WHITEADDER AND LAUDERDALE 



had been whetted by vague but credible reports of fine 

 trout streams such as I had suspected behind that 

 long, dim barrier, all free to the angler. From some 

 adventurous soul in our extremely agricultural neigh- 

 bourhood, who had once made a far journey into the 

 hills, I gathered that the Whiteadder was the principal 

 river, and that a certain small inn upon its banks 

 would provide sufficient accommodation. Referring 

 to the map, I then found that the main line running 

 south from our station to Berwick touched a point 

 within seven miles of the aforesaid inn, namely, at the 

 already mentioned station of Grant's House. There 

 was apparently, however, no road to it for much of the 

 way, nor is there now, and in any case no likelihood 

 of getting a conveyance. In the meantime I had 

 kindled the enthusiasm of an Irish companion of my 

 own age who hailed from the foot of the Slieve Bloom 

 mountains in the Queen's County, and as a fisherman 

 was easily persuaded that he, too, felt those shadowy 

 Lammermuirs calling to him that the trout were on 

 the move. We had a third recruit for our voyage of 

 discovery, an East Anglian of slightly more years, who 

 had never even seen a trout and professed no desire 

 to see one, but as an enthusiastic agriculturalist was 

 consumed with meritorious curiosity to see what 

 manner of a sheep country lay within these mysterious 

 hills that day in and day out bounded our horizon 

 from east to west. So, bearing knapsacks and fishing 

 tackle, we dropped off the train on a cool March 

 morning at the little station called after the man 

 Grant, who in those days kept the only house near it, 

 to wit, the inn. After due inquiry we headed for 



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