CHAPTER X 



I HAVE gone into some details regarding my earliest 

 experiences as an angler and shooter, for the purpose 

 of giving an inkling of the spirit of the born sportsman, 

 who wants to take a hand in any enterprise that may be 

 afoot. The boy's first victim of feather and fur, and his 

 first fish, are events which make an indelible mark on his 

 memory. Such incidents are never forgotten, and are always 

 treasured ; but it would be a work of supererogation and 

 one which would " feed up " the patient reader, if I were to 

 enlarge upon my first pheasant, hare, snipe, woodcock, pike, 

 perch, tench or chub though the capture of the first trout 

 might be admissible ; but I will keep these thrilling experi- 

 ences to myself and concentrate my attention on that 

 auspicious occasion when, at last, I gazed on a salmon safely 

 gasping on the river bank, the victim of my unaided skill. 



It was in far Connemara, and hard by that wonderful inlet, 

 known as Clew Bay, which claims an island for every day of 

 the year, to be exact 365. 



I had taken a three months' lease of Burrishoole (pro- 

 nounced 'Brusshoole) Lodge, which stands on a promontory 

 at the Newport end of the bay. With it were five thousand 

 acres of rough (very rough !) shooting, with fishing for sea 

 trout and salmon in the Glenderhawk stream and the Furnace 

 Lough. The latter a famous piece of water from which the 

 skilful angler might be sure of snatching a goodly toll of 

 salmo trutta, with an occasional salar of modest dimensions. 



It was when driving from West port (ten Irish miles distant) 

 to this desirable pitch that the native reputation for gross 

 exaggeration was brought home to me. 



I was met at the station by him who was to be my keeper, 



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