II. Out with the Bracken-clock
During the hot, close days of June there is but one lure which invariably succeeds when angling in mountain waters, and that is the bracken-clock—a beetle somewhere about half an inch in length, possessing tiny wings and sheathed in tough scales, which then swarms along the hillsides.
We were assured of an ideal day for tarn-fishing when we left our quarters, and had agreed to stick to the uptrending path till the tarnside was reached. But our resolution went for nothing, as we turned to the moorland beck at the first opportunity. Though tempered somewhat by the breeze, the sun’s power was unpleasantly in evidence. No tree was there in the whole upland valley large enough to render us shade, and the companionship of the rattling brooklet seemed to render our walk cooler and more tolerable. The infant Lowther was as usual crowded with tiny fish; the few large ones seen here and there among the smaller fry had apparently run up from the adjacent lake. To these we would have liked to have paid attention, but in general the water ran so low and clear that success seemed impossible.
One thing about Mardalehead strikes me as peculiar: you look up the dale from the hotel or from the side of Branstree, and it seems as though the descending rivulets are like continuous threads dancing in the sunshine; but only when you begin to follow the brooks closely do you find what cunning little dubs and gullies are hidden away among the rolling hillocks. I knew that one of these concealed reaches held a deep pool in which were several large trout. Coming down from a climb of High Street, the steep front-face of which glowers into Mardalehead, two evenings ago I had lain by the rock-dub and watched the rising trout. They were then taking some small insects which the current was washing down.
This morning I approached cautiously. The sun was shining straight into the narrow gorge, lighting up the veil of spray from the spouting fosse with brilliant rainbow hues. The bracken fronds, almost dipping into the waters, were swarming with winged life, the glossy clocks being most abundant. The then sandy soil also teemed with red ants, while caterpillars of many sizes hung on the stems of the heather.
‘What shall I put on?’ queried my companion, as he picked up for closer examination a particularly fine clock.
‘That, of course,’ I replied; ‘and drive your hook well home, for they are tough customers, and will wriggle off if you don’t mind. The trout here won’t look at a bare hook.’
J—— got himself into a good position, and after a few attempts dropped his line where the fish were lying. The distance was short, but the rock-basin was small and fringed with branches of holly, alder, and rowan. It was apparent that the trout were going off the feed, for the sun was becoming more and more powerful, but two or three were not yet gorged. At J——’s fourth throw, directed towards the bubbles and ripples around the fall, a fine yellow trout floated up to and annexed the beetle. I was waiting my turn to cast—for two lines could not be plied at once in such narrow quarters—so saw the whole struggle. J——’s line jerked taut, bringing the surprised fish almost to the surface; then it doubled back towards the foot of the pool, going deeper as the slackened line allowed it, till when my friend at last checked it; his line was almost fouled among the heather twigs. There was a fine piece of play here—through the transparent water every evolution of the fish was clear to me—but in a few minutes the trout tired and came within the swoop of J——’s landing-net.
Fishing on unsuccessfully for some half-hour, we had decided that the next would be our last cast, when a lethargic trout to which I had already dangled clock and ant was aroused to indiscretion by the appearance of a fat green caterpillar on the top of the whirlpool, apparently just tumbled from the swaying rowans above. In a flash the floating morsel was sucked in, and the hidden barb struck home. So surprised was the trout at this interruption of his day-dream that I had him clear of the whirlpools and almost on to the narrow shingle at my feet before he began to struggle. It was a splendid example of the brown trout, but I was disappointed at its tame, tardy fight for freedom. We spent, encouraged by this success, another half-hour by this force, but no further reward being forthcoming, we decided to make a move towards the mountain tarn.
Over the lowering crags we could see huge masses of vapour gathering in north and west, and, as our local oracle promised, these clouds spread so widely that by noon the sun’s rays were shorn of most of their radiance. The air, however, became close almost as the puff from a mammoth oven, and this though the breeze was at this elevation powerful enough to make a tidy ripple on the tarn’s surface. Walking along the shore by the outlet, I now observed a common tragedy of to-day in Nature. There was a whirring of minute wings, and close to my ear there passed the usual bracken-clock. It was wafted by the wind some twenty yards over the water before its weak wings refused to uphold its carcase longer, and down with a faint thud the insect dropped.