A Fly Fishing Season in Scotland
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I was browsing the forums over at the Wild Fishing Scotland site today and noticed a post about the comet Lulin. It’s apparently going to be visible in the southeast sky after sunset this week. Worth catching this time around, as it’ll be another million years or so until the next time it’s this clearly visible. I’m not sure where that figure comes from, but I’ve heard it bandied around.
Anyway, the SkyandTelescope.com website has plenty of details for geeks like myself. Worth checking out.
I think when I wrote Saturday night’s exuberantly excited post I genuinely believed that I would go forth and catch thousands of grayling. Such a rush of enthusiasm I felt, such expectant hope and yearning did I possess. What on earth did I seriously expect? Make a post like that at your peril, for it doth dearly tempt fate.
I got up at a leisurely 7:45am, wolfed down some cereal and bungled an enormous crate of gear into the boot of my car. I was prepared for anything. Spare clothes, spare rods, spare reels, gazillions of spare flies, buckets of excitement to spare, spare copies of the beat map and a spare copy of myself in the back seat. By the power invested in me, I was not going to fail out of a lack of spares. The problem with not going fishing is that the longer you’re away, the more spares you carry on your return. Unnecessarily of course, as what I should have taken were spare fish.
I cruised down the road, carefully chosen driving music blaring, eyes gradually narrowing. I put on my ultra-serious camo-stealth polar buff, you know, just to get in the mood. Two CDs worth of tunes later, and I pulled the car up at a bridge. There was someone out already, trotting maggots. At this stage I felt no bitterness, no hint of envy or fascist rage. I quietly got back in the car and slipped off downstream.
Tackling up was like a symphonic performance. As I stepped into my waders I was sure I heard the sound of a distant violin. Was that Beethoven? No, definitely Chopin. Donning those incredibly sexy accessories known as gravel guards I could have sworn I heard the dulcet tones of at least two of the tenors warming up. By the time the grand finale came around, namely slinging a chest pack over my head, I was positively soaring, the chorus of a thousand beautiful young sopranos ringing around the valley.
Surely, surely this was fate. Eons spent away from running water, contemplating the meaning of fishing. The meaning I tell thee. What’s it all about? Hours spent at the vice, secret escape plans laid, all for these few hours alone in the company of grayling. Where was the first 3lber going to come from? Perhaps that nice wee run right there, just behind the tree. Oh yes, I could sense him sitting there, resting after a long night spent in the company of a harem of lady two pounders. Where were they by the way…hmmm… that deep gouge under the far bank looked a possibility. Oh yes, that’ll be it.. looks just right for a harem of 2lbers.
I carefully put up the days outfit. I had brought my old 6 weight Vision out of early retirement. I wasn’t going to be beaten at the last by no mother-sized 4-weight-snapping rod killer of a grayling. This was proper fishing. Err…
I opted for a big bug on the top dropper, about 7 feet from the bright yellow polyleader. About 2 and a half feet further down the line was a smallish black bead headed hare’s ear. From the tail of the bead head I tied the stinger, a tiny size 16 hare’s ear, unweighted, about 8 inches down. I added a couple of split shot at strategic places, anticipating the need to adjust depth according to the run. Finally, I attached a garish American football shaped strike indicator to the end of the polyleader, you know, just to be sure. I knew I’d be out of practice, so any help to detect all those subtle takes was welcome.
Creeping up to the bank, I could feel the electricity again. This is why getting away from fishing for a while is so important. Without a good few months of close season, fishing can become a little stale. Not too long mind, just a couple of months maybe. My own hiatus of what seemed like decades was certainly too long, but the anticipation rewarded now was just wonderful.
I slipped in to the water below a large submerged tree, and paused. I unhooked the tail nymph from the cork butt of the rod. It all felt so new, so exciting, yet at the same time the mechanical familiarity of the whole process was etched strongly into my muscle memory. I found myself manoovering without thinking. The rod swung downstream to stretch out the line on the water. I flicked the rod tip to get the polyleader out the end ring, and a tangle, straight away, before the first cast. Hmm…maybe the muscles had a slight case of memory loss after all.
