264 TROUT FISHING 



that the day was going to be calm, or at worst no 

 more violent than may be managed by the skill 

 already mentioned. But when the river is reached, 

 such fond imaginings have to yield to solid and 

 unpleasant fact. The wind is much more than a 

 rustle among tree-tops. It is a potent reality, 

 which makes the dry-fly man clutch his hat and 

 debate within him whither he shall go for shelter, 

 so that he may find a quiet stretch of water where 

 flies and rises shall be visible, and where it may be 

 possible to cast without having to put out all the 

 skill which is in him. Of course, it would be possible 

 to fish in the exposed parts, for a man who knows 

 his business; but still, the bow should not always 

 be bent, and it is wise to reserve some measure of 

 strength. 



Accordingly search is made for the quiet place 

 desired. Just below the bridge — that is the spot — 

 and steps are taken thither. But on actual trial 

 the place is not so sheltered as it seems. True, the 

 water is not lashed into foam as lower down, and two 

 or three rises can be seen on the broad shallow, but 

 when it comes to covering them, the line is taken by 

 a sort of whirlwind and deposited suddenly and 

 forcibly on the bank, the gut being coiled ingeniously 

 in and out of the herbage, so that it needs patient 

 disentangling. Nothing daunted, though possibly 

 a little surprised, the angler tries again, putting 



