XXIII A RUN OF LUCK o o o *> 



IN the fat pastures of the South one is lulled, I 

 suppose, into a kind of false security. Cows in 

 a water-meadow are but agricultural commonplaces ; 

 bullocks are pieces of scenery as placid as willow-trees ; 

 even bulls are objects of respect rather than awe I 

 have often of late years fished in close proximity to 

 a bull without a tremor. Therefore I went into Wales 

 unafraid, and quite forgetful that in the old days, albeit 

 no runner at any time, I have covered considerable 

 tracts of the Principality in a remarkably brief tale 

 of seconds. But on Sunday (I arrived on Saturday) 

 I remembered. My very good friend Glendower was 

 giving me the benefit of his eight years' experience 

 of the river, showing me the pools and catches, and 

 generally preparing me for a possible salmon when we 

 should have water at present there was none, or 

 almost none. We had walked past several pools and 

 climbed many stiles, and were just upon returning for 

 luncheon when we came face to face with a dark red 

 bull. It had a morose expression and a sombre eye, 

 and I bethought me instantly of the old days, and 

 prepared to lower all my records. But my friend is 

 a big man and a brave ; he addressed the animal in 



226 



