136 AN OPEN CREEL 



aplomb of an Itchen trout. Afterwards I worked up- 

 stream a little on the right bank, under a wood. A 

 prettier piece of water I never wish to see weeds cut 

 in artful patches, clear, deep runs between them, bright 

 gravel shallows, and difficult eddies. But the fish were 

 by no means easy to approach, as the bank was rather 

 high and the trees were very awkward for casting. 

 One trout only offered a fair chance one of those fish 

 that rise just above a little clump of reeds. He took a 

 Wickham, and after a short rough and tumble was in 

 the net a pretty golden pounder, short and thick. 



After putting several other fish down and losing 

 several flies in the trees, I started off downstream, and 

 had a distressing morning. The thunder-heat was 

 intense, my mackintosh was heavy and cumbrous, my 

 brogues were tight for walking, and the fish were 

 smutting in a hopeless fashion. Three or four short 

 rises, and a twelve-inch fish returned because he was 

 too thin for his length, made up the sum of my 

 successes. The reverses, in the shape of fish put 

 down, flies lost, fatigues and despondency, need not be 

 enumerated. They included almost permanent sub- 

 sidence into a bed of mud which looked hard enough 

 for standing purposes, being overgrown with rushes. 

 I sank up to the very top of my wading-stockings, and 

 had some difficulty in getting out again. By lunch- 

 time there was still only the one fish in my basket. 

 After lunch I made my way down to Bell Mill. The 

 keeper's cottage is close by, and the steadily gathering 

 clouds acted as a warning that shelter would before 

 long be necessary. In the dead water above the mill 

 several fish were smutting close to the scum and 



