If ever you have an evening to spare, up the river, I should advise you to drop
into one of the little village inns, and take a seat in the tap– room. You will
be nearly sure to meet one or two old rod-men, sipping their toddy there, and they
will tell you enough fishy stories, in half an hour, to give you indigestion for
George and I – I don't know what had become of Harris; he had gone out and had
a shave, early in the afternoon, and had then come back and spent full forty minutes
in pipeclaying his shoes, we had not seen him since – George and I, therefore, and
the dog, left to ourselves, went for a walk to Wallingford on the second evening,
and, coming home, we called in at a little river-side inn, for a rest, and other
We went into the parlour and sat down. There was an old fellow there, smoking
a long clay pipe, and we naturally began chatting.
He told us that it had been a fine day to-day, and we told him that it had been
a fine day yesterday, and then we all told each other that we thought it would be
a fine day to-morrow; and George said the crops seemed to be coming up nicely.
After that it came out, somehow or other, that we were strangers in the neighbourhood,
and that we were going away the next morning.
Then a pause ensued in the conversation, during which our eyes wandered round
the room. They finally rested upon a dusty old glass-case, fixed very high up above
the chimney-piece, and containing a trout. It rather fascinated me, that trout;
it was such a monstrous fish. In fact, at first glance, I thought it was a cod.
''Ah!'' said the old gentleman, following the direction of my gaze, ''fine fellow
that, ain't he?''
''Quite uncommon,'' I murmured; and George asked the old man how much he thought
''Eighteen pounds six ounces,'' said our friend, rising and taking down his coat.
''Yes,'' he continued, ''it wur sixteen year ago, come the third o' next month,
that I landed him. I caught him just below the bridge with a minnow. They told me
he wur in the river, and I said I'd have him, and so I did. You don't see many fish
that size about here now, I'm thinking. Good-night, gentlemen, good-night.''
And out he went, and left us alone.
We could not take our eyes off the fish after that. It really was a remarkably
fine fish. We were still looking at it, when the local carrier, who had just stopped
at the inn, came to the door of the room with a pot of beer in his hand, and he
also looked at the fish.
''Good-sized trout, that,'' said George, turning round to him.
''Ah! you may well say that, sir,'' replied the man; and then, after a pull at
his beer, he added, ''Maybe you wasn't here, sir, when that fish was caught?''
''No,'' we told him. We were strangers in the neighbourhood.
''Ah!'' said the carrier, ''then, of course, how should you? It was nearly five
years ago that I caught that trout.''
''Oh! was it you who caught it, then?'' said I.
''Yes, sir,'' replied the genial old fellow. ''I caught him just below the lock
– leastways, what was the lock then – one Friday afternoon; and the remarkable thing
about it is that I caught him with a fly. I'd gone out pike fishing, bless you,
never thinking of a trout, and when I saw that whopper on the end of my line, blest
if it didn't quite take me aback. Well, you see, he weighed twenty-six pound. Good-night,
gentlemen, good– night.''
Five minutes afterwards, a third man came in, and described how he had caught
it early one morning, with bleak; and then he left, and a stolid, solemn-looking,
middle-aged individual came in, and sat down over by the window.
None of us spoke for a while; but, at length, George turned to the new comer,
''I beg your pardon, I hope you will forgive the liberty that we – perfect strangers
in the neighbourhood – are taking, but my friend here and myself would be so much
obliged if you would tell us how you caught that trout up there.''
''Why, who told you I caught that trout!'' was the surprised query.
We said that nobody had told us so, but somehow or other we felt instinctively
that it was he who had done it.
''Well, it's a most remarkable thing – most remarkable,'' answered the stolid
stranger, laughing; ''because, as a matter of fact, you are quite right. I did catch
it. But fancy your guessing it like that. Dear me, it's really a most remarkable
And then he went on, and told us how it had taken him half an hour to land it,
and how it had broken his rod. He said he had weighed it carefully when he reached
home, and it had turned the scale at thirty– four pounds.
