CLEAR WATERS 



the first reach. But the cold was too much even for 

 Dee trout, and the wind was nearly north and biting 

 beyond belief, and I have never yet heard of a north- 

 wind river. We did not enjoy ourselves even when 

 the air cleared of snow, but we were virtually com- 

 mitted to our long voyage, as you cannot retrace your 

 steps in a coracle on the Dee. But when, after three 

 congealed hours with some half a dozen indifferent 

 fish in the basket, we paused for lunch at Rhiawl rocks 

 beneath the foot of Gamelin, then a vast sheet of snow, 

 we both agreed that human endurance could no longer 

 hold out against the icy blast. The coracle was there- 

 upon thrust into a thicket and we parted, each on our 

 long weary trudge, Griffith down river to Llangollen, 

 I to the distant fireside of The Grouse inn and home 

 that night, where I was confined to bed for the next 

 two or three days with a bad chill on the fiver. Griffith 

 survived that arctic voyage, but soon afterwards fell 

 from a high rock by the river and broke his neck. He 

 tied flies commendably, and had a touching faith that 

 with any other brand the fisher on the Dee was quite 

 inadequately equipped. In his snug parlour at Llan- 

 gollen, with its low oak-ribbed ceiling, seated in the 

 deep-set window amid his furs and feathers, his paddle 

 hung over the chimney-piece, his old wife knitting 

 by the fire, and the grandfather clock ticking away their 

 few remaining years, he made the centre of a picture 

 that still abides with me. 



From a high cliff in that famous Shropshire park 



of the last chapter where the pike were raided, a group 



of bold shadowy heights used to be pointed out to 



visitors as the vale of Llangollen, name of mellifluous 



62 