Low tide at plastic bag bay
When I was eventually sorted out, I paused once again, trying to imagine the grayling I was sure I was about the catch. ‘Remember’, I encouraged myself, ‘try to find an excuse to strike at some point during every drift’. Oh yes, I know what I’m talking about, I’m practically an online expert now, preaching to the masses. My eyes narrowed further.
I flicked the cast upstream. Plop-plop-plu-dop, the nymphs dived into the water. I tracked the rod tip back with the current, helping the polyleader to maintain a slight curve above the water. I saw no take, I felt nothing, I saw nothing. The nymphs wafted around below me, the leader gradually straightening out until the whole cast lay downstream of me. My eyes bulged slightly, I felt the pull of the river against my legs, and the gentle tug of the nymphs getting dragged away by the river. Performing a kind of gasp-come-gulp as I started to breathe again, I looked back upstream. Nothing to be seen, save the sway and gurgle of the river surface. No take, certainly no fish. But I had rediscovered a feeling that has been sorely lacking in recent months. The feeling of questing for something difficult, something elusive and out of my control. Something with a pulse and a quick flash of speed and a set of shining silver scales. I suppose it’s a quest for anticipation and excitement in the end, perhaps not really a fish. But whatever I was questing for, it was good to be back.
Useless video clip containing no fish, but nice sounds:
I continued flicking nymphs upstream for the next four hours. I eventually found a lovely run, deep and swift and screaming of grayling. As I waded in a salmon jumped right in front of me, which I took to be a good sign. Grayling and salmon very often seem to inhabit the same bits of the river in winter. Well, I say very often… not that I’ve really got that much experience of actually catching grayling from salmon runs. I suppose that’s my imagination again. Imagination and reading too many expert articles.
I fished that run very hard indeed, up and down, with a variety of different shotting setups. Eventually I got so frustrated, and my feet so cold, that I stepped out of the river and loaded the line with an awesome array of BB shots. The canon method I’m calling it. Feels like you’ve got a fish on even before you cast. I got back in at the head of the run and started blasting the cast upstream. Woooshh, cabluuush, cashooomm! That’s more like it, empty the damn river if you need to.
The salmon rose again, obviously taking the piss this time. It was the middle of February for crying out loud, old sexy-timey time isn’t for another ten months. There was little chance of me catching the salmon of course, unless he was lying flat on the bottom, and possibly even under the rocks, between his outbursts. In the end I caught nothing from that run either, but I did however get wonderfully cold feet. It’s amazing what an impression of a wild west cowboy-walk one makes after a few hours grayling fishing.
Spooky animals.. If anyone knows what these tracks are, I’d love to know. I’m guessing one set is bird-like, and the other might be a pawed mammal.
As I packed up my not inconsiderable array of spare gear back into the car, another fly angler pulled his car up and enquired how I’d got on. He’d also blanked, though he had travelled for considerably fewer hours than me to do so. My mind drifted back up to the bridge and the maggot trotter. I didn’t bother going to ask.
Despite the day’s fishless outcome, I was in an uncommonly good mood as I drove back up the road. Most grand returns turn out badly, and I hadn’t even fallen in. I had rediscovered a bit of the excitement, and had a wee taste of that wonderful zen-concentration that comes along with obsessive fishing. It wasn’t yet dark, and as I looked out the window a flood of golden light was washing across the moors. I was left with the unmistakable certainty, should I ever need reminding of it, that it’s always good to go fishing.
Well the day had to arrive eventually. Yes indeed Ladies and Gentlemen, Dr. Tamanawis is going fishing tomorrow. Things have got so desperate that I’m referring to myself in the third person again. Dangerously pretentious times that clearly betray his degrading state of mind. Strewth, time to get out..
This is a big fish. I caught this big fish, all by myself, about 3 years ago. It weighed 3lb, which is of course rather a lot for a grayling. The photo is getting trundled out yet again just to remind readers that I can catch fish, in case things don’t go swimmingly tomorrow..
