WHITE-TROUTING IN CONNEMARA 



I succeeded in picking up eight or nine nice brown 

 trout, as well as a game white trout of a trifle over a 

 pound and a half before meeting for lunch. This sea- 

 trout rose like a lion, and gave quite a pleasant little 

 fight before I had him gleaming like a piece of silver in 

 my landing-net. 



Once again having met my comrade, we sat upon a 

 dry bank, discussed our sandwiches and whisky-and- 

 water, and smoked a pipe before going further. We 

 were now in a piece of wild, rough country, partly 

 moorland, partly rank bog, through which the river 

 flowed on its way from the upland lake from which it 

 took its source. Not a beast, or a human being, or 

 even a hut or cabin was to be seen. True we had 

 passed in our ramble the remains of an illicit still, now 

 deserted and unused. But this season there had come 

 into the district a new and particularly active inspector 

 of police, and the poteen makers and their clients, who 

 prefer their liquor without paying duty for it, had been 

 having a bad time of it. "Sure, your honour!" said 

 one of the country people to my friend, referring to the 

 inspector, "Mr. - - is making Connemara poor!" 

 We could not help roaring with laughter at this simple 

 confession. 



After lunch we left the river and tramped across a 

 terribly wet piece of bog to a small lake, where the 

 brown trout often rise very freely. But upon this after- 

 noon the fish were not in the vein. Possibly the wind 

 was getting a trifle too much into the north for them. 

 At all events, the "brownies" were not to be coaxed, 

 and after trying for nearly an hour and only picking up 

 a few small creatures, we quitted the inhospitable lake 

 and splashed back over the mile or so of bog to the 

 river again. Towards three o'clock we met the boat- 

 man who had rowed us up in the morning, and pro- 



229 



