172 AN ANGLER'S SEASON 



moments, "there are half-a-dozen or so 

 more than that." 



This was in Atholl. The lake was 

 Loch Ordie, about four miles uphill 

 from Guay, a village on the Highland 

 Line. It is circular, and three miles 

 in circumference ; and through a gap in 

 the fringe of pines surrounding it there 

 were to be seen, deceptively on a level 

 with the eyes, snow-drifts in corries away 

 to the north. This will indicate that on 

 a sweltering summer day, when trout and 

 anglers in the lowlands are languid and 

 dejected, a mountain lake is a pleasant 

 resort. Fain would I weave words into 

 a pattern suggesting the general loveliness 

 of Loch Ordie as a decoration of the 

 brown old earth ; but that cannot be. 

 The moment you begin to be active as 

 an angler you bid good-bye to yourself 

 as an impressionist. The trout, if you 

 are to catch a few, claim your undivided 

 attention. Prose, then, stark prose, 

 follows our ascent into the Atholl hills. 



The sky was cloudless ; but there was 



