302 DRY-FLY FISHING 



covery from any direction almost until the loch is 

 reached. No weeds line the shores, though a few 

 patches are seen beyond the longest cast from the 

 bank ; the bottom is of large gravel ; it looks a 

 troutful water, as it sparkles under the brisk 

 westerly breeze. There is no boat visible, and we 

 are thankful that the waders have not proved a 

 superfluous burden. 



Although a rest after the arduous walk across the 

 moor would be advisable, we cannot halt until we 

 have searched the rather excessive wave. Waders 

 are donned, and the two rods mounted in a few 

 minutes. No fish are showing, therefore we make 

 a start with a cast of four Loch Leven wet-flies, 

 standard size. Just before us lies a long, narrow 

 neck of water, more like a river than a bay in a 

 loch, towards which the wind is blowing and raising 

 a great jabble. Nothing arrests the progress of the 

 flies, though they are subjected to very varied 

 treatment. Are there no trout in the loch ? 



More for the sake of variety than with any expect- 

 ation, we take up the dry-fly rod, put on a brace 

 of flies, the Rough Olive and a dark Greenwell, 

 lengthen line, and send the cast across a calm 

 frothy belt. At once a trout comes wriggling up, a 

 good fish obviously, and we wait for it patiently, 

 striking as it turns to go downwards. The hook 

 takes hold and the reel sings merrily ; a sharp fight 

 ensues, but in time the rod claims command, and 

 we step out into deeper water to use the net. 



Back to the shore we come to unhook and examine 

 the victim of the Olive. Fully a pound it weighs, a 

 handsome fish, the first from a new water ; it inspires 

 with hope to continue. 



