38 THE TROUT ARE RISING 
not scorned. MHackle flies were preferable to the 
winged ones. In spite of snow-water, a sharp 
frost, and an occasional north-east wind (when that 
is in possession of the skies, you can profitably 
leave the Barle), sport during the week was, on 
the whole, good. 
The six days’ leave was soon up, but not 
before the accuracy of the boy’s statement about 
the lovely fishing below the bridge was confirmed. 
Incidentally, I heard a striking tribute to the 
dry-fly man. Some one said to the landlady of the 
hotel that the Barle had too fast a current for the dry 
fly. Her reply, crushing though courteous, was, 
“Oh, but some very clever dry-fly fishermen 
come here, and they catch the largest trout.” 
It was with thankfulness for restful days that 
I caught the London train back, hoping that the 
dry-fly men would live up to their reputation, 
and continue to win favour in mine hostess’s 
sight, and that the wet-fly brethren would not 
fail to go on picking up their quarter-pounders 
here and there, and that they would improve 
upon the size and perhaps even rival the dry-fly 
men. In any case I hoped that one and all would 
enjoy lovely fishing by, below, above, and between 
the bridges. For the abundant good-will of the 
kindly folk who inhabit these parts sends a grate- 
ful visitor away in the most altruistic frame of 
mind. I had had, as it were, but a glimpse of it all. 
Had circumstances allowed those six days should 
have been sixty. Perchance in the future J may 
be able to work off the other fifty and four. 
