A River Runs Through Me E-Book

Andrew Douglas-Home

• Herausgeber: Elliott & Thompson
• Kategorie: Wissenschaft und neue Technologien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 304

Beschreibung

'It is a love letter not just to the river, but to the rhythms of family life by its banks. Warm, witty, and in parts, deeply moving'SCOTTISH DAILY MAIL An evocative account of one man's life spent fishing on arguably the world's best salmon river: a story of family, tradition and the Scottish countryside. Against the shifting moods and seasons of Scotland's River Tweed, A River Runs Through Me tells the story of a lifelong relationship with one of its most iconic denizens: the Atlantic salmon. Through vivid vignettes and family memories, Andrew Douglas-Home spins a homely yet dryly witty narrative, placing this unique fish and river at its heart. Woven into the decades, amid youthful adventure and memorable catches, are stories too of one of Scotland's oldest families – tales of politics, friendship and stewardship of the natural world. This poignant and thoughtful book looks back at age-old practices and traditions but also forward to what we must do to secure the future of the Atlantic salmon and their rivers. It is the perfect companion for any angling enthusiast. 'The perfect fishing companion … his book is a delight.' JEREMY PAXMAN 'Andrew Douglas-Home and his family are inseparably identified with Tweed, perhaps the most glorious river in Britain, in which its salmon contribute mightily to its beauty. No one is better qualified than the author to write about fishing, wildlife and the wondrous flow of sparkling water across the Borders.' SIR MAX HASTINGS 'An absolute delight… [Andrew Douglas-Home] is a born writer… A River Runs Through Me is unlike any other fishing book I know.' TOM FORT 'Delivered in more than 50 short, shard-like chapters, [A River Runs Through Me is considerably more than the sum of its parts… The joie de vivre that this nicely idiosyncratic book exudes makes it memorable.' David Profumo, Country Life

Leseprobe

For Jane, my (in case you do not have the Latin)without which not

Contents

Foreword

SPRING

Upper Pavilion

A Most Deprived Childhood

‘Where do you fit in? Which one is your father?’

Currarevagh

My Fishing Book

Grandhome

Eton? I Loved Every Minute

‘Come out. You have caught enough.’

Not Strictly Legal?

What’s in a Name?

Camasunary, Skye

A Breed Apart

‘You had better come over here, boy!’

SUMMER

Our Very Own Piece of Heaven

Bouldering

William

A Cricketing Dilemma

Three in Three

A Skimmer at Cambus O’May

Never on a Sunday

Meeting Orri

The Sea Pool

Smoke Gets in Your Eyes

The Opposite Test

Fishing Bores

The Price of Principles

No Way to Treat a Noble Fish

What Life Is This?

Dogs, We’ve Had a Few

Summer’s End

AUTUMN

A Great Fishing Hotel

Lunch

Sir Alec

A Melancholy Triumph

Nick’s First, and a Duke

Red-Letter Days

A Good Frost and Puppsie

Don’t Get Me Started

Does It Matter?

A November Splash?

A Switlyk and the PC Police

Lanrick

Simply Magnificent

A Very Fishy Pandemic

WINTER

Uncle George

They Never Had a Chance

Robin

Biter Bit

A Champion Ploughman

The Best of It?

Why the Wye?

Playing the Cards

‘Get over it, Dad’

Great Scott

A Tweedy Revolution

A Question of Numbers

A Migration Miracle

The Too Difficult Tray?

Freddie by Jane Douglas-Home

Acknowledgements

Foreword

I hope you will forgive me for beginning what is a very personal memoir that is largely about fishing with a cricket analogy: this part is a bit like opening the bowling, sending down three long hops, a half volley and two full tosses – all of which are duly dispatched to or beyond the boundary by the odious batsman (all batsmen are odious). At which point the skipper will say, ‘Thank you, mate’, while pointing to the long-leg boundary, where you spend the rest of the afternoon contemplating the unfairness of life.

