CLEAR WATERS 



our destination across the ridges of half-enclosed moor- 

 land — since then wholly enclosed — that opened on to 

 the wilder Lammermuirs. It was still all very wintry, 

 but I remembered Exmoor and my friend recalled the 

 Slieve Bloom, and how the moorland trout in both 

 were well on the go by now in open weather. The 

 wind at any rate was in the west, if nothing else felt 

 spring-like but the sunshine. We were half-way to 

 Ellemford, our destination — upon the hill, in fact, that 

 we had to descend to Abbey St. Bathans — when the 

 Whiteadder burst suddenly into view beneath us. We 

 were expecting a little moorland river, and here 

 glittering below, broad and buoyant, for a full half- 

 mile, was a noble stream indeed, a hundred feet wide 

 if it was a foot. That moment abides with me yet. 

 The Irishman and I waved our hats and shouted with 

 delight. The sedate East Anglian, somewhat our 

 senior, looked with more restrained approval on a 

 sample of landscape that to him was a complete 

 novelty. 



So we dropped down into the valley by a steep, 

 rocky brae, nowadays densely covered with plantations, 

 and crossed the broad river by the same high suspension 

 footbridge that I often cross to-day. The stream 

 ran full and strong beneath us, of a clear amber colour, 

 and in good condition. This, indeed, was something 

 like a river ! It was better even than Exmoor, I 

 exclaimed in my joy, while my companion swore by 

 all the saints of Erin that the Slieve Bloom streams 

 could not compare with it, which was quite true, and 

 I came to know them well enough in after years. 

 He wrung me by the hand, and what a grip he had ! 



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