news/editorial

14 April 2013 News/Editorial

Access to past fishing records from Wark, Carham and Upper Floors, three of Tweed’s best, just received, is a privilege not given to many. Whilst thoughts are gathered on this mass of information which will form the focus of the next few news/editorials, please forgive the following.

Stories of other individual anglers’ catches are essentially dull, which no doubt the words that follow will prove. It will be posted only for a day or two until something more illuminating comes along.

For context, it happened last week.

“I have no idea exactly what it weighed. Momentarily lying prone after the drama of the hook, it was precisely 3 lengths of my size 13 boots. Laying my rod alongside, the rod butt end at its tail and a scratched mark on the rod by the tip of its nose, I would measure that when I got home. It was amongst the most magnificent creatures you will ever see.

It all started with a vague notion of going out, late evening, for half an hour with a small fly and a sink tip; fed up with the pernicious cold and the consequent sinkers and intermediates, such hard work and at 40F they might just come up to it.

The wind still nagging but more southerly than east, the line shot out, so nice to fish with even if the salmon are sulking on the bottom in this cold, I don’t care, I am done with that autumn heavy tackle; it’s April and spring for Pete’s sake. In the Glide it is smooth, but wasn’t that a swirl where my fly is in the water? Everything had stopped and was, well, solid.

You know when you hook a big one, and I knew. I pulled, nothing, it pulled, solid impulse and power into the deep water and towards the other bank. And so it went on; I knew I would win in the end, if only my nylon were new, on that rod since October when last using a sink tip.

After 15/20 minutes it was wallowing, getting closer and, like any heavyweight, once on its side, you have it as it struggles to get upright. And so, this sea liced wonder lay on its side, still in the water, on the shingle, silver and white everywhere and just the best thing you will ever see, a springer of that size, the stuff of dreams.

Then concern. No sign of the fly, oh no it’s right down its throat, but no blood, still a chance to save it. By now it was flapping, keen to get back, so firmly but gently kneeling on it, forceps (amazingly I had them) in hand, to cut the nylon or leave the fly there? I could see the fly, one hook in the top of the gill ribs, way back but with luck I could nick it out. One slip and the jugular punctured, game over. But to leave the fly in there, another 7 months until it spawns, won’t it inevitably dislodge down its throat from so far back? Forceps in, twist, lift and got it, any blood? As its heart pumps, you know immediately, the water goes red, you curse and accept the inevitable. But I and my magnificent friend got lucky.

Then I did the measuring bit, no camera, as usual I had left my mobile behind.

And finally I knelt with him in the water as I held him upright, and the breath came back good and strong.”Him” I hear you say? Trust me, he was a boy, his head was all boy and the shape, I know it’s difficult to tell in the spring, but have no doubt.

If he had died I would have cursed and cried; a seal had already had a go at the underside of that tail which you could hardly get a hand round, another swipe had left a white mark in the middle of his back.

As he swam away he looked just fantastic.

So what did he weigh? Well both measurements came out at 39 inches and unlike an autumn fish, he was all muscle, no flab, sea liced and prime. Was he 25lbs, no, was he 20lbs, you bet. The immediate thought as he went back was 21, 22 or 23lbs but on the charts he could be 24lbs.

Does it matter? No. He gave me half an hour of my life which I will never forget. I have caught bigger fish but not springers. Some, not many, have caught bigger springers.

It was very special and with luck he will make it to spawning time; that, when all is said and done, is all that really matters.”