THE WELSH BORDERLAND 



the line about two feet above the cast. It had twisted 

 the former so many times and so intricately about 

 its little wing joints and neck, that its release from 

 bondage proved quite a business, though its action had 

 been so rapid as scarcely to disturb the straight line 

 from the rod point to the tail fly. When I got into 

 the next field I found my companion for the day, and 

 our host who was with him, but not fishing himself, 

 full of another strange thing that had just happened. 

 In a corner pool, unduly small from the tribute just 

 here levied by a mill-stream, a pound trout had seized 

 a small grayling which had taken the angler's fly, and 

 stuck to it with such extraordinary tenacity that 

 several times it was brought almost out of water on to 

 the shelving beach. Unfortunately a little boy who 

 was carrying the landing-net had selected that moment 

 to embark on some adventure of his own, and was 

 nowhere to be seen. If the net had been there the 

 trout would have been landed to a certainty. As it 

 was, our host very nearly kicked it out on to the beach 

 with his foot, though it was not hooked in any way, 

 but merely had its jaws in the grayling, and either 

 could not, or more likely would not, relax them. 



There is a charming bit of woodland vista just below 

 Lugg bridge, down which the river makes a bright and 

 sparkling journey over a stony bed between the foliage 

 to the quiet pools and glides beyond it. This is the 

 only place I ever remember seeing five kingfishers on 

 the wing at once, and that, too, on several occasions, 

 though the Lugg is a favourite haunt of this most 

 beautiful of British birds. It was the year of the great 

 drought and the Coronation, and we saw them every 