Non-swanks, that never happened to me, but then the cricketing world is familiar, safe ground. I know how to behave. I have no such experience with the world of books, or ‘authoring’ as Jeremy Clarkson would no doubt call it. If the long grass awaits what follows, so be it. I will have failed to bowl the one that pitches just short of a length outside the off stump, shapes into the (still odious) batsman and then cuts away off the pitch – the perfect unplayable ball. ’Twas ever thus.

I have no idea how this book happened. An accident of time and place, it was meant to be all about fishing, mainly of the salmon variety. Somehow it has become a wider memoir with the Tweed, my family, and my home in the Borders as the backdrop. I hope both the personal memories and fishing bits form an interesting, even amusing, melange into which you might care to dip every now and then, if only in the smallest room in the house.

Salmon fishing is divided into the usual four seasons, although in the coldest months we cannot catch the silvery beauties – unless you live on the Tay, where they seem to think that fishing from 15 January is sensible; it isn’t. I tend to think of my own life as taking a similar shape: the youth of spring, the lively abundance of summer and the gentle decline of autumn leading into our final chapter, winter. It seemed appropriate for this book to follow the same pattern with a degree of latitude when it comes to precise dates.

I hope you will enjoy these memories, even, or perhaps especially, the sad ones. The best is at the end, so even if the others leave you unmoved, do read the last. It is by my wife Jane about our son Freddie. In almost every way the circumstances of his death have defined our lives. It sits at the end of winter, for he was born on 13 December and never made it into spring. As you will realise, she writes far better than me but is too modest to acknowledge it.

If I can become angry about anything, it is about what we humans have done to that most beautiful and noble of fish, the Atlantic salmon. If anyone ever risks giving me a soapbox, I shall give it to you straight between the eyes: we have trashed the place and our salmon are the fall guys. I view my life as a failure in many ways but, so far at least, the biggest is the continuing decline in numbers of a fantastic fellow creature.

In my dotage, and to pass the time in those horribly dark winter evenings, I confess to watching such mindless entertainment as Escape to the Country and A Place in the Sun, where the prospective buyers, on stepping out onto the patio or decking, routinely say, ‘Oh, I can see myself sitting out here on a nice summer’s evening with a glass of wine in my hand!’ If what follows provides you with a little balm, some peace and calm, a brief escape from the seemingly endless worries of this troubled world, maybe with a comforting glass of whisky or wine in hand, that is all I could possibly ask.

Andrew Douglas-Home, 2022

SPRING

Life began for me on 14 May 1950 at Galashiels in the Scottish Borders, and my spring ended when I was thrown out of Christ Church, Oxford, at the age of twenty. Despite that unhappy ending, I look back on it now as a golden age, just as both the meteorological and piscatorial annual equivalents are equally glorious. The spring salmon season begins in February and runs to the end of May. There is nothing as perfectly beautiful as a spring salmon straight from the sea, or as fresh and sparkling as our beech leaves as they first emerge from their winter sleep in late April. What follows, with some authorial licence as to the precise meaning of spring, either took place in the spring months or sets the scene to my own childhood and my family’s life.

My education consisted of Miss Clark’s in Darnick in the Scottish Borders, Aysgarth School in Yorkshire, Eton, a gap year, and then Christ Church, Oxford. Throughout it all for this fishing-mad boy there was the constant, magnetic pull of the Tweed. Initially it was just Upper Pavilion, then both Upper Pavilion and the Lees. I would sometimes fish one in the morning and then travel the twenty miles downstream to the other in the afternoon. By the time my father sold Upper Pavilion in 1978, I had revelled in nearly twenty years of the greatest possible fishing pleasure on its dozen or so pools. I knew every stone, every ripple and eddy rather better than I knew the back of my hand. Kind friends have asked me back once or twice since. How I love it.

