260 MY SPORTING HOLIDAYS 



through typical Irish banks and leafy woods, crystal 

 clear, with swirling streams, rocky lies, and deep 

 pools, such as salmon love. In some places, wade 

 as deep as you dare and throw as far as you can, 

 yet you may not cross lines with your rival on the 

 opposite shore. Hook a twenty-pound salmon in 

 Knather Lane, the Tail of the Island, or in the Fall 

 Hole, and he may take you, panting and breathless, 

 a quarter of a mile downstream, and over and over 

 again put 100 yards of rushing Erne water between 

 you and him before, if you are lucky, you can kill 

 him. Until the gaff is in his silvery side, there 

 is always, in the throws I have mentioned, and several 

 others, a good shade of odds upon the fish. To 

 follow a heavy fish down Kathleen Falls, involving 

 a steeplechase in waders over rocks, banks, and walls, 

 and then see your gillie gaff him in Jack's Flat, is an 

 event that lingers long in the memory. 



In days gone by I have killed twenty-five fresh-run 

 Erne salmon in a week, and can yet recall the incidents 

 of nearly every kill. Well do I remember some years 

 ago coming to the c Garden Wall ' late one July evening 

 with two salmon and three grilse in the bag. I was 

 flushed with success, and somewhat lazily inclined, but 

 Paddy insisted on my putting a small Green Parson 

 over the pool. In another hour two noble fresh-run 

 fish, 20 pounds each to an ounce, lay side by side 

 on the bank, and I had made no more than six casts 

 in the pool. Fish No. 1 was hooked at the head 

 of the pool the third cast, played for twenty thrilling 

 minutes across and back 100 yards of rocky stream, 

 and was gaffed. His mate was hooked lower down 

 three casts after, played in like wild manner, and 

 met a similar fate. Curiously enough, as each fish 



