CLEAR WATERS 



in the most hopeless month. But the quaHty of the 

 fishing was such, my friends opined, that even a be- 

 nighted stranger from a far country — for it is thus 

 the locals are apt to rate one — might pick up a fish or 

 two. The excellent couple gave me quite a send-off. 

 The good man, full of new-born zeal, strapped my 

 waders, brogues, and rod on to the bicycle himself, and 

 the lady showed more personal interest in cutting 

 sandwiches than she had ever done in serving up 

 dinner for four people, though the dinners were all 

 right. And they both stood at the door at my de- 

 parture and bestowed their blessings, so to speak, on 

 my enterprise. Excellent souls, their hearts, of course, 

 went with me, and they would both have given their 

 eyes to have been in my place. I felt I must do some- 

 thing to justify all this fervour, though there seemed 

 mighty little prospect of it. In fact, I felt something 

 of a fool thus loaded up for fishing on such a day, with 

 a bright August sun above my head and two inches 

 of dust on the road beneath my feet. In such self- 

 conscious mood, I fancied I could detect a pitying 

 smile on the face of every wayfarer above a tramp that 

 passed me on the Shrewsbury road, and was quite 

 relieved to turn off at Bromfield and pursue the less- 

 frequented route that follows the high ground above 

 the valley of the Teme to Leintwardine — name 

 familiar enough in angling gossip and literature for its 

 famous fishing club. I had got my bearings from 

 my hosts, but it is a difficult country on first 

 acquaintance, the hills are high and the vale woody 

 and deep ; but eventually I found my way on foot 

 down to the bottom of the preserve marked by an 

 148 



