DAYS STOLEN FOR SPORT 31 



corner, nearly unseated me, and the long gallop 

 down the steep hill that followed was not a joy, for 

 my legs were spread out and rubbed by the rising 

 and falling shafts, but there I had to sit, bumped 

 on leather and buckle, until, quite out of breath, the 

 little beast stopped suddenly and tilted me on to 

 his ears. That mixture of riding and driving was 

 a surprise to all concerned, including the pony, who 

 was dripping with excitement, and the man who 

 took him in charge at the end of it walked round 

 him saying: "Be et you now, Bobby? Be et 

 you? I never knawed 'ee sweat avore." 



The Bray is one of several rivers that have their 

 rise on Exmoor and feed the Taw. From Brayford 

 to Challacombe, some seven miles, beyond which 

 the fisher who is a fisher only should not go, the 

 river course is full of bends and twirling eddies 

 that seem to vie with one another to hold the 

 greatest number of the fish, which appear to be 

 limited only by Nature's provision for their happy 

 upkeep. It winds its way through meadows where 

 the bushes are few and far between, and it comes 

 down through woods and spinneys, seldom trod, 

 where overhanging branches of lofty trees entwine 

 and hazel bushes embrace to make an archway for 

 the little river that sings so sweetly on its way. 



We fished the meadows with much success and 

 enjoyed the shade of an enveloping wood for a 

 lengthened time, but we got lost in an undergrowth 

 much above our heads and wondered which way it 

 would be best to go. A straw may tell where the 

 wind is and a sparrow suggest that you are near 

 some dwelling, but it was the bark of a dog that 

 said : "Come this way." To beat down the thorns 



