220 DAYS IN THE OPEN 



ican was accustomed to use, and the flies were 

 absolute strangers; but, nothing daunted, the fish- 

 erman paid for his license and betook himself to the 

 river. It is probable that Dr. W. would have little 

 choice between going fishing and serving a term in 

 jail; but the unselfish man trudged patiently along 

 with his friend. If ever a stream was clearer or its 

 banks more absolutely lacking in everything that 

 would screen the fisherman, it is unknown to the 

 writer. The sky was almost cloudless, no wind 

 rippled the surface of the water, and we have a 

 suspicion that every trout in the Dwyfor saw us 

 when we started from Garn. At all events, they 

 had hied them to safe retreats from which they 

 looked contemptuously upon the fisherman and his 

 futile efforts to fool them. One deluded fish, 

 nearly as long as one's finger, did lose his mental 

 poise for a moment, just long enough to grab the 

 fly. The verdict of temporary lunacy was promptly 

 rendered by both Dr. W. and the fisherman, and 

 the trout was returned to the water. Fishing in 

 the Dwyfor was a flat failure, so far as returns 

 in fish go. 



But the fish were not the only returns of the 

 day. When it was evident even to the most opti- 

 mistic that fishing was wasted effort, Dr. W. sug- 

 gested that we were not far from a " cromlech," 

 and off we started. A mile or so along the road, 

 and then across the fields, and we came to one of 

 the many Druidical remains to be found in Great 



