102 WHERE TO FISH. 



the children always wave me a welcome from a 

 broken stone wall ; past sleeper-propped huts, 

 where the gang of workmen, whose task at the 

 tunnel seems never ending, keep their tools and 

 frying pans; up further again, alongside a 

 quarry which yields water from its rock, as 

 though Moses with his rod had a week-end 

 retreat among its gullies; until the hoarse croak, 

 which is all the engine whistle can manage from 

 its wheezy throttle, is drowned in the entrance 

 to the steep and gloomy tunnel. 



Then comes the steady acceleration, a vision 

 of popping lights, a shiny roof still as always 

 dripping upon its patient repairers and we rush 

 down the gradient into sunshine again, knowing 

 we have passed from the Axe to the Otter 

 valley. 



This year (1912) there are to be for the first 

 time Sunday trains on the Sidmouth and the 

 Budleigh branch lines. The old walk alongside 

 the river, until Ottery St. Mary church stands 

 out against the yew trees and the setting sun, 

 will probably be discontinued. I, for one, shall 

 always regret it. For many years that walk 

 in mid March from Sidmouth Junction has been 

 an event looked forward to as the opening of 

 my fishing season. By a certain gateway, 

 leading into a tangled copse, a friend so often 

 met me that I used to wait at the place much 

 as younger men do for their sweethearts on the 

 same Sunday evenings. 



This friend was a white owl which beat along 

 the hedgerows parallel to my walk, crossing and 



