He produced a rod, SUCH a trout-rod! A long
bamboo with a piece of string tied to it! To fish for trout with a
worm was contrary to every tradition in which I had been reared,
but adaptability is a great thing, so with two turns of a spade I
got enough worms for the afternoon, and started off. The Foret
d'Aiguebelle is not a forest in our acceptation of the term, but
an endless series of little bare rocky hills, dotted with pines,
and fragrant with tufts of wild lavender, thyme and rosemary. It
was intersected with two rushing, beautifully clear streams. I
cannot conceive where all the water comes from in that arid land.
In sun-baked Nyons, water could be got anywhere by driving a
tunnel into the parched hillsides, when sooner or later an
abundant spring would be tapped. These French trout were either
ridiculously unsophisticated, or else very weary of life: they
simply asked to be caught. I got quite a heavy basket, to the
great joy of the "Frere Hospitalier," and I got far more next day.
Though we had to rise at five, we got no breakfast till eight, and
a very curious breakfast it was.
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