One of the most boring books in English literature is surely Isask Walton's The Complete Angler. But it was a literary form that lasted well into the last century, to judge by a book printed in London in 1855, The Angler and his Friend by John Davy, M.D., with flowing dialogue between Piscator, the author and Amicus, the friend.
Here they are at Derryclare lake in Galway. If you drive the main road to Clifden, you cannot miss Derryclare, a lake on your right after Recess, with a small island topped with trees. Piscator gives a brief learned treatise on the fish they are after the white trout or salmo trutta and explains that as it is the second week in July and heavy rains having fallen "we may fairly calculate, as regards sport too, on having compensation Amicus is a doll, or is treated as such "Instruct me in the selection from what I laid in Dublin, from those great magazines of fishing gear, the fishing tackle shops, the mere sight of which in their riches, gave me a high and somewhat alarming idea of the art and its requirements."
So Piscator explains about the rod, the casting method and the flies needed. And tells his pupil that the white trout is not fastidious and really goes for the coarser kinds of fly, "such as are used by the native fishermen."
And he instanced local anglers who laughed at the fancy fly books of the gentlemen anglers.
In no time at all, Amicus is praising his tutor. "This, indeed is sport! You have already taken three fish and judging from their size they cannot be short of two or three pounds weight each." This common tendency of anglers to exaggerate is checked at once. "You overrate their weight, as is commonly done by the inexperienced. The largest, trust me, is under two pounds and the smallest not more than one. Boatman, try their weight by our convenient weighing implement. And, of course, Piscator is right.
Soon he directs the boatman to bring them to "that pretty island," where they will land and lunch. Amicus "I say no basket brought to the boat, no knives, forks or plates no preparation for a picnic. How shall we manage?" Well, like our first parents says Piscator, before knives and forks were invented.
And, with dry sticks and lucifer and a bit of rag, a fire is made.
Amicus "What a glorious fire. Almost large enough to dress a sheep, as I have seen it done on the shores of the Black Sea."
(He has to get his bit of boasting in, too.) And the trout, which he manages well in his fingers "as I have done amongst Asiatics", is delicious.
Piscator lays down the law. "Now we will wash our hands and take our rest, while the boat men make their meal" and Amicus rounds off this brief excursion with "You have done well thus to initiate me in your favourite art."
Wives of fishermen may think that the dialogue hasn't changed much with the times, though perhaps a little in the diction.