

A WILTSHIRE WATER-MEADOW 65 



hastily in search of warm woollen stockings 

 and long, heavy rubber boots. Middle-aged 

 fishermen must face those sore handicaps to 

 enjoyment of a walk in water-meadows, even 

 if (perhaps because) they have scorned such 

 coddling in their younger days. The call of 

 the meadows is now irresistible. There are 

 limits to the human powers of resisting tempta- 

 tion, so the fly-rod is left behind ; the big trout 

 are not yet in the best of condition, and a few 

 of them may possibly be rising. A long trout- 

 fishing season, with all its possibilities, lies 

 ahead, and 'we can afford to be patient. But 

 a coil of fine wire rests in my pocket, in case 

 a pike should show himself; they always do 

 when there is no form of killing-tackle handy. 

 The way to the river takes us down a steep 

 footpath, slippery with chalky mud. Every step 

 needs care, and eyes must sometimes be fixed 

 on the ground, though they constantly wander 

 to the boughs and twigs interlaced overhead, 

 their delicate tracery softened, but not hidden, 

 by the green shimmer of young leaflets. A 

 wood-pigeon is crooning in one of the trees, 

 rooks are cawing from a neighbouring colony, 

 and from the distance, across the valley, comes 

 the occasional note of the cuckoo, not yet as 

 aggressive and monotonous as it will be later 



5 



