THE WATERS OF CADER IDRIS 



Being a humorist, I half suspect he appreciated the 

 paroxysms of mirth into which he threw the old 

 keeper, and once wet through continued to indulge him 

 by a series of subtly planned disasters. Anyway, it 

 was his first and last day's fishing till the occasion, years 

 later, to which all this is trending. He did, to be sure, 

 insist on coming up the Dysynni as bearer of my net 

 and basket one morning, but very soon disappeared, 

 and incidentally with the landing-net, which he carried 

 over various mountain-tops till eventide. 



Now there was a very sedate, retired, and solitary 

 Anglo-Indian staying at Towyn that summer. He 

 was very fond of fishing, though he affected, I think, 

 other waters, and we knew him but slightly. He 

 was also a keen bass-fisher, which we were not. For 

 the Dysynni, it should be said, after lingering in broad, 

 irregular, tidal reaches about Towyn, draws together 

 under the railway bridge, and with brisk current once 

 more in the guise of a river, races for a few hundred 

 yards swiftly to the sea. This spot at nightfall was 

 the bass-fisher's haunt. The fish here ran about five 

 pounds a-piece, and were angled for with a fearsome 

 fly (so-called) about the size of a water-wagtail, and 

 armed with one or more hooks that would have gone 

 through your arm and out at the other side. It was 

 not a dry fly ! They fished it wet generally in the 

 gloaming and into the dark when the tide served. 

 This stretch between the bridge and the sea was short, 

 and if half a dozen sportsmen were at work together 

 the hurtling of their respective missiles through the air, 

 I have been told, for I never joined their ranks, made 

 intimidating music in the ear of the next in the pro- 



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