5 July 2020 News/Editorial
What follows is my last, an epitaph to 6+ years of writing in these pages.
There are three fundamental things wrong with the way Tweed anglers behave and I have given up any hope of changing them, hence this finale. I have had enough, and repetition of the same issues on these pages, year after year, is boring.
First, Tweed anglers spin far too much, especially in low and clear water (see below) when it should be banned altogether.
Secondly, they also kill way too many salmon after 1st July, significantly more than any other river in the UK. The RTC has done nothing new to try to reduce the numbers killed.
Thirdly, and last, but certainly not least, the RTC will not give any protection to the dwindling numbers of fresh autumn fish coming into the river after 1st September; absurdly, spring fish are protected, but the much smaller population of autumn fish is not.
All three are wrong and merit my departure from this scene, a futile gesture no doubt, but what else can you do when you keep beating the drum over the years, and nobody is listening?
To all loyal readers and correspondents over those years, I apologise for letting you down, if only because you will no longer be troubled by some ranting idiot every Sunday evening. The good news is that Tweed‘s salmon runs of late spring and summer fish appear to be in good shape, albeit based on just this one (2020) year. It would be premature to read too much into that, but at least there is some cause for cautious hope.
It has been fun, thank you for putting up with it all.
--00--
Some 350+ salmon and 200 sea trout were caught last week as the fish spread far and wide after Monday’s 2ft rise, up to the Yair and Upper Caberston, proving, if proof were needed, that our springers go into Upper Tweed, not just the Etrrick and Teviot.
It is not wholly like me to say “I told you so”, but there could have been no more immediate demonstration (see last week’s blog) as to why Tweed owners really must realise, for those who have not already, that given water, the spring and summer is when the fish numbers are going to come in to the river from now on, and will spread far and wide upstream, benefiting all beats.
“Shock horror” to some maybe, that although you can, and will, still catch fish in the autumn, certainly up to the end of October, that is no longer, and has not been for 6 years now, when most of the fish come in from the sea.
As for the prospects for next week? Unsettled seems to be the continuing theme after the gales of today, with amounts of rain to come during the week uncertain, but settling down more towards next weekend. It is very hard for those losing out early next week, because of the present dirty floods, but for the longer term and for spreading the fish out, it could be just what the river needs.
Good for fishing, once the levels drop back and the water clears.
Tight lines.
-00--
It was pretty obvious who was spinning last week by the numbers of sea trout caught, for it is Tweed’s sea trouts’ oddity that they take best a spinner fished in coloured water. Why anyone would want to catch quite so many, or any, sea trout on a spinning rod is another matter?
You cannot tell how many of the 350+ salmon caught last week were caught spinning, when from Wednesday to Friday there was no need for it as the water cleared. It smacks of fishmongering, not angling. It would not surprise me if more than half were caught on the dreaded upstream condom or equivalent.
In my world, upstream spinning on the Tweed would be banned at all times, and spinning downstream would only be allowed above a certain height (1ft 6” on the Fishpal Sprouston gauge?) or for those who are too old, infirm or young to wield a fly rod.
The extent to which some Tweed beats use spinning in low water is an abomination and a stain on the Tweed’s good name.
The only real satisfaction in angling is in defeating/outwitting a noble quarry by the limits you impose on yourself in achieving that. In salmon fishing that means fishing with a fly, a skimmer, a hitch, a Sunrayshadow, a Bomber even or a micro fly, and in changing the depths at which you fish those with the plethora of different lines now available to the angler. Just chucking a spinner in, in low and clear water, fails every possible test and should be banned riverwide, as we have banned it here for many years now.
It is a disgrace that it is still allowed to happen, and that so many owners continue to condone it. For them it is a numbers game and nothing, but nothing, else seems to matter.
When you next go fishing, consider the words of someone who would never compromise on fishing methods and standards:
“The rules we impose on ourselves are everything. It is not a question of wilfully making things harder, but of a purity of approach without which success has no meaning. And this, ultimately, was his lesson: that the fiercest joy is to be a spectator of your own conduct (in fishing and in how you fish), and to find no cause for complaint”.
--00--
In a gusty wind on Friday, I waded the Temple Pool, a dangerous business at 1ft 7” on our gauge. You cannot see where you are going, there are ledges beyond which you disappear, and your feet feel your way downstream, spey casting all the while with a vertical wall a few yards behind, no obvious place to land a fish and 100 yards of water to cast into with a strong downstream wind. We are on the left bank, making it just that bit more difficult, either spey casting backhand, or with your left hand, across a wind coming downstream, across and into you.
It is extreme fishing, but the only way to do it in the absence of boats.
Handlining, for there is little natural current, I hooked one at the high bit of the Temple wall. A passing walker and his wife were watching. “Have you got a ghillie, where’s your net ?” “I have none of the above”, I shouted,” it is all part of the challenge”. I had just myself, my 14ft 9” rod and my hands.
At the top of the Temple wall, there is the smallest nook or indentation, but with overhanging branches to snag your rod as you try to pull it back to beach the fish. After about 10 minutes of tug-of-war with my magnificent foe, she came in on her side, into the aforesaid nook, where I secured her and removed the hook, with her back in the water and sedately swimming away asap. 12lbs of sheer beauty, my knowledgeable onlooker and I agreed, for he was a fisher himself and clearly knew a thing or two about it.
Now there was a real sense of achievement in that, added to by the applause from my new friends and onlookers, behind and above on the bank.
They went on their way, returning from their walk some 10 minutes later to find me on the bank with a No. 8 Cascade firmly embedded in my jaw. When you are up to your armpits and casting 40-50 yards across a gusty wind, it can happen, and it did.
3 hours later, after expert removal by a most charming and efficient nurse at the Borders General Hospital A&E (she never laughed at the fly sticking out of my face, whereas almost everyone else did), I was back home.
Was it worth it? You bet. The more difficult it is to catch a fish, the more the satisfaction, and, of course, the more the risks.
In a very small way, maybe, those two well known bedfellows and impostors, Triumph and Disaster, were met in quick succession, and hopefully treated as Kipling’s “If” describes.
“Just the same”
--00--
And so, for the last time.
Au revoir, goodbye and above all.
Thank you for both your reading and your support.
our twitter feed