THE MICROBE 



Now Llanfairfechan is very handy to mountain wilds, 

 and I lost no time in searching the map for brooks 

 and tarns, of which there are several obscure ones 

 within reach, and without more a-do proceeded to 

 range the waste, rod in hand. It was familiar enough 

 going after Exmoor with a difference only in the awe- 

 inspiring mountains of the Snowdon range which 

 bounded the near horizon and aifected me no little. 

 My boyish efforts on the then attenuated Welsh 

 brooks and unruffled tarns of a rather dry July were 

 naturally not productive. I did not yet realise that 

 trout required some freshening up of the waters to 

 bestir themselves in that most torpid month, or that 

 a breeze was indispensable for lake fishing. A showery 

 afternoon in the Aber stream below the waterfall, I 

 remember, provided the only gleam of success save the 

 great achievement to which all this is leading up. 

 For it so happened that by good luck, though at the 

 moment I did not look at it this way, I was persuaded 

 to go into Bangor and have an offending tooth out. 

 The Holyhead line, it may be remembered, just before 

 reaching that ancient little cathedral town, crosses 

 a viaduct under which the Ogwen river may be seen 

 rushing swiftly down into the bordering woods of 

 Penrhyn castle. It is a glimpse to make any fisher- 

 man's mouth water. It was altogether too much for 

 me in spite of a toothache at that fevered period, 

 when the mystery of unsatisfied experiences was over- 

 mastering. 



When I returned to Llanfairfechan minus a tooth 

 and ready for anything, the Ogwen river was the 

 burden of my theme. My father had not even taken 



27 



