NATURE AND SPORT IN BRITAIN 



ceeded downstream. We took a couple of nice brown 

 trout trailing across the open water, and then, on being 

 put ashore again, separated and fished downstream. 

 The rise had quite gone off, and we did little more good 

 that day. Just below the big falls, in some deep pools 

 of considerable size, the peal were jumping vigorously. 

 But neither my companion nor I, do what we would, 

 could tempt a fish. Tiring of the sport, I put up my 

 rod, and went off to the cabin of my gillie, Peter 

 Kenealy — they seem to be all Kenealys and Costellos 

 along the coast here — to change my boots and stock- 

 ings, wet through after the bogland tramp, and look 

 out for the car. The cabin was a typical Connemara 

 dwelling. It was built of stones and mud, roughly 

 thatched, and floored with earth. The pig had its bed 

 of straw, neatly disposed in a little square by the wall. 

 Fowls were everywhere. The blue smoke from the fire 

 of turfs escaped through a hole in the roof. Close to 

 the fire crouched an aged and withered woman, the 

 mother of my gillie, crooning over an infant grand- 

 child. Mrs. Kenealy herself, a good-looking, well- 

 complexioned young woman, with a pair of pleasant 

 grey Irish eyes, was busy — barefooted, of course — over 

 her household affairs. I had a pinch of tea with me in 

 a piece of paper, and while I changed my boots, Mrs, 

 Kenealy was good enough to brew me a pot of the hot, 

 comforting beverage. That five -o'clock tea in the 

 Connemara cabin was particularly welcome after the 

 wet walk and a somewhat cold afternoon. These people 

 had little English and I no Erse, so that our exchange 

 of ideas was unfortunately very limited. But no hosts 

 could be more courteous or more kindly than these poor 

 Galway peasants in their humble cabin. Presently the 

 car drove up, I paid Kenealy his fishing fee, said good- 

 bye, drove off, picked up my comrade at a bend of the 



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