SOME TINY WATERS 27 



However, I am not telling the story of Sliding 

 Braes, if there is one, and I had better get on to 

 what I am telling. The first pool, one of the best 

 on the water as I had been told, was too much 

 shaken up by the violent approach of me and the 

 bank, so I made as if to wade through it, so that 

 I might approach the next. But it was just too 

 deep, and I had to clamber out again at once, no 

 light job. I began to realise that the atmosphere 

 was oppressive and thundery, when I found the 

 net clinging to a briar and the rod entangled in a 

 low-hanging oak bough. Eventually, however, I 

 was up and out and able to descend, a second time, 

 above the pool. Then I began my fishing. 



The manner of the fishing was this. Crouching 

 as low as possible I got into position for the glide 

 at the tail of a pool in which instinct assured me 

 there would be a half-pounder waiting all ready 

 for the cochybonddu. It might be a matter of 

 four yards away. So far arrived I began to lengthen 

 line for the cast. When line was about half length- 

 ened there was a hitch. The cochybonddu had 

 come to rest overhead. At that moment I saw my 

 half-pounder. He was proceeding upstream, to 

 vanish beneath a root under the left bank. Drawing 

 myself up to full height (as they do in the novels, 

 but seldom, I warrant them, with such relief to 

 the smalls of their backs) I caught hold of the line 



