19 April 2020 News/Editorial
Other than some wicked poachers taking advantage of lockdown near Kelso, successfully apprehended by the Tweed bailiffs and charged, there is little to say as the river levels continue their decline after four rainless weeks. Were we to be fishing, one suspects that scores by now would have tailed off in line with depressed water levels and next week’s predicted cloudless skies.
Hopefully this lack of water will not slow down, or make more vulnerable, the myriad of smolts as they begin their epic journey seawards. Reports of progress will be made in these pages in weeks to come, especially as yours truly has sponsored smolt No 1, the bookies’ favourite, in the current great smolt tracking race to Berwick being carried out by the Tweed Foundation.
As for the chances of fishing again anytime soon, the three week extension of lockdown takes us to Monday 11th May at the earliest, with numerous concomitant unanswered questions about travelling and where to stay when things are relaxed, even if fishing itself becomes allowed. What is certain is that even when things rumble back into action again, strict social distancing will be de rigueur for many more months, and much thought will have to be given as to how that can safely be achieved in the normal salmon fishing environment and daily routine. One suspects that strict new protocols and standards of behaviour will be needed to keep all concerned as safe as possible.
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One of my kind correspondents has suggested I should go fishing, if only to relay to luckless anglers sitting at home, a reminder, a flavour of what we are all missing. Vicarious enjoyment is, I imagine, the general idea.
Sadly, that is impossible, because fishing does not cut it as “staying at home”. I too am grounded, if by the banks of the river.
Instead, exceptional times require extraordinary measures, so here is a story or two of piscatorial derring do from days long gone. Such tales can be, usually are, punishingly dull, akin to looking at someone else’s holiday snaps, but in case you are desperate enough in your confinement to need some sort of “fishing fix”, here goes.
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“Loyal readers may by now be aware that I had a deprived childhood, cruelly cast out from my Borders home at the tender age of 13, to an institution just outside Slough in the county of Berkshire, in order to further my education. It was another age, said quasi-prison banning all phone calls home and hardly ever allowing you out, let alone home, other than for some curious anomaly called “Scotch leave”, an extended mid term (or “half” as we called it) break for those unlucky enough to originate from the frozen north. Nearby Heathrow, a taxi ride away and those excellent Britannia airplanes (4 propellers), the workhorse of the then BEA fleet, saw me and my two brothers land safely at Turnhouse (Edinburgh) airport sometime late afternoon of Friday 10th June 1966.
Collected by parents, we piled into the back of another workhorse, the Morris Oxford motor car, sparse luggage in the boot, and away to the family home/farmhouse just outside Galashiels, an hour south. Excitement was high with news that there were fish about.
My father owned the Upper Pavilion beat, the least well known of the Pavilion beats but in those days (probably still is now) by some distance the best, one and a half miles of numerous streamy double bank pools stretching from where the Gala Water comes in almost as far downstream as the old single carriageway bridge into Darnick and Melrose. How deprived we were, for my father only let it intermittently, and then just to a few friends in the autumn; in short, we could fish whenever we wanted. We could walk to the river from the house, essential for the 16 year old me in his pre driving days.
The forecast was fine for the whole long weekend, the river was low, so success would probably be early or late.
After a quick dinner, we all piled into the Morris Oxford again, wadered up and rods protruding from every window, round to Lowood House and down to park by the Brigend, right on the river bank to fish until the darkness around 10.30pm. My book says that I caught one in the Glassweil of 8lbs with comments “Fine evening, light east wind, caught at 9pm, 4 more caught, a few about”. So back to bed, with happy dreams of being taught Latin by Nigel (Hattie) Jacques near Slough in the morning, and a salmon landed in Scotland in the evening. The total family catch; 5 salmon for the day
The lark amongst the brothers, I was up and out of the house, booted and rodded, at 6 am on Saturday morning, having to be back for breakfast by 8.30 am. Down through the lambing field in front of the house, over the Melrose to Galashiels road, on down to the Tweed and wading over at the tail of the Brigend to the south side. With time short, I did the Narrs and the Brigend, a salmon landed in each, hid them in the long grass for collection later, and waded back over the river, home for a very happy breakfast, tales of triumph to relay to parents and brothers alike. My book records catching two more later that morning in the Kingswellees, the most downstream pool to which I was no doubt sent as penance for the earlier pre prandial success. My book says “Caught 4; 15,11,7,7 lbs; light east wind, 2 before breakfast, 2 caught by others; very good for mid June”. The total family catch; 6 salmon for the day.
