DAPPING ON LOUGH DERG 



and eventually that fish came on board — another 4-pounder. 

 Then came Danny's turn, and he brought in two, and soon I 

 followed him with a third. And then our lucky breeze left 

 us — and left us for good. We had made our record : 29 lb. 

 of trout. 



The fish continued feeding. We watched them as they 

 moved on every side. The lake lay like a sheet of glass, and 

 everywhere round the shores and over the shoals, and even 

 in deep water, we could see the widening rings as the flies rest- 

 ing on the surface were drawn down. It is curious to watch 

 a string of flies floating on the water these calm evenings. 

 A trout sails along, his back occasionally breaking the surface. 

 He discovers the first fly, and most methodically he proceeds 

 to suck them down, one after another until the last is gone. 

 Suddenly, as if by signal, the feeding stops. Not a ripple 

 stirs the surface, not a ring is to be seen. As Danny puts it, 

 the fish are gone to bed. 



We wait on and watch the sunset. These Lough Derg 

 sunsets are indescribably glorious. The sun hangs low in the 

 west — a great crimson ball swinging in ultramarine deepening 

 to darkest sapphire. He drops lower and lower, and his re- 

 flection streams across the black water, a broad pillar of fire. 

 A cloud swims in front of him and the whole western sky is 

 red, and the waters turn blood colour, reminding us of the 

 legend from which Lough Derg derives its name. And the 

 mountains to the west stand out black as ebony, with a fringe 

 of fire, and the eastern hills light up with the afterglow ; and 

 then the gorgeous spectacle fades away, and Danny shivers, 

 and says, "It's time to go home, sir ! " So we go home ; and 



65 E 



