CHAPTER XV 



DRY-FLY FISHING ON LOCHS AND RESERVOIRS 



ONE day many years ago, on a reedy tarn in 

 the hospitable land of Islay, despair and 

 weariness laid hold upon us, for the trout, 

 usually keen and eager, seemed resolved to ignore 

 all our efforts. The sun was hot, the breeze a mere 

 zephyr, and the roar of the restless Sound two miles 

 away could be faintly heard. Conditions were 

 unpromising ; but we had gone to fish and, if 

 possible, to catch fish ; therefore, though defeat 

 complete and absolute appeared predestined, we 

 refused to capitulate before a prolonged struggle. 

 A blank day in Islay was, we understood, unthink- 

 able rather than impossible, and now such an 

 unhappy and extraordinary fate seemed imminent. 

 With a view to changing the luck we changed a 

 fly, knotting on the ever deadly Butcher and, a 

 little confidence and hope regained, we cast out upon 

 the gently rippling water. The new fly floated, and 

 we were just on the point of pulling it smartly 

 beneath the surface when there appeared a ghost- 

 like form rising slowly through the rich brown water 

 stained with the peat of the moorland. Ignoring 

 the trio of sunken lures, the trout made straight for 

 the dry pattern and sucked it down. The reel 

 skirled vehemently as the nimble half-pounder tore 



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