THE WELSH BORDERLAND 



been mayfly fishing here, and even then praying for 

 rain. It was now mid-September, and practically not 

 a drop had fallen since. * Come and have a try, but 

 you can imagine what the river is like,' wrote my host, 

 who had not wetted a line at home, I think, since we had 

 wrestled together for a week of a (locally) vexatious 

 mayfly season. I went for two days only on this 

 occasion in anything but sanguine mood. I had not 

 yet fathomed the true inwardness of the Lugg gray- 

 Hng, nor indeed had my friend himself, I fancy, at that 

 time. For there is a big difference between ordinary 

 low water and the conditions of 191 1. On my 

 arrival, however, I found a noble heap of freshly caught 

 grayling lying on the hall table, the day's sport of 

 two neighbours who were having tea in the drawing- 

 room — the first experiment of the season, as it trans- 

 pired. It so fell out that I had to fish both my days 

 alone. On the first I had filled my basket by about 

 half-past three, and could not carry any more ; and 

 on the second, taking it very easily, I had nearly as 

 many by the ordinary reeling-up time. The river 

 was so low too, that half of the places available in 

 normal low water were unfishable, and at no time, 

 owing to high banks and plentiful timber, is it easy, 

 though always interesting, to fish. 



Now comes the rather instructive sequel. The 

 water the next year at the same season after the wet 

 summer of 191 2 was in most perfect order. The 

 briUiant early autumn had begun. Yet that week 

 was the only failure so far experienced. The first 

 day, when the river was voted just a thought perhaps 

 too full for ideal grayling conditions, I was out alone, 



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