DAPPING ON LOUGH DERG 



dapped, almost unbrokenly, since we were boys together. We 

 have had red-letter days of glorious sport. We have had 

 many a bad day as well. But when the may-fly appears on 

 Lough Derg we are inseparable, and when one season ends 

 we look forward to the next ; and we are both inclined to think 

 that when our course is run, and the kindly Irish earth covers 

 us over, we won't be completely happy, in that place to which 

 all good fishermen go, if we can't still go dapping together. 



And now that we have been properly introduced all round, 

 we will proceed to business. 



A furious sou'wester is raging up the lake and shrieking 

 through the trees. The black waters are covered with 

 racing white horses, and the yeasty-coloured foam flies round 

 Danny as I meet him by the little pier among the rocks below 

 Drominagh Castle, the ruin of which is about the only thing 

 that seems unmoved by the war of the elements. It has seen 

 too many storms in its five hundred years to mind this one. 



" What of the day, Danny ? " I query. 



*' The win's in the right point ; an' if we're goin' to be 

 drowned, we'll be drowned. Come on, sir." 



Danny wears a headpiece something like those weird ar- 

 rangements that lovely ladies considered fashionable a year 

 or two since, and it is excellent for dapping. He draws this 

 down below his ears with both hands, and off we go. A fairly 

 stiff pull, and we reach the other side of the bay, where we find 

 ourselves in comparative shelter. We try a drift or two — but 

 no ! The boat moves too quickly. The wind, coming round 

 the trees, strikes the water in vicious squalls ; our flies are 



5S 



