300 DRY-FLY FISHING 



are we cannot foretell. Perhaps disappointment 

 awaits ; perhaps great fortune will be ours. The 

 loch may be full of weeds ; but again it may be 

 filled with trout ; fish of some sort must roam these 

 distant waters. 



A walk of over a mile brings us to a loch which 

 has already furnished us with the grandest sport, 

 baskets of bright, lively trout, between two and three 

 to the pound, beautifully marked, magnificently 

 proportioned, short and deep, keen fighters all. 

 Many a time we have enjoyed drifting the fine 

 curving bays, the long indented shore, the calm 

 belt under the trees, and, more than all, the peculiar 

 lines of tall reeds, which never fail to call forth the 

 music of the reel. Here we have fished the rise of 

 the July gloaming, often with conspicuous success, 

 sometimes almost in vain ; once or twice, when the 

 chilling mist was wafted along in weird columns, 

 we have been sent empty away ; but even that 

 experience has not been invariable even under 

 these depressing conditions. 



In spite of these memories, we refrain from putting 

 up the rod, the better to withstand the temptation 

 of these bays, for nothing must be allowed to prevent 

 or even hinder the projected expedition. If that 

 fails altogether, then we have the kindly loch to 

 cheer us on our return in the evening, and therein 

 lies the reason for the route selected. Boarding the 

 boat, we row at speed straight to the opposite shore. 

 We feel like pioneers as we draw the craft far up 

 the beach and, shouldering the pack, set off across 

 the moor. With no guide save our memory of the 

 map and its easy contours, it is possible that, owing 

 to frequent detours necessary to avoid the inevitable 



