Of course, you are anxious to hear my story. It is the last one, the grand finale, of More d'Escombe.
If I had not been a keen fisherman, I should not be writing this. Now I have thrown my last fly—I'm sorry—for some things.
About a month ago, I went for the weekend to Dingley, in Hampshire, a village where I can get some good trout fishing from the landlord of the inn, and in which I rent a small cottage during the all-too-short season—April to the early part of June. I went out on the Sunday, ready for a happy day, my luncheon case and flask full, plenty of spare tackle, and flies galore.
A very good rise took place about eleven, but for the life of me I couldn't find the fly they were taking. I could see about twenty different patterns on the water, but the trout were only taking one kind. I worked my way up stream, and at last with a large very dark olive, I got a brace of beauties within ten minutes.
Shortly after this, I saw a lovely fish rising continually in a run close by a large snag.
A most difficult spot to fish, but I could see that the riser was an extra big one.