When not casting on home waters, we used to go to other ‘family’ beats.* We went to Carham (my mother) on Tuesdays every week, and then there were frequent other visits to Birgham Dub (my father) and to Middle Mertoun (my father’s cousin). Shamefully we took it all for granted, as we did the sheer numbers of fish in the 1960s. It was the zenith of Tweed spring salmon fishing. None of us ever dreamed it would end.

That it did come to an end should not be a surprise. After all, historically, periods of spring dominance for salmon runs are rare, so that although I was brought up to think of large numbers of spring fish as the norm, it was, in fact, very much the exception. Logically, it is mad for a fish that eats nothing once it enters fresh water to come into the river in February or March, when it will have to stay there for another seven or eight months, food free, until it is ready to spawn. Sadly, but unsurprisingly, there has been no real sign of any resurgence in spring salmon numbers for fifty years now. They have a hard enough life anyway; much more sensible to come into the river in summer or autumn, with the famine then lasting only a few weeks.

As for now, those springers are like gold dust or priceless gems: rare, most beautiful and much prized.

* Stretches of river.

Upper Pavilion

We lived on a little farm called Easter Langlee. My father was a gentleman farmer and he owned the Upper Pavilion beat of the Tweed: a mile and a half of double bank, and a succession of glorious streamy pools, none too long, endless variety, starting with Galafoot and ending with Kingswellees.

Upper Pavilion might not be one of the champagne beats, but its pools – Carryweil (pronounced Carry-wheel), the Narrs (Noirs), Brigend (Brig-end) and Kingswellees – have a long and distinguished literary history. In his Days and Nights of Salmon Fishing in the Tweed, William Scrope (1772–1852) nearly fell into Carryweil as the wading was so bad – it still is 170 years later. He played and lost three mighty salmon and captured only two small grilse* in the Narrs. His incompetence was much to the disgust of his attendant, who, when he tried to grab the rod, ended up being kicked.

My mental scrapbook of memories includes a posse of four salmon following my lure, an upstream minnow, right to my feet in Galafoot, none of them with their mouths open; landing a 15-pound salmon on a fly in a tiny pot at the very top of Carryweil, so high up in the white water that nobody would normally think of even fishing there; losing a huge salmon in the tail of Carryweil after twenty minutes of making no impression on it at all (one of only two or three in my life that I ever thought of as portmanteau size); trying to stand upright in the sweeping rush of water and moving gravel underfoot in the Narrs (worth the risk, as in the 1960s it was the best place); the first 20-pluspounder caught, with my father hanging onto my wader straps, in a big water in November 1966, thinking I would never get it in; catching a fierce, vicious-looking, tartan be-kyped* 20-pound cock fish in rank summer level conditions† in October 1969 in the Quarry Stream, and swearing it growled at me as I pulled it onto the gravel; and, lastly, the Kingswellees, where we subconsciously lengthened the cast as we approached the boundary, hoping to catch the one that could be lying just over there, at the extremity of reach (it never was).

Upper Pavilion was a stunning and secretly prolific bit of river – in 1966 we caught well over 600 salmon there – and Easter Langlee was a lovely place to be brought up. I was sad when my father sold it, but by then Galashiels was expanding. Fifty years later our old house is in the middle of a massive housing estate, and I have to summon all my powers of recall to think of it as it was. The river is now surrounded on both sides by modern houses and the noise of traffic – progress, some would say, but not for me and my treasured memories. I still wish my father had not sold it – he had his financial reasons no doubt and my parents were moving to an even more lovely place at Westnewton in the Cheviots – but I cherish the memory of waking every morning and knowing the day ahead would contain unknown fishing excitements, and that it was all mine if I could just keep my pesky brothers out of the way.

Don’t feel sorry for my brothers. I see from my fishing book that the day I caught that 23-pounder in Elwynfoot in 1966, Simon caught seven salmon elsewhere, and over 100 salmon in total that year. Ugh! Elder brothers.

