Читать книгу England have my Bones - T. H. White - Страница 11

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Emotion, according to Wordsworth, should be recollected in tranquillity: and the bitter, utter black dejection of to-day would probably be better left to another night for record. However, I prefer to get it done with. I was fishing by 7.30 in sunshine and westerly gale, and fished alone with the salmon rod and Bulldog till 1.30, when Macdonald joined up. He had been away to his traps in the morning. I fished well, in spite of the gale. Then we had lunch. At 2.15 we concluded that salmon were hopeless till evening, and determined to try two big trout which lay in the Ardgalleys. I fished them dry on 4x cast with a march brown, and killed the first. He was 15½ inches, but only 1½ lbs. Bad condition. Pricked the second. Get him later. Sat and talked. At four we started again for salmon, fishing with Macdonald’s rod, in turns. He did the Mill Pool, and flicked off two flies in the wind, again to my joy. Then he said that he really would prefer me to kill a fish, so I took the rod all the way down to Lang’s Pot. By then my back was almost broken with the wind. I gave the rod to Macdonald and said: “Just fish this water above the bridge, to give me a rest.” I went to cross the bridge, over a side burn, and had no sooner turned my back when there was a splash and a shout. Macdonald had been taken before even casting, whilst paying out line. I suppose there have been bitterer moments. I walked about behind him, on the verge of tears. He offered to let me run it, but I refused to touch his fish. Gaffed it for him, after missing, and it weighed 14 lbs. It had jumped twice. We put it in the bag, on my poor little trout. The Catloupe and the Bath were blank. My heart is in two pieces. One consolation: it was an absolutely perfect tragedy.