THE ENGLISH LAKE COUNTRY 



lies in paucity of numbers. One can understand a lake 

 holding no fish at aU, like Grisedale tarn, of which a 

 word presently, or even containing a few large ones 

 only, or again, being full of stunted fish. But it 

 seems strange that so perfect a sheet of limpid water 

 should, generation after generation, support but a 

 small supply of rather even-sized, well-conditioned 

 three-to-the-pounders. I have seen them presumably 

 on the rise of a still evening, and the rings are un- 

 doubtedly very scattering and wide apart. I have 

 been always possessed of a great desire to kill a good 

 basket on Red tarn, if only for the scepticism with 

 which it is regarded in local fishing circles. My land- 

 lord is always hearty and hopeful as he despatches us 

 to the other lakes ; but indifference amounting almost 

 to disapproval lurks in his eye as I turn up Glen- 

 ridding beck on the Helvellyn trail. In fact I never 

 let on now that I am going to Red tarn, but merely 

 announce my intention of climbing Helvellyn by 

 Striding Edge, taking a small rod with me bound on 

 to my long climbing staff. So, without laying myself 

 open to the rather humiHating sympathy which greets 

 the return of the unsuccessful angler, I can stealthily, 

 as it were, continue my experiments and my efforts 

 to confute the champions of the Vale and their nega- 

 tively contemptuous attitude towards this most 

 beautiful Httle lake. Yet that is not precisely their 

 attitude either, which makes it all the more perplexing. 

 For each one of them qualifies his own abstention 

 with the oracular delivery : — * Ay, there 's bonnie fish 

 in yon lake, I expect.' But they never go there ! 

 I really do think Gough's wraith must have it in 



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