158 MOSTLY ABOUT TROUT 



a story, too ; so has the old line : I must give 

 up these digressions and get to the grayling. 



I used to live in this happy valley, tucked 

 away in the Wiltshire downland. The two best 

 times of the year here are the spring, with all 

 the fruit-blossom out, and the autumn, with 

 the golden withy-beds and the glorious tints 

 of the beech woods above them. I get there 

 on a bicycle now, and this morning the whole 

 scene is at its best. There is still just a trace 

 of the rime of last winter's frost on the dead 

 leaves lying on the shady north side of the 

 hedges, and the cobwebs are all laden with 

 moisture. There is no wind ; the blue smoke 

 goes up straight from the cottage chimneys 

 and hangs in long filaments against the glory 

 of the beech woods, which blaze with colour 

 in the October sunshine. The bright tints melt 

 into delicate blues and greys up the valley 

 in the distance. Now we pass the old red 

 manor-house and the little thatched houses 

 and farm-buildings of the lower village, the 

 pleasant scent of wood-smoke in the air. Then 

 a footpath takes us to a wooden footbridge 

 over the river, and here is the place to leave the 

 bicycle under a hedge, pull on waders and put 

 up the rod. Soon we come to a big hatch, 

 with the turmoil of heavy water below it* 



