88 CATCHING THE WILY SEA-TROUT 



far sooner be rewarded with one fish as my quota for a 

 trip in daylight. 



Between bouts of serious casting during a sunny day 

 in late summer, to laze occasionally in the shade of a 

 leafy elm and to watch the white woolly clouds drifting 

 slowly against a sky of blue, to listen to the rhythmic 

 purr of a binder and to see the sheaves of corn tossed 

 aside, to see a streak of turquoise as a kingfisher flashes 

 upstream, and to hear the harsh call of a pheasant, to 

 watch a heron flapping its way in search of a fresh fishing 

 stance and to listen to the mews of the buzzards that 

 sail and wheel high overhead, to see the young bullocks 

 standing knee deep in the river and to watch baby 

 rabbits scurrying from their burrows to explore the un- 

 known, to see the sheep contentedly settled in the shade 

 and to study the butterflies that flit from flower to 

 flower, yea, even to watch a water-vole feeding on the 

 succulent grasses at the water's edge and to see a moor- 

 hen scuttling across the river, afford me more satisfaction 

 than creeping about in blacked-out spinneys at night, 

 tripping over brambles and slipping on unexpected mud 

 patches. I much prefer to note the pageant of mellowing 

 summer than to wander half blind in the murkiness of 

 an unlit night. 



Although through several decades I have given night 

 fishing exhaustive trials, I cannot say that I have com- 

 pletely revelled in my trips. 



Further, when you strike a good fish at night I think 

 that you miss the real joy of angling. True, you see a 

 silvery flash when the fish jumps on feeling the barb, 

 but after that the game generally deteriorates into a bit 

 of skull-dragging, unrelieved by a display of finessing. 

 In day-time you are not only thrilled by a jumping 

 fish, but without difficulty you can follow the move- 

 ments of the fighting victim, and ultimately play it 



