Читать книгу England have my Bones - T. H. White - Страница 15

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Salmon are as mysterious as everything else in my life. It seems, however, to hold good that they prefer it cold in spring. Apparently when the river rises they move up, and when moving won’t take. But, as with scent, there seem to be a hundred other considerations. Yesterday the water was an indigo slate, with the white scum standing out against it vividly. The scum bubbles are supposed to be a bad sign. Yet I had two fish. To-day the scum was just the same, but I had none. It was a warmish day with big bellying white clouds. Macdonald called it sultry: and it was, when scrambling over the hillsides with a game bag, rod, gaff, lunch basket, overcoat, mackintosh and scarf. I fished alone till two o’clock. Then Macdonald joined up, but we did nothing, though sticking at it till 9 p.m. I had one pull at 8.30, but so slight that there was no touch at all. I merely saw the line tug, struck instantly, and struck empty water. Over my very last beat I nicked off the old campaigner of a Bulldog and lost him: a minor tragedy. Still, perhaps he will be happier getting rusty in the Scots heather than he would have been in a poky book in the south.

As with yesterday, I did not take a trout rod, and was rightly served out. There were half a dozen hatches of big March Browns. They sailed down like Armadas, and the trout went mad, butting at them shoulder to shoulder.

I am too sleepy to write more.