So yes, yes indeedeo, I’m positively itching to get out now.. So much so that I’m wasting time writing this crap right now, at 9pm, becasuse it seems like the right sort of commemerative thing to do. So, hold your breath, there is going to be a post on Tamanawis in the next few days that actually describes fishing. I can’t wait. Tight lines Dr. Tamanawis, you’re fighting for mankind.
Winter fly tying can lead to strange and wonderful(?) things. This creation, tentatively named the Mickles Tickle, resulted from a nuclear reaction between a zoo cougar, a woolley bugger and some chicken madras. It was then liberally sprinkled with shavings of Andre Brun’s trout streamer. I’ve no doubt it will prove to be hot stuff next season.
Via the Moldy Chum blog, I came across an article about the upcoming River Why film this morning. It draws attention to one or two interesting things of which I was not previously aware. Most importantly, David James Duncan, the author of the original (and wonderful) book, has done as much as he can to halt the film’s production.
Amber Heard, star of the upcoming River Why film. Hmm..excellent casting I’d say.
According to the article, he has been to court, claiming copyright infringement and various other bits and bobs, which has resulted in the current production of the film being unable to use his name in promoting the film. I say ‘current production’ because the article goes on to say that once the upcoming film has been released, Duncan will once again own the rights to his own book, and is planning to make his own screen version. Hmm…. all a bit dodgy I reckon.
In an earlier post I mentioned that Duncan had been contributing to the screenplay. A commenter on that post pointed out that the film would be quite different to the book (er, not a huge surprise..). I now learn that Duncan has been fighting the film.. Personally, I’m a bit confused. But looking at the Official Website for the new film, I see no mention of Duncan at all.
I don’t like being overly negative towards people who are trying to produce a film, or make music, or do anything creative. But I do begin to struggle a little bit when it appears that a film is being made, not just with a shrug of the shoulders from the author, but with a pitched court battle between him and the producers. I wouldn’t give a damn, of course, if it wasn’t for the fact that it was David James Duncan who created the story, the characters, the beautiful mood of the book. It’s his novel, and although I’m fully aware that copyright law is more complicated than my simplistic standpoint, I simply don’t feel comfortable about a film that doesn’t have the author’s backing. Amber Heard, however, I feel quite comfortable about.
The Old Pulteney 12 year old has been a favourite of mine for the last year or two. It’s becoming widely available in supermarkets, and can be had for under £20 on special offer. At that price, it’s an absolute belter. I notice that this website rates it very highly indeed.
I recently came into possession of the 17 year old version. This is another wonderful offering from the far northeast of Scotland, a place I normally associate with wonderful landscapes and trout fishing. It’s double the price of the 12, at about £45 from reputable dealers. For me that’s a lot of money to spend on any bottle of juice. But this is a fine, fine juice..
My experience was quite close to the distillery’s tasting notes. Definitely apples in there on the nose. Stick your nose into a good scenting glass, close your eyes and repeatedly inhale.. I get spicy apples and a hint of toffee, maybe some of the butterscotch mentioned in the blurb. I try to avoid reading other people’s tasting notes before I try a whisky. In this case I managed to do so, and still agreed, so I guess that means something.
Very first impression on the tongue..spicy. Wait a few minutes…try again, now used to the alcohol. A beautiful melting of vanila and butterscotch, soft and very, very warm. The slightest, far-off suggestion of smoke. Lingers for a long time. Very, very nice. Mmm…. Got to be one of my faves I think. A really smile-inducing whisky, not at all aggressive like my usual loves the Islays. A really wonderful gift of a whisky, and definitely more interesting than the 12.
Two seasons past I found myself driving north. It was late August, the tail end of the fishing year, and with each hour the sun traced a lower path in the southwestern sky. Passing through Fife, then Perthshire, Highland and beyond, the fields were studded with farmer’s bales, each casting a long shadow over the stubs of harvested wheat. This east road gathers light from the across the width of Scotland, before it pours out over the North Sea. The sea air seems to give it an electric quality in late summer and early autumn, which far exceeds any chemical stimulant in exciting the traveling fisherman as he drives north.
