26 May News/Editorial
Last week’s effort on these pages provoked some anticipated reaction. Most spotted it was (slightly) tongue in cheek, but not all. Ah well……
Were Tweedbeats to retract ever so slightly on the “Tweed is best” theme, even if it is true in terms of numbers caught, it would be that there are other great rivers out there, and numbers are far from everything.
Indeed, our relationship with salmon catch numbers is complex and, for most of us, far from consistent.
To catch a salmon every cast has been described as a definition of hell. Stories are told of single rods catching up to 200 salmon in a week in some of those Russian rivers; maybe just acceptable once in a lifetime, but more than that? And if you put them all back, what exactly is the point of catching so many? Be thankful for catch and release, for if you killed them all, it would be slaughter, the antithesis of sport.
There is a link with age. The older we get the more we empathise with our quarry, the less appealing flogging away just to catch one more, the more we take time to reflect how lucky we are still to be able to smell those roses, and to appreciate the beauty of the river surrounds, the kingfisher, the otter, the osprey, the baby ducks; we spend longer in the hut.
For many, one in the morning, another in the afternoon and a couple more pulls is the perfect day.
We take more “time out” and are more inclined to the words of William Henry Davis (1871-1940):
“What life is this if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs, and stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see when woods we pass, when squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight, streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty’s glance, and watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can, enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare.”
But, and here’s the rub, we still like to hear of the big days. The most visited page on river websites (by far) is the catches page. “Wark 30 again!” stressed Executives in London text each other, dreaming of magical days out of the office and surrounded by taking salmon.
And dreams are what the Tweed is selling and for that there have to be numbers, just as for the South of France there has to be sunshine.
Amongst all the complexities in our attitudes to numbers, there is one stereotype who deserves our sympathy, and there is a bit of him/her in all of us. The drug that keeps us all coming back is “the pull”, that magical moment when contact is made (on a fly of course!), and some of us just cannot get enough of it.
Uncontrolled, as with all addictions, it leads to obsession and unhappiness.
But there are a lot worse.
These musings come from the (Hampshire) Test, scribbled in between doing a lot of what William Henry Davis was on about.
The mayfly, as with everything this year, are late.
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