THE DEVONSHIRE AVON 



the fear that the fish will come on in awkward or in- 

 different bits of water, sandwiched between the pet 

 places you have already fished in vain, and those again 

 higher up where you fain would be. It is not safe 

 when the moment seems to have arrived either to push 

 on or to drop back, for you might possibly find another 

 rod in possession. Moreover, it is not easy to drag 

 oneself from any water when fish come suddenly on 

 the rise and face a journey through tangled woods or 

 over untrimmed Devon fences, in waders and brogues, 

 when you know all the time that the trout are splash- 

 ing merrily at the March browns or blue duns. It is 

 better to stick to it and receive this gift of the gods 

 wherever it finds you on the stream. So it comes to 

 pass that very often two anglers of equal capacity will 

 turn out very different baskets on an April evening. 



Queer things, however, happen in every month. Not 

 very long ago, after nearly a week of battling with the 

 rather full April streams of the Avon in most inclement 

 weather and with very poor luck, my last day had 

 arrived. It was far the worst to all outward seeming, 

 even of this bad week. As I descended to the river be- 

 low Loddiswell station, a biting north-easter cut rasp- 

 ingly down even that sheltered valley. To make the 

 situation from an angling standpoint more supremely 

 ridiculous, a violent thunderstorm without rain broke 

 upon the scene while in mournful mood I was putting 

 up my rod. Fork-lightning played in the leaden sky 

 above the bare hill-top where the village of Loddiswell 

 shivered in the icy blast, and repeated crashes of thunder 

 rolled down the valley towards Kingsbridge and the 

 sea. This, in truth, seemed a gratuitous piling up of 



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