288 AN OPEN CREEL 



There is an element of irony as well as luck about my 

 first catch at Blagdon. With my mind full of possible 

 seven- and eight-pounders, it never occurred to me that 

 I ought to have the big one put into a glass case, cast, 

 modelled, or otherwise made immortal, albeit much 

 the biggest I have ever caught on a fly. In the previous 

 year a fish of six and three-quarter pounds would have 

 been nothing out of the way. But there has not been 

 a trout so big caught at Blagdon since ! A fish of six 

 pounds six ounces was killed by a boat-angler on the 

 same day, and I think one or two others may have been 

 taken later which just exceeded six pounds, but I am 

 pretty certain there have not been half a dozen of them 

 in the four seasons that have elapsed since the great 

 year 1905. I wish I had realized how lucky I was, and 

 done the right thing by my trophy, instead of letting 

 it be ingloriously eaten. Not even a paper outline 

 remains to tell the tale. 



After that first day luck seemed to desert me at 

 Blagdon. I fished it from boat, I fished it from bank, 

 and caught hardly anything. In fact, I began to 

 regard the place as bewitched, so blank were my days, 

 so vile the weather. Each subsequent visit seemed to 

 give less result than the one before it, though other 

 anglers continued from time to time to get their six or 

 eight fish, averaging about three pounds. I suspect 

 that Fate thought I had had as much success as was 

 good for me, and set herself to humble my proud 

 spirit. She did it. I well remember one of the days 

 she gave me. 



It was about the worst Blagdon has ever known. 

 The wind from the north-west was bitterly cold, and 



