WHITE-TROUTING IN CONNEMARA 



many of them in the exact humour and rising freely, 

 if at times somewhat short. The breeze, a full 

 westerly one, soft and balmy from the far Atlantic, held 

 fair ; white clouds sailed frequently across the sky, 

 temporarily obscuring the sunblaze ; all the conditions 

 were as favourable as one could wish for. Sitting 

 at either end of the boat, we were pulled gently 

 about the lake, casting steadily, and cheered by many 

 an exciting struggle with some of the boldest and 

 liveliest white trout that a man could hope to en- 

 counter. If we had killed all the fish we rose, or even 

 hooked, that day, we should have had a great, almost 

 a phenomenal bag. As it was we missed some, lost 

 others, and were twice broken by heavy and strong 

 fighting fish. None the less we had a most delightful 

 afternoon's sport, landing at four o'clock with two 

 dozen and one white trout, the smallest three-quarters 

 of a pound, the biggest, killed by my friend D., a 

 most accomplished fisherman, scaling a mere fraction 

 under three pounds. In addition to these fish, all 

 of them in magnificent condition, our creels contained 

 a number of brown trout, captured at intervals between 

 the rises and battles of their silvery and far more 

 vigorous cousins. 



For the last hour the rise had been steadily going 

 off, and the main portion of our capture was accom- 

 plished in an hour and a half. A walk over the 

 moorland path brought us, towards five-thirty, to the 

 river bridge, where the car and the ever-faithful Pat — 

 a very miracle of Irish punctuality — were awaiting 

 us. Then followed a most pleasant drive, lightened 

 by tobacco and cheery converse, through the mellow 

 Connemara evening. That night at dinner some of 

 the pick of the white trout — surely the most delicious 

 of all the SalmonidcB — graced our repast. They were 



233 



