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HESTER'S SHRINE.

I ILLUSTRATED REBUS.

THE GREAT HEART.

SEA-FISHING IN WILL WALES

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SEA-FISHING IN WILL WALES A GOSSIP ABOUT PORTIIDINLLEYN BAY. [By A WAXDERING ANGLER," in The Traveller."] The mackerel are in the bay! The note of excitement in Dick Beywm's voice was quite sufficient to drive away the last chance of another forty winks. Dick always was a brute to get up early. Out of bed, pyjama clad; through, the door of Ty Coch"—the little inn on the shores of the bay where we always stayed-down to the #ea, sparkling in all the glory of a sunny September morning; and—Splash! Saves suck a lot of time if you have your sleeping- auit dried afterwards! Porthdinlleyn Bay is, perhaps, as little known to the tourist as any spot one could mention. Situated on the rugged coast of NOTth Wales, Holyhead light can be seen, on a fine night, twenty miles in a straight line from our window. It is a yellow shore, where the gentle sand-worm burrows and the silvery sand-eel can be picked up by the dozen by just scraping up the wet sand left by the receding tide with your toe. Boots? You never wear boots when stay- ing at Porthdinlleyn—" whateffer indeed," as the natives would say. What "boots" it a man if he gains the whole world and suffers the loss of one sand-eel, if he's a fisherman. Ah, you pursuers of the finny tribe, what a spot for bait! We had come down for our usual week's fishing. You might often have seen the four of us in the little boat we hired for the week, at the cost of five shillings! I'll tell you, by-and-by, what a magnificent total our hotel bill amounted to. We'd been float- ing practically everything that is to be caught on a hook for the past three days, from 6oz. whiting to 141b. plaice, from lllb. conger to a skate which turned the beam at exactly 601b., and is remembered to this day at Ty Coch" as the greatest capture of the times. What excitement there was, too, in getting that chap on board. We should never have done it had it not. been for poor old Ned, our boatman, who "dished" it into the boat with the aid of an oar. Poor Ned! he's since gone on his last long journey. Just the old story; gale sprung up; boat washed up in Carnarvon Bay with a boot in it, the owner found at dawn on the beach he loved so well! Well, we had waited three days for the mackerel to put in an appearance; the little thin, black line, just visible as far away as the eye could reach, showed us that, at last, they were in the bay. Needless to say, breakfast was hurried through that morning; our sail was smartly rigged, and away we pelted across the bay in a sharp breeze to "whip" for mackerel. What! Never been whipping for mackerel? You don't know what fishing is! You spin up and down a likely run, two men handling the beat and two doing the fishing, and you pull them in, one after the other, their beautiful, iridescent skins flashing in the sun as they leap out of the tideway. This is aport-fine, invigorating, health-giving sport. And then, in the calm of the evening, you drift back home to tea, with which you have your fresh-caught fish, chops, home-made bread and butter, and cake full of "figs." What an appetite you've got! The pro- verbial hunter isn't in it. A pipe and a stroll along the beach; or, perhaps, you pull out and go aboard one of the small coasters lying in the bay, and sit on deck and talk to the weather-beaten old skipper of travels, and of the difficulty of doing an honest" bit of pmuggling nowadays. It's wonderful what a fund of reminiscence some of these old salts have. They see the worst of the weather knocking about the Welsh coast, and many a tale of adventure can they tell —aye, and many a rough yarn, which has its touch of pathos, too. And as you sit and smoke, the moon creeps up behind the mountains which flank the bay, and the sea turns into a glittering sheen of light. Then it is that the magic word conger" electri- fies you, and all feelings of fag from the day's exertions is lost in the sense of excite- ment which the thought of a night after the slimy, vcracious brutes brings along. You may have been able to gather from this short description that Porthdinllevn is a place to go to. It is reached in comfort by the splendid service of the -London and North-Western Railway-Pwllheli is the station for ycur destination. Then an eight- mile coach ride through the heather-covered mountains, and a glimpse of some of the prettiest scenery in the kingdom, a ride that costs you exactly one shilling per head, including your baggage. Of course, you've booked your rooms at Ty Coch," the little inn you can easily find. Captain and Mrs. Jones, who keep it, will feed you well and look after you, you may be sure. And if you stay a week, and are four in num- ber, your bill will come to about the same amount as ours—something under JB4, in- cluding all the native beer you care to drink -and fishing is a thirsty pastime! Your railway tickets from London will cost you £2 4s. 8d. each. second-class return. Our joint expenses for the whole week totalled JE15. I was captain," and the reason I remember the amount so well is that I've always had an idea thirteen" is an un- lucky number. I'm sura of it now, because cne of the four forgot to repay me his share! The above article is taken from the Octo- ber Traveller," a beautifully illustrated jcurnal published by George Newnes and Co.. Ltd. —diSaBB

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