MARCH 89 



violent, piercing north wind and stinging snow-squalls. 

 Salmon-fishing, quotha! As well go butterfly-hunting 

 under such a cruel sky. But Sandy knew better, and 

 seemed to make light of the weather, as nothing out of 

 the common. I thought I knew something about salmon- 

 fishing ; but before the close of that day I was to get an 

 inkling about how much remained for me to learn in that 

 craft. 



We climbed into a waggonette and drove some dreary 

 miles to Westerdale Bridge, at the top of my beat, where, 

 under the lee of a mill, we fixed up the rod, and at 

 Sandy's request I produced the largest and brightest flies 

 in my box. Enormous as they seemed to me, they did not 

 satisfy him. 'A salmon will not move in the cold water,' 

 he explained, ' at anything less than four inches long.' 

 So we adjourned to a little store at the bridge kept by 

 a quaint old Highlander called Rory Ross, an adept at 

 ' busking ' flies. Sandy selected half a dozen flaming con- 

 coctions of fur and feather, one of which, esteemed a great 

 killer in cold weather, rejoiced in the exhilarating name 

 of ' Hell-fire,' and we returned to the river. ' Hell-fire ' 

 was of a size and complexion that could not pass unseen 

 over any fish that might be in the stream ; and, seeing it, 

 two or three kelts sampled its quality. Next, where the 

 river swirls deep and dark under the steep clay bank of 

 the ' Lairdies', a fish dashed at the fly and missed it. 



'A clean fish,' declared Sandy, and caused me to ex- 

 change Hell-fire for something a trifle slimmer and with 

 some blue to temper the blaze. This time the salmon 

 made sure of it, and five minutes later my first Thurso 

 fish was quivering on Sandy's gaff. 



So ended my opening day with Sandy Harper the 