Sunday, purgatory for fishing-mad, time-limited boys, would have been spent lounging around, maybe some cricket or croquet on the lawn (more deprivation), whilst all the time cursing that Scotland really should loosen up and allow Sunday fishing, like its Sassenach neighbour.
Up early again on the Monday, a better fishing day, not so sunny and I caught three before breakfast in Carryweil, Glassweil and Brigend, with three more later in the day (Kingswellees (1) and Glassweil (2)). Astonishingly, brother Simon caught 6 in Carryweil, my father also catching one when he managed to get anywhere near the water. My book says “Caught 6 8,8,8,7,6,5; extraordinary for mid-June; 3 before breakfast; SD-H 6 in Carryweil.”. The total family catch; 13 salmon for the day.
And then back in the Morris Oxford, up the A68 to Edinburgh airport, land at Heathrow late evening, taxi back to school, in bed by 10 am with happy and glorious memories of 24 fine salmon caught in barely two days.
What next tomorrow? More Latin, some History and Spanish, then cricket on Upper Sixpenny in the afternoon.
As I say, times in those days, they was hard.”
NB By way of footnote, at Upper Pavilion we caught well over 600 salmon in 1966, split roughly 50:50 between late spring (May and June in particular) and the autumn. Students will recall that amidst the general euphoria of a record year, little did we know that the mysterious but devastating UDN was just around the corner, making 1967 a shadow of its predecessor. Brother Simon left school at the end of that summer “half” of 1966, so had the autumn fishing at home. I rather think he caught over 100 to his own rod in calendar year 1966.
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Extracted from old Wark, Carham and Floors fishing records, here are some facts and figures we can only dream of now.
“The Spring of 1957.
Sir Thomas Straker-Smith, my maternal grandfather, wrote in the Carham book at the end of February 1957; “A most remarkable month on Tweed; middle reaches full of fish. Only 14 days fishing in the month, continuous floods in January and the early part of February brought in heavy runs of fish.”
The scores for February 1957 (in those only 14 days fishing) were Wark 204, Carham 177 and Upper Floors 46. At no point did Wark have more than 3 rods, Carham 2 and Upper Floors mainly 2, sometimes 3. In those days Carham included what is now the south bank of Lower Birgham. Scores of 10+ per day were commonplace.
By March the fish had progressed, but not far, with Wark 136, Carham 244 and Upper Floors 93. Early March at Carham was extraordinary, with 19 on the 1st, 22 on the 4th, 20 on the 6th and 17 on the 8th.
By April, the fish had (mainly) left Wark (just 50), but Carham (a mile or two upstream) had 211 and Upper Floors 201.
In May, Wark had 3, Carham 116 and Upper Floors 137, with June zero at Wark, 5 at Carham and 14 at Upper Floors. One suspects nobody bothered much after May.
Remarkably, the fish were almost all small, amongst those vast numbers not one over 20lbs and most well under 10lbs.
The juxtapositioning of a Mr R Irwin catching 10 at Carham twice, all on fly (greased line it would have been), on both 3rd and 8th May, with Capt Billy Straker-Smith (Sir Thomas’ son and my uncle) catching 20 in a day on the 6th, is a curious one. Stories change over time, but there is some evidence that the fish had gone off the fly, albeit temporarily, because on Saturday 4th only 3 were caught. The story goes that Billy tried a fly on the Monday 6th morning, to no avail with the river still full of fish. Over a, no doubt, convivial lunch, tactics changed and prawns were selected as the weapons of choice for the afternoon. You tied a pickled prawn with a wire trace to the treble hooks and had to “reload” after every fish caught, because the fish mangled the prawn, thereby losing much time. Despite this, he caught 20 in the afternoon, it could have been more but he decided to stop when reaching that nice round number. For those who know Carham well, he caught 11 in the Long Stream, 1 in Flummy, 4 in the Kirkend and 4 in the Three Stanes. Not one was over 8lbs”
NB. By way of a further curious footnote, the total recorded Tweed catch by rod and line in 1957 was around 5,500 salmon, rather fewer than the Tweed caught in 2019. This says nothing at all of respective salmon numbers, rather more about fishing effort as between the two self-distancing decades; and of course a proliferation of hundreds of river, coastal and high seas (drift) nets in 1957, of which there was but one remaining in 2019, meant that few fresh fish reached the rod fishing beats from late spring onwards, and 1957 was before the autumn run began to gain strength in the 1960s.
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