Joe Gibbs recounts his latest exploits on the water after a visit to the River Ewe.
Many fishermen have a weakness for the latest tackle, gizmos and ephemera. The Swedish word lagom, meaning ‘just the right amount’, was not coined with the average angler’s rod room in mind, but recent kit trends among game fishers have lowered the tone a bit.
Let me paint you a picture of an example at our local petrol station. Gigantic 4×4 with knobblies and snorkel exhaust — perhaps for submerging your truck as a casting platform — roof bristling with batterie de pêche, a gazillion rods of every length, blonde in the passenger seat chewing gum and tapping a languid blue fingernail on the chrome wing mirror, himself in aviator shades, baseball cap, faux combats with zips and pockets enough to confound the Artful Dodger. All this to pursue the gentle art of salmon fishing.
What a relief then, to visit the River Ewe with our friend Mr B and know that inside his waders he was wearing simple tweed plus-fours, sober stockings, a checked shirt and a jumper. No tie, I’m afraid, but hey-ho. Wielding his rod, we admired his consummate double Spey cast. By the end of the first day, he had grassed a fine 16- and a 14-pounder. He brushed aside our congratulations, ascribing his success to the Ewe Blue, a fly he designed for the river. Call me old fashioned, but I put it down to him being suitably dressed.
The wading on the bouldery bed of the Ewe can be wobbly. Sir Hector Mackenzie, a former proprietor in the 18th century, trained his white horse, Trig, to wade into the pools. Trig became quite interested in the sport and, when he saw the swirl of a salmon or sea trout over the fly, would back steadily to the bank, where Sir Hector would land the fish.
“Raymond witnessed a gentleman hook a fish and fight it for minutes before collapsing unconscious in the water… After Raymond performed CPR his charge came round and gasped: ‘What about the fish? Get the fish!’ To be brutally honest, that thought had occurred to Raymond, too.”
I discovered this too late. I’d left my nag behind, never dreaming it could be part of my fishing paraphernalia. If any future fishing hosts see me rocking up to the lodge with a horsebox in tow, they will know why. History doesn’t record whether Sir Hector was well fortified with a dram, but just possibly he was the origin of that 1970s advertising adage for a well-known whisky, ‘you can take a White Horse anywhere’.
We stayed in the fine manse at Poolewe overlooking the river or, as a former inhabitant and man of the cloth might have preferred, frowning upon it. The author of a book on Gairloch, a keen angler himself, he recalled the Victorian occupant of the manse minutely cross-questioning him over lunch on the art of salmon fishing. A day or two later in the kirk, the writer heard his examiner use this information word-for-word to illustrate the wiles of Satan.
Ever since Christ stilled the waters of Galilee, fishing and mortality have been entwined. Raymond, the Ewe gillie, witnessed a gentleman hook a fish and fight it for minutes before collapsing unconscious in the water. Raymond had to let the rod go, perhaps a shade reluctantly, needing both arms to rescue him. He performed CPR and revived his charge on the bank who, on coming round, gasped: ‘What about the fish? Get the fish!’ To be brutally honest, that thought had occurred to Raymond, too. Miraculously, the rod had not moved afar and the fish was still attached.
Clasped from behind by his gillie, the fisherman continued the battle, slumped senseless once again, revived and finally landed a 22-pounder. Holding fisherman, net, fish and rod, Raymond took a selfie for the record before returning the monster to the deep. It was the last fish his gentleman caught.
Golden Eagles: The aristocrats of the air — magnificent, haughty and deadly
David Profumo admires the golden eagle, the aristocrat of the air.
