THE WELSH DEE 



March browns, and snowflakes all mixed up together. 

 But it does not do to count on this. One day, for 

 instance, at the end of March, some years ago, I had 

 arranged with Evan Evans's successor, a worthy veteran 

 of more note in the local angling world than the other, 

 to meet me at Glyndyfrdwy station two miles below 

 Carrog. It turned out in truth a fearful morning, 

 with a bitter north-east wind driving before it heavy 

 storms of snow. But knowing the Dee, or thinking 

 I did, I abandoned the cheerful breakfast-parlour of 

 The Grouse with a hopeful heart. It was indeed my 

 only chance on the river that spring, and I proceeded 

 to keep the tryst. So did Griffith with his coracle, 

 and when we met our eyes were so blinded with cold 

 snow that we couldn't see each other. For late snows 

 in spring and early snows in autumn commend me 

 to the valley of the upper Dee ! Griffith, unlike his 

 predecessor, being a Radical, had a Manchester 

 Guardian with him ; I being a Conservative had 

 brought along a Liverpool Courier, these two papers 

 dividing North Wales between them. 



So we took off our coats in the waiting-room of the 

 little station, whose enigmatic-seeming name upon the 

 platform is of all others on this line the joy and wonder 

 of the Cockney tripper, and wrapped ourselves round 

 and round in the leading articles, market reports, and 

 advertisements of our respective organs. Buttoning 

 our coats over all, we walked to the neighbouring 

 shore, rigged up the tackle, and launched our bark on to 

 what looked like a waste of black waters surging dimly 

 through a thick white veil. We did not enjoy our- 

 selves, though we actually caught two or three fish in 



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