THE WATERS OF CADER IDRIS 



was before the days even of safety bicycles. I don*t 

 think fishermen, not perhaps being a venturesome race, 

 ever rode those high, fearsome things of ancient times, 

 a fall from which seemed to portend certain death. 

 So our party used to drive in a rusty wagonette from 

 the Corbett Arms to the old stone bridge near the 

 village of Bryncrug, when we fished the lower water, 

 and by rough roads to Peniarth, when we fished the 

 upper reaches. It was all association water, but there 

 were not many fishermen on it in those days, and there 

 was abundant room. I recall those jog-trot drives 

 up the valley as not the least pleasant part of the pro- 

 gramme. We were always happy and in high good 

 temper as we went out, particularly if a light rain was 

 blowing up from the sea in a dull sky. 



On looking back, pangs of remorse seize me that we 

 ought to have thought more of our dejected families, 

 threatened with a whole day's imprisonment within 

 the walls of Towyn lodging-houses, looking out upon 

 a dreary sea. We ought not to have been so cheerful. 

 It was utterly wrong. But man is a selfish animal and 

 woman a long-suffering one — or she used to be. A 

 lady the other day begged and implored me to make 

 a fisherman of her husband. Of course he may have 

 bored her, and if I had felt certain of that I would 

 have done my best, but they seemed to be a reasonably 

 devoted couple, and I absolutely declined to have a 

 finger in any such business, particularly as it would 

 have been a hopeless task. Our drives home were 

 not always so cheerful, but after a good day they were 

 the best of all. I look upon it as one of the stoutest 

 evidences of the nobility of woman, that after being shut 



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