70 THE SALT OF MY LIFE 



yet would not, by fee or favour, let any angler 

 so much as wet a hook. Angling therefore in the 

 ordinary way was out of the question. Yet 

 surely I remember, one July evening, stepping 

 into the boat with a Swedish companion in sin, 

 with suspiciously bulging pockets, and stepping 

 ashore three hours later with our jackets tightly 

 buttoned over booty that the kindly darkness 

 hid from inquisitive eyes. Handlines, of course, 

 had to be used, and, as the river teemed with fish 

 in an abundance on which not even the prodigality 

 of the netsmen could make much impression, my 

 first and last experience of catching freshwater 

 fish without a rod was a fruitful one. 



Not only was the main river full of all manner 

 of fish, including, so tradition had it, the mighty 

 wels, but every fosse and ditch to which its spawn- 

 laden water had access was equally well stocked. 

 There were pike and eels in the much netted 

 ditch beside the road from Rostock to the sea, 

 from which, on clear winter nights, we watched 

 great strings of wild swans and smaller fowl sailing 

 across the cold northern skies. The Breitling, a 

 broad near the river's mouth, was reputed a rare 

 haunt of large pike, and one Sunday the Goten- 

 borger and myself planned a great piking raid and 

 invited several friends. After a too elaborate 

 luncheon at the Hotel Beringer, we sailed out into 

 the middle of the Broad and stuck fast on a 



