Trout-fishing has the great charm of taking Piscator into the most lovely and retired spots. The salmon, as a larger fish, takes us to a grander scale of nature. The water of the cheerful little trout stream is changed for the rushing river, and the comparatively low bank sometimes gives place to a position like that in the annexed illustration, which was taken from above a grand pool, the Stige-steen, or Ladder Rock, connecting it with the side of the river.
Having said somewhat of fishing, let us now turn to the “aldermanic view” of the salmon, and hark back to a happy day when a lady had killed a nice fish, about fourteen pounds and a half, which was to be cooked on the spot: it is well to observe the process and make a note thereof. Cut the salmon in slices, and boil them for ten minutes; then let the water in which they were cooked boil on, with the head added; put in a little fresh butter, pepper, and salt, and serve as gravy or sauce. With a Norwegian appetite it is perfect, and very simple. N.B.—Fish killed at noon, served at two p.m. This is fresh fish, and contrasts most favourably with the frozen salmon which travels ice-bound to the metropolis of Great Britain.
Evening is the best time for fishing, and the long twilight, which helps the enthusiast for trout and salmon fishing at eleven or twelve, can only be realised by those who know the glories of the North. It seems a curious thing to take, when travelling, a green blind in order to exclude the light when wishing to go to sleep; still it is necessary at first, although Nature is so elastic that she readily adapts herself to circumstances, when the green blind can be given to some new-comer, or lent as a passing boon.
Casting.
One word in reference to the illustration, “A Good Beginning.” It was our last morning: wind, rain, mist low down—in fact, blowing hard. No. 3 was up at five a.m., and found the Tentmaster-general had passed a restless night, every coverlet and blanket being knotted, twisted, and twined into the most perfect disorder. This was attributed to the fact that it was his last night that season in Norway, and his usually placid sleep had been disturbed with Norske nightmare. He must have been dreaming of trolds and nökken, and fancied that he was gaffing ogres or bjergtrolds instead of fine clean fish. The weather was the last straw which broke the camel’s back—he would not go. “You go,” was his rejoinder. So the Patriarch went; and this was the result to greet his companions when they came down to breakfast.
A Good Beginning.
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