124 WADING. 



One factor we had quite forgotten the tide. 

 It was so badly up that it quite prevented my 

 friend from getting across to the other side. 

 My upper beat was clear, being above the 

 influence of anything but a spring tide backed 

 up by a south wind. I regret to say my 

 friend's plight, doomed to cast into brackish 

 water, which we all knew was no good, did not 

 enter my mind until later on. Wading quietly 

 in just below the island I found small fish 

 rising well; with some that looked better higher 

 up out of casting distance. 



After doing my best with each fly that seemed 

 suitable, I had to confess that they beat me 

 altogether. Each one in turn would rise and 

 tealute the fly with a splash the first time it 

 passed over him, the evident message being 

 'all right old sport, I see it, don't trouble 

 further.' After this attention they continued to 

 feed in their own way, sometimes a few inches 

 from the fly. 



I tried in every place, making casts that never 

 went wrong, with gut points that lay on the 

 water like cobweb it is always easy to do this 

 when fish are not taking. Never did the rod 

 throw better, never did the fly pitch more 

 temptingly. They would rise at it, but nothing 

 more. I tried striking the very moment the 

 ring appeared, sometimes even in anticipation ; 

 but it was no use, I could not get them. 



At dusk I stopped, after getting one small 

 trout on a downstream cast while crossing the 

 stickle, and walked down the meadow wondering 



