“Can you recommend a quiet inn near this point where I can find decent treatment? I am not inclined to be fussy.”
A few minutes’ walk and I introduced him to mine host, who was a genuine piscator, and nothing pleased him better than to have an angler under his roof: he took possession of him and considered nothing too much trouble, so long as he gave his guests good fishing, clean beds, a square meal, and satisfaction.
While supper was being prepared, we pleasantly chatted over the prospect of sport, and the angler’s aim and ambition. He wanted a day or two of trouting, and some roach fishing with a fly, as he had read some letters giving an experience in fishing for these dainty fish, and intended trying them. The inspection of a well-filled fly-book showed how carefully he had selected his stock.
The early supper over, we strolled up the hillsides overlooking this lovely vale. On the grassy downs we seated ourselves, and I pointed out to him the various fishing points; yonder is a splendid reach where the trout are always found; see that sheeny rivulet coming down through that clump of trees! that is the best trout stream in this section of country.
Note the different water-courses. The canal runs through the middle of the valley; see here, clear away to the west, a little brook comes tumbling in; see just below that point, a silvery-looking stream on the farther side of the canal—that is a fine trout stream; follow its course until it loses itself in that big clump of willows: a saw-mill is hidden in those willows, and the stream, after supplying the mill with power, drops into a culvert under the bed of the canal; there it is again in that piece of open moorland; there it is coming out from that long clump of willows, and finally joining the stream mentioned before as the best trout stream in this region; thus the two streams, the Gade and the little Bourne, are swallowed up in the canal; and have always been splendid waters for roach fishing.
The hills hide the canal and streams in their winding course, or I would point out to you the best fishing grounds for miles along this Hertfordshire valley; but I presume there lies under your observation enough fishing ground for a day or two.
The sun is tending downward like a huge ball of fire, the vale is in a dreamy shade; how glistening the appearance of the water-courses, like a big silvery thread winding in and out along the vale! the evening air is full of music; the bee is humming around you; what a flood of music comes from the throat of that woodland thrush in yonder thorn hedge! the strain is taken up, and the very woods echo again with the song of the black-bird. As he ceases his roundelay, the soft clear note of another bird strikes on the ear; for the moment’ nature seems hushed; almost breathless you wait; the notes come rich and clear, as silvery as a lute, a flood of melody; the sound dies away and instantly the woods ring again; all the sweet-throated songsters seem as if applauding the song of the nightingale; we sit and drink in these sounds, until one by one the songs drop into silence, leaving the nightingale to pour out its tuneful music until far into the night. At this moment there comes in the air the quivering boom of a bell ringing out the hour of nine from the steeple of the church yonder, faintly limned on the evening shadows. Ah! listen again! there comes the evening chime. How the quivering notes pulsate up here on these-hilltops! how silvery the tones; as the chords of the vesper hymn rings out sweet and clear, our hearts beat in rhythm to the strain! Lovely vale! Israel’s grandest seer, who with eye undimmed and natural force unabated, even from Pisgah’s lofty heights gazed on no lovelier scene than this we have surveyed. We descend into the shadows; promising to meet my angling friend some time during the following day, I wend my way homeward and to rest.
The evening shadows were again falling ere I could join our angler, but the flies were on the waters and roach were fairly jumping, the surface of the stream was alive with fish, both roach and dace breaking water around us. My friend was no novice; I found him whipping the stream from bank to bank, and his creel testified to his success. He was using a tail fly and dropper, a red hackle for the former, and an imitation of the common blue house-fly for the dropper. These fish are fastidious in their tastes; they do not rise at flies like a trout, but come to the surface of the water and just break for the fly and at once turn tail up. He who fishes for them must have a quick eye and steady hand; then he can kill readily enough. They are a toothsome fish, but a trifle bony. Eye and hand must work together, and when fish are feeding they will readily take the fly. They are tender in the mouth and require care in handling. They afford good sport in streams where they are abundant, and are often killed weighing from one and a-half to two pounds.
My angling friend had come well prepared with letters introducing him to the owners of the fine trout streams, and readily obtained permission to fish these preserved waters. It was rare sport to watch him daintily lay out his line across the stream, his stretcher a June fly, or at times a floating May-fly skittered across the surface until close to the farther hank. Here lay a big Salmo fario. We had been watching him lazily coming to the surface to suck in a fly or bug that had tumbled from the trees overhead. A big cockchafer came spinning and buzzing down stream. All laziness gone in an instant, up came the Salmo showing his huge sides. A fierce lunge and a heavy splash and the chafer was gone into the cavern of the open mouth. The fly-book was out in an instant. A dark brown fly somewhat resembling the ‘chafer replaced the stretcher. A careful cast a little up stream, a lunge and a miss from the trout. Another cast close in to the bank, a slight jerk and the fly assumed the appearance of the buzzing chafer; the same sharp dash, the hand was as quick as the trout this time, the hook was driven home and the fun began. Such a dashing, splurging, rushing I had never seen. He was determined to use every art known to trout-lore before he surrendered. The rod bent and sprung, the line fairly swished as he tore up stream; above him lay the limb of a tree, scraggy and ragged; toward this he plunged, but the line tightened on him; he tugged and jerked, but gained not an inch; he came to the surface and thrashed the water with his broad tail. Fatal error! as he did so the line came in as fast as fingers could fly round, the landing net was slipped under him, a quick upward movement and Master Salmo was flung high and dry. He was too big for the net and so was ignominiously flung ashore.
What a noble trout! His silver sides and belly gleamed in the light, his blood-red spots seemed to glow with indignation at his cruel death. He had long been a lordling over the other trout and now was strangling! Kill him! I cannot bear to see a trout gasping. Killed and scaled he weighs three and a half pounds. A credit to the angler: but at times, during the contest, it was a question to which the honor belonged; it was: “Splendid rod!” “Ah! how skilfully he handles his fish.”