The road traces along the western edge of the Cairngorm mountains. Dropping down into Aviemore, they rear up behind the town in Tolklein glory, frequently bathed in swirling cloud that rolls blue and grey in the afternoon light. Their remarkable character is tempting to the hillwalker inside, but today is not for the hills. It’s for the north, for the big sky and for the lochs.
The road meanders west then northeast before a long descent into Inverness. Even here, we’re not in the north. Not the real north. Pushing the throttle to the floor, the Moray Firth becomes a shrinking silver sliver in the rear view mirror. From here the road opens up into one of the most wonderful drives in eastern Scotland. It pushes east, then north along the sea’s edge. Up and down it meanders, each new crest revealing the wall of coast stretching away into the distance.
What I remember most was the light. By the time I reached this final northern corner of Britain it was streaming across the green rolling fields on my left, and warming my cheek. Good light makes any day interesting. When you’re driving north to go fishing, fishing for a week, fishing to live and living to fish, it lifts one’s spirit to a rare new height, one I never even glimpse down in the city. A completely open road, a completely open window, the sea on my right and warm golden light on my left. In my car, music. The Blue Nile, perhaps the greatest ever Scottish band. Every time I put on one of their CD’s, I’m instantly back on that northern road, and the magic light is back on my face.
The fishing towns of Brora and Helmsdale lie far to the north of Edinburgh, but still they’re south of my destination. There are some famous salmon rivers up here, the Helmsdale is certainly one of them, and I stopped several times to gaze down into their peaty waters. Helmsdale is a lovely wee place, particularly when the sun streams across the bridge as you drive over. Thank the Lord for no parking meters up here, no checking over my back for the yellow-clad gentleman looking to catch me out. I’m sure the parking police have an important job to do in the city, but it doesn’t stop me being delighted at my new-found northern freedom.
It was warm, I wore a T-shirt and my official fishing trousers. It may make me simple, but I love to have specific clothes for fishing and walking. When I pull on my crappy old army combat trousers, bought for a tenner down on Leith Walk, I undergo an instant mental transformation into fishing mode. Suddenly I can smell the air more subtly, see deeper into water, feel every contour of the earth under my feet. City-boy-goes-outdoors romanticism I’ll readily grant, but let me have my moment.
The hour was pushing eight-o-clock and there were still fifty miles to go. The light began to redden, and the chill of the wind through my open window began to question the manliness of the silly city-boy. I put on the next album in line, and smiled a big happy smile at its glorious atmosphere of beautiful vocals, wash-walls of synths and admittedly cheesy 80′s drum beats.
By this time memories of the previous year’s glory were flooding back. My pulse was thudding in my neck, my hands tapping on the wheel and inside I was gigglingly excited. It was a wise human who once commented on the superiority of traveling with hope than actually arriving.
Eventually I turned the car left off the main road, and struck out through the heathered moorland. Within five minutes the visibility was 150 feet. Thick evening fog was pouring from west to east across the open hill land, totally enveloping my road and vision, and instantly putting an end to the magic-light induced euphoria of the past few hours.
I passed dozens of deserted old farmhouses, each sitting quietly in the thickening gloom, and each a monument to a time past before I was born. I find their desolation to be oddly warming, almost enticing. Perhaps it’s my imagination at work, running away with the stories I imagine they might have to tell. The way they all sit there, staring blankly at each other and at the hills. It’s like someone slapped them on the face and they’re still sitting up in shock.
I was now close to what would be home for the week. I drove up over one of the last long climbs, and pulled the car over for a toilet stop. Through the gathering gloaming, dozens of giant wind turbines throbbed. In the dense fog it was a surreal experience. Each turbine made a slight swishing sound as the rotor blades sliced through the air. The heavy atmosphere damped the sound a little, leaving the most bizzare effect, a sound not far from a chorus of far-off human groans. Stopped there, I knew I was close to a wonderful trout loch. I imagined being stuck out on a boat in the middle of the loch, a couple of dry flies on my leader, surrounded by deathly groaning from the turbines beyond the fringing forest.
Ten minutes later and I was sipping a cup of streaming, milky tea. An electric fire burned orange in the corner of the static caravan, and my sleeping bag lay sprawled out on the floor. Tomorrow would be for fishing.
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