WEEKS IN WORCESTERSHIRE 93 
into that marvel of woodland. At Bewdley we 
espied from the carriage window a Severnside 
angler plying his art. To our cheery shout of 
“Good luck!” he waved his hand happily, and 
beamed a big smile in response. As we pro- 
gressed towards and along the Teme valley, the 
eye took-in orchards, with apple trees leaning 
low. Sometimes the lasses were carefully picking : 
sometimes for want of hands the apples had 
rolled in heaps. Here, Herefordshire cattle 
browsed in the fields ; there, the ploughman was 
at work with his willing team ; and hillside trees 
as a background were limned against the sky. 
Arrived at our destination, on the border 
between Worcestershire and Shropshire, we heard 
the usual tale—water had been low all the season. 
Time allowed an hour’s attempt on the Saturday 
evening in the Teme. Each of the two bottom 
fishers saw his float go under twice, and could 
not come to terms with the biter. This stirred 
their blood. With the dry fly, the green insect, 
I myself fetched up an odd grayling or two, but 
all came short. 
On the Sunday morning, it was soothing to 
hear the sound of church bells wafted across the 
river, and a walk in the country further revealed 
the beauty of this part of England. Said the 
cartage contractor, “It’s a relief from looking at 
drain pipes and bricks.” Said the plumber, “If 
I had suddenly found myself in some foreign 
country and seen this scenery I should have said 
‘it beats England.’ ” 
