80 A BLANK DAY'S FISHING 



tempted to assign the beauty of this part of the river 

 as the secret of the favour shown to it by early fish. 

 The amphitheatre of blue, snow-streaked hills the 

 brown heath broken with grey crag and tufted with 

 oak, birch, and holly the solitude the space the 

 historic associations (for here were enacted some of the 

 most stirring episodes in the career of Robert the 

 Bruce) all these so greatly enhance the angler's 

 enjoyment that it is hard to believe, as one must, that 

 they have no attraction for the fish which resort to this 

 beautiful strath. 



On this occasion, apparently, they have not resorted 

 thither. Over every yard of water in that beat which 

 might hold a salmon, the fly is worked diligently ; it is 

 a day whereon, if fish were there, they could not refuse 

 to rise, so perfect are the conditions of water, wind, and 

 sky ; not even a kelt shows, for this is no place where 

 kelts may loiter. Sorrowfully it is decided to fall back 

 on a beat in the main river, where, at least, if the sport 

 is not so pretty, it is more sure. The trap is sent for, 

 and a move is made to a certain infallible cast known 

 as Cunninghame's Ford. It is not a ford at all ; it gets 

 its name from the ignoble end of a farmer named 

 Cunninghame, who, having indulged too freely in 

 market-day potations, took the wrong road from 

 Newton Stewart, and found himself on the opposite 

 bank of the river from his own house. Full of Dutch 

 courage, he resolved to make a ford where ford there 

 was none ; he drove his horse into the water and was 

 drowned. For a mile above and below this celebrated 