He went in his turn, and when he was gone, the landlord came in to us. We told
him the various histories we had heard about his trout, and he was immensely amused,
and we all laughed very heartily.
''Fancy Jim Bates and Joe Muggles and Mr. Jones and old Billy Maunders all telling
you that they had caught it. Ha! ha! ha! Well, that is good,'' said the honest old
fellow, laughing heartily. ''Yes, they are the sort to give it ME, to put up in
MY parlour, if THEY had caught it, they are! Ha! ha! ha!''
And then he told us the real history of the fish. It seemed that he had caught
it himself, years ago, when he was quite a lad; not by any art or skill, but by
that unaccountable luck that appears to always wait upon a boy when he plays the
wag from school, and goes out fishing on a sunny afternoon, with a bit of string
tied on to the end of a tree.
He said that bringing home that trout had saved him from a whacking, and that
even his school-master had said it was worth the rule-of-three and practice put
He was called out of the room at this point, and George and I again turned our
gaze upon the fish.
It really was a most astonishing trout. The more we looked at it, the more we
marvelled at it.
It excited George so much that he climbed up on the back of a chair to get a
better view of it.
And then the chair slipped, and George clutched wildly at the trout-case to save
himself, and down it came with a crash, George and the chair on top of it.
''You haven't injured the fish, have you?'' I cried in alarm, rushing up.
''I hope not,'' said George, rising cautiously and looking about.
But he had. That trout lay shattered into a thousand fragments – I say a thousand,
but they may have only been nine hundred. I did not count them.
We thought it strange and unaccountable that a stuffed trout should break up
into little pieces like that.
And so it would have been strange and unaccountable, if it had been a stuffed
trout, but it was not.
That trout was plaster-of-Paris.
LOCKS. – GEORGE AND I ARE PHOTOGRAPHED. – WALLINGFORD. – DORCHESTER. – ABINGDON.
– A FAMILY MAN. – A GOOD SPOT FOR DROWNING. – A DIFFICULT BIT OF WATER. – DEMORALIZING
EFFECT OF RIVER AIR.
We left Streatley early the next morning, and pulled up to Culham, and slept
under the canvas, in the backwater there.
The river is not extraordinarily interesting between Streatley and Wallingford.
From Cleve you get a stretch of six and a half miles without a lock. I believe this
is the longest uninterrupted stretch anywhere above Teddington, and the Oxford Club
make use of it for their trial eights.
But however satisfactory this absence of locks may be to rowing-men, it is to
be regretted by the mere pleasure-seeker.
For myself, I am fond of locks. They pleasantly break the monotony of the pull.
I like sitting in the boat and slowly rising out of the cool depths up into new
reaches and fresh views; or sinking down, as it were, out of the world, and then
waiting, while the gloomy gates creak, and the narrow strip of day-light between
them widens till the fair smiling river lies full before you, and you push your
little boat out from its brief prison on to the welcoming waters once again.
They are picturesque little spots, these locks. The stout old lock– keeper, or
his cheerful-looking wife, or bright-eyed daughter, are pleasant folk to have a
passing chat with. * You meet other boats there, and river gossip is exchanged.
The Thames would not be the fairyland it is without its flower-decked locks.
* Or rather WERE. The Conservancy of late seems to have constituted itself into
a society for the employment of idiots. A good many of the new lock-keepers, especially
in the more crowded portions of the river, are excitable, nervous old men, quite
unfitted for their post.
Talking of locks reminds me of an accident George and I very nearly had one summer's
morning at Hampton Court.
It was a glorious day, and the lock was crowded; and, as is a common practice
up the river, a speculative photographer was taking a picture of us all as we lay
upon the rising waters.
I did not catch what was going on at first, and was, therefore, extremely surprised
at noticing George hurriedly smooth out his trousers, ruffle up his hair, and stick
his cap on in a rakish manner at the back of his head, and then, assuming an expression
of mingled affability and sadness, sit down in a graceful attitude, and try to hide
My first idea was that he had suddenly caught sight of some girl he knew, and
I looked about to see who it was. Everybody in the lock seemed to have been suddenly
struck wooden. They were all standing or sitting about in the most quaint and curious
attitudes I have ever seen off a Japanese fan. All the girls were smiling. Oh, they
did look so sweet! And all the fellows were frowning, and looking stern and noble.
