CHASING THE ROE 47 



perhaps my readers will be best able to judge 

 of the nature of the sport if I describe one of 

 the many occasions when not merely my heart, 

 but my body as well, has been " in the Highlands 

 a-chasing the deer." 



It is a splendid September morning in the 

 much-slandered climate of Argyleshire, clear 

 shining after rain, and the waggonette with its 

 load of sportsmen bowls cheerily along the 

 straight level road across the Crinan Moss in 

 the direction of the Canal. On the right, Jura, 

 Scarba, and the high hills of Mull show them- 

 selves across the bay. The tide is low as we 

 cross the bridge over the Add, a small fleet 

 of mergansers are making their way up stream, 

 the exposed sandbanks are crowded with gulls 

 and plovers, while two or three solemn-look- 

 ing herons, knee-deep in water, are enjoying 

 "the contemplative birds' recreation." A short 

 turn to the left along the road between the 

 Crinan Canal and the beautiful wooded and fern- 

 clad brae brings us to Dunardry Lock, the place 

 where the keepers are waiting for us, and where 

 the Linnet has just arrived with her cargo of 

 passengers from the north. The usual miscel- 

 laneous-looking collection of tourists are dis- 

 porting themselves on the bank, while some are 

 offering a feeble resistance to a small band of 

 infant marauders who are pestering them to pur- 

 chase milk, fern roots, bunches of heather, and 



