CLEAR WATERS 



had fastened, I feel sure the gut would have snapped 

 as he turned. 



Close to the source of the Teifi rises another noble 

 river, the Towy, not so good for trout or salmon as the 

 other, but renowned lower down for its sewin. Plung- 

 ing noisily through the troughs of the wild, dark brown 

 in storm and clear amber in dry weather, burrowing 

 continually in deep rock-walled trenches it has carved 

 for itself in the course of ages, it foams along to meet 

 the Doithea beneath the crags and woodlands of 

 Ystradffyn on the verge of civilisation. Up above 

 this in the moorland wilds it is full of small trout. 

 Small as they are I have often made them an excuse 

 for crossing over from Llanwrtyd wells in the valley 

 of the Yrfon, and abandoning the social and other 

 attractions of the old Dolcoed hotel merely to spend 

 but a brief day among the wild sheep-walks of Nant- 

 Stallwyn. It is a long job, being a full ten miles, and 

 the last part of it virtually unnegotiable for any wheels 

 but those of a hill farmer who has a nag especially 

 entered to the business. But when you had achieved 

 it you could kill as many small trout as you pleased. 

 And on the way one passed Abergwessin and its pic- 

 turesque inn, where the angler may stop and enjoy 

 quite excellent trouting in the torrential head-waters 

 of the Yrfon, amid scenes that for beauty are renowned 

 throughout South Wales. The memories of a July 

 day among these exquisite cascades and a basket of 

 most sizeable fish therefrom extracted often comes 

 back to me. 



Lower down the Towy, just before it leaves the 

 wilds, there dwelt on its banks a lady of remarkable 



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