Passing through the hamlet of Howe, I reached the Bush at a point
where that wide stream runs into Scapa Flow by the Bay of Ireland.
This, I had found, was a favourite resting place for sea trout
before running into the lochs, and here I enjoyed good sport for
the whole morning.
I fished upstream--as I think a true angler should do--for though,
as Andrew Drever held, fishing downward was the easier method of
the two, especially with the wind at his back, yet I preferred my
own way, just as I preferred fishing with artificial fly to fishing
with bait, merely because it was more difficult and more surely
exercised my skill.
The third cast I made filled me with an enthusiasm I long had
known. A sudden jerk at the line and a fish was hooked. I paid out
more line as the trout darted off, then drew in as it slackened
again. Once more, as the fish felt the strain, he plunged off. I
saw him jump, and his scales flashed in the gray light like a
bright blade of steel, a loop of line gathering round him. At
length the prize was taken, and a fine sea trout was brought
exhausted to the bank.
Thus I fished, now wading to the knees in the rapid stream, now
sitting on a large stone readjusting my flies. Before noon the rain
fell heavily, but by the time that I reached the Bridge of Waithe
my basket was full, and I walked along the road as far as Clouston,
the dog following in the wet with drooping, draggling tail, and
ears dripping with the rain.
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