MY FIRST TROUT 21 



cherished that illusion during the whole time 

 we were at anchor. 



Then a gap of many months in my fishing 

 experiences. Next comes a memory of being 

 taken for walks along the tow-path of a canal, 

 constantly inspired by wonder about the mys- 

 teries of living fishes under the surface. Once 

 I saw in the muddy water the dimly outlined 

 form of something, probably a roach, and I 

 longed passionately for a rod and a red-topped 

 float to watch with never-satisfied faith, as 

 I had once seen a man so employed on the 

 banks of that canal. I pass over the realization, 

 a year or two later, of that longing, and the 

 capture, after many days of patient watching, 

 of an evil and bloated-looking little fish taken 

 on a leathery morsel of limpet from a rock-pool 

 on the coast of South Devon ; and then, after 

 a few more years, came the day. 



I can see myself now, desperately proud of 

 a huge fishing-basket strapped over my shoulder 

 and containing a packet of sandwiches, a slice 

 of cake, an old leather flask fitted with a cup 

 and filled with weak sherry and water, and, 

 greatest joy of all, an old fly-book with parch- 

 ment pages and cover of russia leather, smelling 

 deliciously. I was spending a summer holiday 

 with an uncle in Glamorganshire, a fine old 



