own brief experience I have found the trout "dour," occasionally they
would rise freely for an hour at noon, or in the evening; but often one
passed hours with scarcely a rising fish. This may have been due to the
bitterness of the weather, or to my own lack of skill. Not that lochs
generally require much artifice in the angler. To sink the flies deep,
and move them with short jerks, appears, now and then, to be efficacious.
There has been some controversy about Loch Awe trouting; this is as
favourable a view of the sport as I can honestly give. It is not
excellent, but, thanks to the great beauty of the scenery, the many
points of view on so large and indented a lake, the charm of the wood and
wild flowers, Loch Awe is well worth a visit from persons who do not
pitch their hopes too high.

Loch Awe would have contented me less had I been less fortunate in my
boatman. It is often said that tradition has died out in the Highlands;
it is living yet.

After three days of north wind and failure, it occurred to me that my
boatman might know the local folklore--the fairy tales and traditions. As
a rule, tradition is a purely professional part of a guide's stock-in-
trade, but the angler who had my barque in his charge proved to be a
fresh fountain of legend. His own county is not Argyleshire, but
Inverness, and we did not deal much in local myth. True, he told me why
Loch Awe ceased--like the site of Sodom and Gomorrah--to be a cultivated
valley and became a lake, where the trout are small and, externally,
green.

"Loch Awe was once a fertile valley, and it belonged to an old dame. She
was called Dame Cruachan, the same as the hill, and she lived high up on
the hillside. Now there was a well on the hillside, and she was always