APEIL 91 



sure of immortality as that of Walter Scott, whose last 

 resting-place is within a couple of hundred yards of 

 Jockie's Hole. Jockie earned fame, perhaps, by one of 

 those flukes which impart so much of its fascination to 

 the angler's craft, and perhaps I may be permitted space 

 to chortle mildly over a happy accident which has lately 

 brought similar distinction upon me. 



Well, this narrative, at all events, begins with a blank 

 day. We had fished all one April day — a friend and 

 myself — without stirring anything on two of the best 

 beats of the river. The water was in perfect trim, we 

 knew there were fish in it — at least I felt sure they were 

 there — but the sun blazed fiercely from its rising to its 

 setting, and kept them down. Thinks I to myself these 

 are Norwegian symptoms — a full river and a blazing sun ; 

 why don't we adopt Norwegian precautions, fishing early 

 and late, and do our sleeping in the day-time ? My friend 

 would not hearken. He vowed the fish had not come up. 

 So next morning I sallied forth alone before 6 a.m. It 

 was the 20th of April (1901), so it was full light, but the 

 sun was still behind the shoulder of Lamarkan. The grass 

 was white and crisp with frost, and the water had fallen a 

 foot in the night. 



A couple of hours later, by which time the sun was 

 high in the heavens, I was returning to breakfast with a 

 couple of lovely spring salmon in the bast basket, when 

 my path took me along the verge of a cliff overhanging a 

 rough stream which I had often eyed curiously, thinking 

 it a likely harbour for fish. But at the foot of the cliff 

 the water was thickly overhung with big alders, leafless 

 as yet, but presenting an almost absolute veto to any 

 attempt at fishing the place. No human being, I firmly 