* Salmon with only one winter at sea behind them.

* Adult male salmon turn from silver to a darker colour often referred to as tartan; the kype is the lower jaw extension that grows on cock fish when they begin to mature.

† When the water is both low and warm.

A Most Deprived Childhood

For some reason, this particular June weekend sticks out. At just sixteen years old, I could hardly sleep for the anticipation of catching something in those pools, just a field’s walk away from the house. The use of the word ‘deprived’ is entirely ironic.

I was cruelly cast out from my Borders home at the age of eight to an educational institution called Aysgarth near Bedale in Yorkshire. From there I progressed at thirteen to another institution near Slough in Berkshire, in order to further said education. This upmarket prison banned all phone calls home and hardly ever allowed you out, let alone home, except for some curious anomaly called ‘Scotch leave’ for us northerners, an extended mid-term break. Heathrow was a taxi ride away and those excellent Britannia aeroplanes with their four propellers, the workhorse of the then BEA fleet, whisked me and my younger brother safely to Turnhouse airport at Edinburgh sometime during the late afternoon of Friday, 10 June 1966.

We were collected by our parents and piled into the back of their Morris Oxford motor, our sparse luggage stowed in the boot, and driven to the family home, an hour to the south. Excitement was high with news that there were fish about.

Upper Pavilion is the least well known of the Pavilion beats, but in the 1960s it was by some distance the best. My father let it intermittently and only to family friends in the autumn; his poor deprived sons could fish there whenever we wanted. It was a short walk to the river from the house, essential for a sixteen-year-old in pre-driving days.

The forecast was fine for the whole long weekend and the river low, so success might be had both early and late in the day.

After a quick dinner, we wadered up and got into the Morris Oxford again, with rods protruding from every window, drove round to Lowood House and down to park by the Brigend, the best pool, right on the riverbank, intending to fish until it was dark. My fishing book says I caught one in the Glassweil of 8 pounds with the comment, ‘Fine evening, light east wind, caught at 9 p.m., 4 more caught, a few about.’ So back to bed, with happy dreams of the day being taught Latin by Nigel (to us inevitably ‘Hattie’) Jacques near Slough in the morning and a salmon landed in Scotland in the evening. The family catch: five for the day.

I was up and out of the house, booted and rodded, at 6 a.m. as Mrs Donaldson (the incomparable cook – note how deprived we were) arrived, with instructions to be back home for breakfast at 8.30 a.m. Down through the lambing field in front of the house I went, over the Melrose to Galashiels road, on down to the Tweed and waded over the tail of the Brigend to the other 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, with tales of triumph to relay to parents and siblings. My book records catching two more salmon later that morning in the Kingswellees, the most downstream pool, to which I was sent as penance for the earlier pre-prandial success. My book says, ‘Caught 4; 15, 11, 7 and 7 pounds; light east wind, 2 before breakfast, 2 caught by others; very good for mid-June.’ The family catch: six salmon for the day.

Sunday, purgatory for fishing-mad, time-limited boys, was spent lounging about, maybe indulging in some croquet or cricket on the lawn (more deprivation) while cursing that Scotland should loosen up and allow Sunday fishing, like its Sassenach neighbour.

Up early on 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 at Kingswellees (one) and Glassweil (two). Astonishingly, elder brother Simon (on his gap year) caught six in Carryweil, my father also managing to catch one when he got anywhere near the water. My book says, ‘Caught 6: 8, 8, 8, 7, 6 and 5 pounds; extraordinary for mid-June; 3 before breakfast.’ The family catch: thirteen salmon for the day.

Then back into the Morris Oxford, up the A68 to Turnhouse airport, landing at Heathrow late evening, taxi back to school, in bed by 10 p.m. with happy and glorious memories of twenty-four fine salmon caught by the family in barely two full days’ fishing. And what next for tomorrow? More Latin, some History and Spanish, then cricket on Upper Sixpenny in the afternoon.

