To sum up, the River Coln affords excellent sport amid surroundings seldom to be found in these days.  The whole country reminds one of the days of Merrie England, so quaint and rural are the scenes.  The houses and cottages are all built of the native stone, which can be obtained for the trouble of digging, so there is no danger of modern villas or the inroads of civilisation spoiling the face of the country.  And moreover, these country people; being simple in their tastes, have never endeavoured to improve on the old style of building; the newer cottages, with their pointed gables, closely resemble the old Elizabethan houses.  The new stone soon tones down, and every house has a pretty garden attached to it.

I have just returned from a stroll by the river, with my rod in hand, on the look-out for a rise.  Not a fish was stirring.  It is the middle of May, and this glorious valley is growing more and more glorious every day.  An evening walk by the stream is delightful now, even though you may begin to wonder if all the fish have disappeared.  The air is full of joyful sounds.  The cuckoo, the corncrake, and the cock pheasant seem to be vieing with each other; but, alas! nightingales there are none.  As I come round a bend, up get a mallard and a duck, and beautiful they look as they swing round me in the dazzling sunlight.  A little further on I come upon a whole brood of nineteen little wild ducks.  The old mothers are a good deal tamer now than they were in the shooting season.  Many a time have they got up, just out of shot, when I was trying to wile away the time during the great frost with a little stalking.  A kingfisher shoots past; but I have given up trying to find her nest.  There is a brood of dabchicks, and, a little further on, another family of wild duck.

The spring flowers are just now in their flush of pride and glory.  Clothing the banks, and reflected everywhere in the blue waters of the stream, are great clusters of marsh marigolds painting the meadows with their flaming gold; out of the decayed “stoles” of trees that fell by the water’s edge years and years ago springs the “glowing violet”; here and there, as one throws a fly towards the opposite bank, a purple glow on the surface of the stream draws the attention to a glorious mass of violets on the mossy bank above; myriads of dainty cuckoo flowers,

     “With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
      And every flower that sad embroidery wears,”

are likewise to be seen.  Farther away from the stream’s bank, on the upland lawn and along the hedge towards the downs, the deep purple of the hyacinth and orchis, and the perfect blue of the little eyebright or germander speedwell, are visible even at a distance.  In a week the lilac and sweet honeysuckle will fill the air with grateful redolence.

Ah! a may-fly.  But I know this is only a false alarm.  There are always a few stray ones about at this time; the fly will not be “up” for ten days at least.  When it does come, the stream, so smooth and glassy now, will be “like a pot a-boiling,” as the villagers say.  You would not think it possible that a small brook could contain so many big fish as will show themselves when the fly is up.