216 THE SALT OF MY LIFE 



Teign bass, caught on successive mornings, are 

 before me still ; every incident of their capture, 

 from the first dip of the rod to the final work of 

 the gaff and the glorious weighing, that went even 

 beyond expectations. It is only with an effort 

 that memory conjures up the many lean days, 

 the days on which we hoped against hope, when 

 the sea was too rough, the river full of weed, when 

 the storm came up so rapidly from behind the 

 hills that the zenith of the day was Egyptian 

 darkness, when hooks betrayed the trust reposed 

 in them, when fish were both loved and lost, when 

 fish could not be even lost, since they would not 

 take the hook. Such rank and file of failures is 

 consigned to the limbo of oblivion. 



Here and there, of course, some prodigious 

 fiasco stands out undeniable from the background 

 of the life that is lived and done with. Not all 

 of fishing, but also of other minor hobbies, has 

 failure made great pait. 



There were those Welsh adders ! Where the 

 merry Monnow frets with fitful music over the 

 stony lairs of trout and grayling, I three days in 

 succession sought the elusive adder, even towards 

 the peaks of grim Garway and exhausting Graig. 

 Sought the reptile, and found not ; yet the expedi- 

 tion, barren of results, was not without interest, 

 since it revealed the methods and enthusiasm 

 (which is more precious than method) of one who 



