COSTA. 51 



gusts, catching one's line and hurling it back in 

 hopeless confusion, or bitter blasts that roared 

 in fiendish glee through the trees, depositing 

 the fly in unexpected, and most undesirable, 

 places. Often rain, but always wind. 



It was the punishment of a sceptic, for 

 had I not laughed to scorn a friend's earlier 

 reference to the direful fate attaching to any 

 enterprise begun on a Friday? 



In his letter of invitation my host 

 had expatiated upon the continuance of 

 calm fine days and the readiness with which 

 the grayling were taking a dry-fly, so that, 

 in the brilliant October sunshine, I started on 

 my journey north with expectations inflated to 

 a degree unusual even for that hopeful 

 creature, an angler. At York all sunshine had 

 disappeared. At .Malton I 'climbed up into 

 the dog -cart in fine persistent rain, through 

 which I was driven the remaining eight miles 

 beneath a sky threatening worse things in 

 store. During the night the elements were 

 positively hysterical. The following morning 



