8 GOLDEN DAYS 



an inveterate poacher and the most skilful 

 fisherman in the countryside. 



His master soon arrived, swathed in 

 a voluminous lambskin coat — the early 

 morning was still chill — wearing the 

 inevitable bowler hat, and carrying a huge 

 bundle of nets and rods. 



A start from a Breton village on such 

 an occasion is always a lengthy business. 

 The Greffier was still in the inn garden, 

 seeking to replenish his stock of lob- 

 worms. Then the local chemist must 

 needs run across with a bottle of physic, 

 which we would please deposit at the 

 farm of Kestrec en roide. This led to an 

 altercation as to which was our best road, 

 till, finally, maps were produced, and 

 after great discussion, in which a deputa- 

 tion of half the village took an active 

 part, the point of dispute was eventually 

 settled, and amidst a chorus of good wishes 

 we clattered through the market-place 

 and out on to the high-road. There are 

 scant cushions and poor springs to a Breton 

 cart, and a long drive can be a stiff and 

 cramping experience. I was not sorry 

 when we climbed the last hill, and found 



