MORE FISHING NOTES. 235 



A favourite haunt of the pike, which we have 

 often visited and hope to visit again if all goes well 

 with us comes vividly before me. An old grey bridge 

 was there, spanning a narrow river in the heart of the 

 woodlands. Nothing is now left by time and winter 

 floods but the crumbling arches and the old track 

 on top : the parapet which protected either side has 

 gone long ago, for the oldest rustic in the village 

 could not tell us when it was in a different condition. 

 Rustic folk-lore hands it down as a tradition and 

 we have found as a rule that there is much truth in 

 rustic lore that the bridge belonged to the Catholic 

 community of olden time that owned the mills above 

 and below it. There it stands, gradually crumbling 

 to pieces : neither waggon nor cart passes over it now, 

 and a very occasional foot-passenger, who, in most 

 cases, carries a rod. There is a sharp run of water 

 above, the home of bright silvery dace, herring-size, 

 and now and again good thick trout, real beauties. 

 These, with the bright glancing bleaks or, as they 

 are sometimes called, willow -blades live in this 

 shallow water above the ruined bridge; and they 

 keep there, if they can, for they know what is in store 

 for them below. We have seen a shoal of dace throw 



