Leven, I set to work fishing, full of hope and happiness. In about a minute I had hold of a trout, who came with such a dash and tug that it made one start, though he proved no heavier than a quarter of a pound. A few minutes more produced another, who jumped and fought so desperately that I believed the day's sport was going to be remarkable. But this proved not to be the case, and when I had a couple more small trout it was noon. The fish then almost completely stopped rising, and ignored my flies, though I toiled all round the edge, fishing assiduously.

About three o'clock the trout changed their humour, and began to rise again, not wildly, but enough to keep the sport exciting. I caught a dozen more, of which not one was over a quarter of a pound, though the strength and liveliness with which they fought for liberty was most astonishing. Many rises were short. But the number of trout that were moved by the flies as one cast yard by yard round the margin of the lough gave one a notion of the thousands of little trout it must contain. Lough Unna is fished almost daily from a boat and from the shore by

tourist-fishermen, who stay at an inn three miles. down the road. Yet few return with empty baskets, and many, I was told, and can well believe it, kill three dozen and four dozen upon a good day. Such is the number of trout these loughs contain that the havoc of the anglers and the cormorants is imperceptible, and fresh trout are yearly bred ready and voracious to struggle for existence with the survivors.

Lough Unna is, I think, typical of the small Donegal lakes, and some of the pleasure of fishing in such places comes from the wildness of the country. The small trout, too, are wild, and give one sport. Nor need one have scruples of taking heavy toll and filling a basket with these Irish trout. Lake-fishing at its best is mild sport; but when the trout do not rise, as often happens during a part of the day, one need not go fishing. One can sit upon a rock and look down at the little brown foaming waves breaking on the edge or up at the steep sides of Slieve League. The clouds come and go, capping the top or casting passing shadows on the soft greens and browns which cover the slopes. Then suddenly a trout

rises within easy reach of the edge where you are sitting, and you seize your rod and get out enough line to cast into the ring as though everything depended on catching this fish. There are half a dozen loughs within a circuit of a few miles of Lough Unna, and each contains trout of the same quality. Some are more inaccessible from the road; some are more boggy round the edges; some are more weedy and troublesome to fish. But the trout are abundant, and a fisherman who does not go with too highly-pitched anticipations might spend a happy day at each.

XII

CHANGE of scene is pleasant in loch-fishing, but there are many little mountain lochs in Scotland which are so attractive that one visits them over and over again with pleasure. They are always reputed to be full of trout. I am not sure how often I have spent the day at Loch Drollsay, but I know that I have never come back with more than three trout, and often with an empty basket.

Loch Drollsay is rarely visited by anglers. There are many reasons why the loch is so seldom fished. It lies, in the first place, remote from the centres of civilization. Its shallow brown waters fill a small hollow spot in the hills a long way off the high road, and far even from the nearest sheep-farm. The trout are very diminutive and they do not rise at all freely to the fly. These reasons are enough; yet such is the charm of this little wild loch, and of many others of the same nature, that no one who has been there upon a fine day can help feeling a desire

THE HIGHLANDS IN JUNE

187

to return. Fishing may be an excuse, and upon each visit you start full of fresh hopes. There must be days when the trout are rising, yet somehow it is your misfortune year after year to take down your rod and tie up the joints in their case with the same sigh of disillusioned hope. At last you come to the conclusion that it is too late in the year. Then by some good chance you have an opportunity of fishing there in May or June. With what great cheerfulness do you not start on a spring morning in the Highlands? Once more Loch Drollsay proves a disgusting disappointment. But by the following year the disgust is worn off and the disappointment forgotten. Again you start for Loch Drollsay, with your angler's blood tingling at the prospect. On the best days that ever fall to your luck you may bring back three or four little trout weighing together half a pound. It is not enough for a hungry man's breakfast. Often you get only one solitary fish. Oftener still you catch nothing, fishing all day, and wading in without waders to cover as much water as you can. One frequently reads in angling books of Scotch mountain lochs where small brown trout