And then, at last, the truth flashed across me, and I wondered if I should be
in time. Ours was the first boat, and it would be unkind of me to spoil the man's
picture, I thought.
So I faced round quickly, and took up a position in the prow, where I leant with
careless grace upon the hitcher, in an attitude suggestive of agility and strength.
I arranged my hair with a curl over the forehead, and threw an air of tender wistfulness
into my expression, mingled with a touch of cynicism, which I am told suits me.
As we stood, waiting for the eventful moment, I heard someone behind call out:
''Hi! look at your nose.''
I could not turn round to see what was the matter, and whose nose it was that
was to be looked at. I stole a side-glance at George's nose! It was all right –
at all events, there was nothing wrong with it that could be altered. I squinted
down at my own, and that seemed all that could be expected also.
''Look at your nose, you stupid ass!'' came the same voice again, louder.
And then another voice cried:
''Push your nose out, can't you, you – you two with the dog!''
Neither George nor I dared to turn round. The man's hand was on the cap, and
the picture might be taken any moment. Was it us they were calling to? What was
the matter with our noses? Why were they to be pushed out!
But now the whole lock started yelling, and a stentorian voice from the back
''Look at your boat, sir; you in the red and black caps. It's your two corpses
that will get taken in that photo, if you ain't quick.''
We looked then, and saw that the nose of our boat had got fixed under the woodwork
of the lock, while the in-coming water was rising all around it, and tilting it
up. In another moment we should be over. Quick as thought, we each seized an oar,
and a vigorous blow against the side of the lock with the butt-ends released the
boat, and sent us sprawling on our backs.
We did not come out well in that photograph, George and I. Of course, as was
to be expected, our luck ordained it, that the man should set his wretched machine
in motion at the precise moment that we were both lying on our backs with a wild
expression of ''Where am I? and what is it?'' on our faces, and our four feet waving
madly in the air.
Our feet were undoubtedly the leading article in that photograph. Indeed, very
little else was to be seen. They filled up the foreground entirely. Behind them,
you caught glimpses of the other boats, and bits of the surrounding scenery; but
everything and everybody else in the lock looked so utterly insignificant and paltry
compared with our feet, that all the other people felt quite ashamed of themselves,
and refused to subscribe to the picture.
The owner of one steam launch, who had bespoke six copies, rescinded the order
on seeing the negative. He said he would take them if anybody could show him his
launch, but nobody could. It was somewhere behind George's right foot.
There was a good deal of unpleasantness over the business. The photographer thought
we ought to take a dozen copies each, seeing that the photo was about nine-tenths
us, but we declined. We said we had no objection to being photo'd full-length, but
we preferred being taken the right way up.
Wallingford, six miles above Streatley, is a very ancient town, and has been
an active centre for the making of English history. It was a rude, mud-built town
in the time of the Britons, who squatted there, until the Roman legions evicted
them; and replaced their clay-baked walls by mighty fortifications, the trace of
which Time has not yet succeeded in sweeping away, so well those old-world masons
knew how to build.
But Time, though he halted at Roman walls, soon crumbled Romans to dust; and
on the ground, in later years, fought savage Saxons and huge Danes, until the Normans
It was a walled and fortified town up to the time of the Parliamentary War, when
it suffered a long and bitter siege from Fairfax. It fell at last, and then the
walls were razed.
From Wallingford up to Dorchester the neighbourhood of the river grows more hilly,
varied, and picturesque. Dorchester stands half a mile from the river. It can be
reached by paddling up the Thame, if you have a small boat; but the best way is
to leave the river at Day's Lock, and take a walk across the fields. Dorchester
is a delightfully peaceful old place, nestling in stillness and silence and drowsiness.