bait.
The lake, if left to itself, would have been choked with anacharis; but
the proprietor, by means of a machine driven by steam--a sort of
submarine plough--kept certain portions clear. The pike I knew would
not at this time of the year be absolutely amongst the weeds if they
could avoid it, for they prefer cover without a taint of decay; but I
reckoned rightly that I should meet with them in the water lanes
through which the machine had been driven. One large triangle in the
vent of the bait was sufficient tackle. I am not certain that more
elaborate flights are better anywhere; for weedy water I should have no
reservation. From ten o'clock till five, with half an hour for
luncheon, I toiled on, acquired a grand shoulder-ache that lasted me
three days, and covered the bottom of the boat with close upon
three-quarters of a hundred-weight of pike in prime condition.
The largest fish ought to have weighed 20 lb., but it only turned the
scale at 16 lb. According to the recognised rules of the game this
fellow should have been taken in the deepest water; but it was a fish
that could probably afford to set rules at defiance. I struck it,
anyhow, in less than 16 in., and when I least expected it. We had
worked our way to a shallow end of the lake, where the submarine plough
had not ventured, and, observing one clear space in a waste of
anacharis, I threw into and spun across it, moving a fish that went
into the weeds beyond. It went so leisurely, and made so distinct a
track, that I, more out of curiosity than anything else, gave it a
second chance. The bait was for a moment entangled in the weeds, but
was released easily. There was then a sudden splash that could be
heard afar, and a furious running out of line. A salmon would not have
fought more gamely than did this pike during a splendid quarter of an
hour. Another five minutes and it would have been scot-free, for it
was held by one hook only of the triangle. Even this had been much
strained in the tussle, and it came away the moment the gaff was driven
in.
If Nawabs have memories, and the Nawab Nazim of Bengal should to-day be
thinking in his Indian palace, as I am in the Queensland bush, of the
same subject, he will remember that summer day in hay-time when we sat
side by side roach fishing in the Colne, and how we both agreed, after
it was over, that it was the best day's bottom fishing we had ever
enjoyed. He made this admission to me with the gravity natural to an
Oriental potentate; I, not having so many jewels and claims against the
Government on my mind, with, I hope, not unbecoming jubilancy. But we
were both in earnest. The worthy Hindoo and his son were adepts in
this modest branch of the gentle art, and the Nawab, spite of his big
spectacles, could detect a bite as if he had been a roach fisher all
his days.
Any other description of angling would, I presume, have been alien to
the tastes of an Oriental, but this offered a minimum of exertion. I
seated myself a respectable distance above their highnesses, and if now
and then my pricked fish disturbed their "swim," they must admit they
received the full benefit of my ground bait, which, as the balls
gradually dissolved, crept down to sharpen the appetites of the fish
within their sphere. The Nawab used one of those immense bamboo rods,
the sections of which have to be unshipped at the taking of every fish
and whenever rebaiting is necessary. This I am aware is the regulation
mode amongst Thames and Lea roach anglers; but its clumsiness always
forbade my cultivating it. A light rod and fine running line were more
to my fancy, even though I had occasionally to pay for its indulgence
by losses.
On this particular day the roach were, in angler's parlance, "on the
feed"; and the water was of the precise degree of cloudiness suitable
for the operation. The Nawab and his son had selected a reach of water
where the current was sluggish, and they undoubtedly took the finest
roach. I had chosen a favourite swim at the tail of a rapid, and
commanding an eddy, where you could generally make sure of picking up
an odd chub or wandering dace; and it was my fate to have a good deal
of amusement with the latter. A logger-headed chub of 3 lb. or
thereabouts ran down to pay homage to the Nawab, but I contrived to
check its career before it intruded itself into the presence, and the
capture of this fish was watched and criticised with much eagerness by
my neighbours. About three-and-twenty pounds' weight of fish fell to
my share that day, and the distinguished strangers had ten pounds or so
more. Roach fishing is not an exciting phase of sport, but it is by no
means the tame or simple pursuit many persons affect to think it, and
it is not unworthy of the name of high art. Moreover, it is a most
pleasure-yielding occupation, and, amongst London anglers at least,
furnishes, it cannot be denied, the greatest happiness for the greatest
number.
Best-day memories of this fish should assuredly take us back to the
far-off schoolboy times when we used to "snatch a fearful joy" by
surreptitious visits to the mill stream, and when, with a little hazel
rod, length of whipcord, and rude hooks whipped to twisted horsehair,
we would hurry home to breakfast with a dozen roach strung through the
gills upon a twig of osier. They were all best days then.
I should be the most ungrateful of anglers if I did not acknowledge my
indebtedness to the dace. It so happened that, whatever else fortune
denied me, it gave me opportunities, of which I could without hardship
avail myself, for dace fishing; and, whatever sins of omission I may in
my old age have to bring forward in self-accusation, I shall never be
able to plead guilty to neglecting any opportunities soever in the
matter of angling. For the dace, therefore, as a fish whose merits I
have appreciated from youth upwards, I entertain great respect. There
is no dulness about it. Go down to the fords where the dace are
gathered, and you shall see the water boiling with their gambols, and
shooting silver as they wheel and frisk about. Take them under any
circumstances, so long as they are in season, and they always impress
you with their liveliness of character. The roach in biting sometimes
scarcely moves the quill float; the dace startles you by its sudden,
sharp onslaught. A roach firmly hooked ought never to be lost; it
requires a dexterous hand to pilot a dace safely out of a rapid
current--that is to say, a dace of two or three to the pound.
And the dace is deserving of respect because it will honestly take the
fly. True, the roach does so too, occasionally; but the dace, any time
between June and September, rises regularly. We used to get them in
the Colne considerably over 1/2 lb. in weight, and an afternoon's
perseverance and a little wading would, in favourable weather, put from
twenty to thirty fish into your basket. But it is questionable whether
this can be done now. Many a pleasant evening have I spent by
Thames-side, beginning at Ham Lane and working upwards, or crossing the
river below Richmond bridge; fishing always with fine tackle and a
black gnat somewhere on the footline.
The finest bit of sport I had with dace was in a mill stream a couple
of miles out of Norwich. It was specially welcome because quite
unexpected. We were on a pike-fishing excursion, and the fly rod was
put into the dog-cart to provide bait for the party. The great mill
wheel was revolving, and the pool swirling and foaming, when we
arrived, and a few small fish could be detected in the shallow water.
The general outlook was not inviting, but the apparatus was put
together on the chance of things proving better than they looked.
Chance favoured us. The first cast produced a dace on each hook, and
in a quarter of an hour I had whipped out a good supply of bait for the
trollers and spinners. So long as the dace were rising all the pike in
the river could not tempt me to accompany them. I stuck to the
whipping, and only left off when I was too tired to wield the rod any
more.
But enough. It would not be difficult to call up best-day memories of
gudgeon, of bleak, and even minnows; of tench, and carp, and bream.
The moment for my departure, however, has come. The little mare is
ready, the notebook must be closed. There are fifteen miles to be
disposed of before dark, and darkness will be upon us in a couple of
hours. I can continue my soliloquising as I canter through the bush;
there will be no one to disturb me or ridicule me, unless, indeed, the
bird named the laughing jackass should make the woods echo with his
idiotic chuckle, or the parrots should scream their harsh derision.