ICELAND 95 



a wriggling lob on a Stewart tackle, and no sooner 

 tried than five big fish dashed at the bait. It was 

 not high-class sport, but very good fun while it 

 lasted. I simply cleaned out that pool in about 

 two hours. Each char took from five to ten 

 minutes, and they were all about the same size, 

 from three to four and a half pounds, beautiful 

 golden-bellied fellows, and game as far as they 

 knew how. A char does not act so gallantly as a 

 trout. He certainly makes one fine rush, but then 

 it is all over, just tug, tug, tug, like a blessed old 

 perch or tench, till you have him dead beat. 



Meanwhile the Icelander sat on the bank, all 

 beams and smiles — rather commercial smiles I 

 found they were presently, when he appeared with 

 a pony and a large sack and said they belonged to 

 him, and he was ready to remove the spoil. To 

 this I was quite agreeable on the condition that 

 he would take the fish to our camp, three miles 

 down the river, where my brother would take a 

 photograph of them, as it would be nice to have a 

 good picture of such a beautiful basket of fine char. 

 He at once promised to do this, and started off 

 along the river-bank in the direction of our tem- 

 porary abode. However, this was only a bluff, 

 for he never went near our camp, but rode straight 

 on to Reykavick, about forty miles away, and sold 

 his load at a fish store for twenty-five kroners. 



Whilst fishing for the char I witnessed a most 

 interesting sight in the way of bird life. A large 

 snow-white bird came over the hills and com- 

 menced beating up and down the river some half 

 a mile below. By and by it ascended the river 

 and began fishing over the stream within a short 



