RANDOM MEMORIES 69 



eerie spot after sundown, when curlews 

 call across the marshes and the mists 

 begin to rise. Now our thoughts lead on, 

 tracing down the river-bank to a spot 

 where the moor begins to merge with 

 pasture-land. We reach this pool by 

 a path through a tangled thicket where 

 white foxgloves grow. A broad reach 

 this, needing a long cast and a stiff and 

 powerful rod. It starts off with an amber 

 stickle, water about two foot deep, full, too, 

 of good trout when they are on the feed. 

 Jean Pierre calls this pool le dernier sou. 

 It is, in fact, the gambler's last throw, and 

 if fish cannot be induced to take a fly here, 

 then the chances of sport are hopeless. 



Further down this pool is fringed with 

 whin bushes, so placed that a feeding fish 

 may be taken at each intervening space. 

 Every trout fights desperately for the 

 shelter of his own particular bush, and, 

 even though well hooked, is not necessarily 

 landed. But the cream of this Avater lies 

 under its far bank, where live some really 

 big fish, who may be induced in a fading 

 light to suck down a well-placed alder. 

 Further again in the still depths dwells 



