XVII ON THE GLOUCESTERSHIRE COLN 



BlBURY 



IT was roses, roses all the way, in that fairest of 

 English valleys which is watered by that clearest of 

 trout streams, the Coin, when first I made its acquaint- 

 ance. I think roses have never played so large a part 

 in my dreams, both sleeping and waking, before. My 

 host's drawing-room window gave upon a rose-bed, and 

 one enormous cream-coloured flower looked in upon us 

 constantly as we sat at tea discussing flies, trout, the 

 " Bibury glare," and other rural topics. 



The Bibury glare, by the way, is not a solar mani- 

 festation, but a human. It is that expression of dumb 

 but concentrated suffering which attends the dry-fly 

 man when the fish are boiling all round him and he 

 cannot find the right shade of dun. It is, I am told, 

 most noticeable in " Bibury Street," as the roadway 

 which borders part of the Swan Hotel's fishery is 

 called. The angler who suffers from the glare gazes 

 fixedly upon the horizon, and his moustaches (if he 

 wears them) bristle. He says " No " in a final tone if 

 you ask him a question, and to subsequent inquiries 

 answers not at all. He contemplates (one may assume) 

 hurling his fly-box into the river, and of an evening 



172 