How lucky we were. At the time did we realise? Of course not.

‘Where do you fit in? Which one is your father?’

My earliest memory of my father on the river is of him hanging onto me while fishing the impossible wading that is Carryweil. Much later, I would repay this paternal assistance by rowing him in the Temple Pool at the Lees. His most annoying – and deliberate – ploy was to pretend he had not got a fish on, by not lifting his rod, and see how long it took for his oarsman to notice.

For some reason, we all like to pigeonhole the people we meet. Through most of my seventy-one years, when meeting strangers, the first question has been ‘What relation are you to the ex-prime minister?’ Not so much now, for it was a long time ago, back in the early 1960s, that ‘Sir Alec’ became PM. After ‘He was my uncle’ comes the inevitable follow-up, ‘Oh really? Where do you fit in? Which one is your father?’

Which is where it gets tricky. You see, there were uncles Alec (PM, Foreign Secretary, PPS to Chamberlain at Munich, etc., etc.); Henry (BBC birdman of yesteryear); William (playwright viz. The Reluctant Debutante, The Chiltern Hundreds, Now Barabbas and numerous others, court-martialled for refusing to bombard Le Havre); cousins Robin (nearly married two princesses, journalist, author, nightclubber extraordinaire, friend of Frank Sinatra); Charlie (editor of The Times under Rupert Murdoch); David, successful banker; Jamie, who trained horses and then wrote about them, and last but not least, my brothers Simon, another successful city type, and Mark, also a newspaper editor and then author.

In short, they all put it about a bit.

My father, younger brother to Alec, Henry and William, though older than George (more of him later), was none of the above, I would explain to my inquisitor. His name was Edward.

Before getting that far, the more knowledgeable stranger would run through the list, and be visibly disappointed when I would say ‘No’, as the list grew longer of those Douglas-Homes of whom my father was not one. He was a farmer who lived quietly in the Borders, shooting, fishing, playing cricket, happily married and only infrequently, and most reluctantly, moving away from home, and then usually to catch or shoot some hapless fish or fowl.

With this explanation of my father’s unexciting normality, said inquisitor would lose interest. ‘Poor you’, I sensed, being an unfortunate offspring of the only one they had never heard of.

The puzzle, for such it certainly was, even to his children, was Edward being, as his brother William described, ‘wholly and extraordinarily lacking in ambition’. He was monastic in his absence of materialism, spending most of his non-sporting days running and pottering about his farm, and by ‘pottering about’ I mean driving his ‘bus’ (a Land Rover or equivalent), or watching TV, or reading a book, or scolding his beloved dogs. (‘Don’t be a bore, Tully!’ Tully was the last of his Labradors, inherited by us when my father died and who did nothing to deserve such regular rebukes.)

That was pretty much it, all he did after 1945 (he died in 2006 aged eighty-six) when he returned from three and a half years as a guest of the Japanese in various Burmese prison camps and on that infamous railway. He did not garden; he seldom went for a walk, unless to go shooting or fishing; he did not cut the grass, or chop the logs for the fire.

But he was very obviously content; although initially a smoker, he had no vices, ate little, drank little (not teetotal but almost), would not know how to gamble, never thought about money, and wanted nothing except large quantities of cartridges, 20-pound nylon, a rod and some salmon flies. He kept his ‘buses’ forever, until they were defeated by rust. His otherworldliness was matched only by the size of his cartridge bill.

The puzzle? Was he born like that or was he changed by waking up every morning for three and a half years in a Japanese camp, never knowing if he would be alive or dead by evening, riddled with malaria and dysentery and increasingly malnourished, not knowing if the war would ever be won and unable to communicate with his family (who thought he was dead)? Did that daily remorseless, punishing, incredibly cruel Japanese attrition, unimaginable to us now, make him like that?

Before being captured in Singapore, he was shot and seriously wounded – some say shot where his heart should have been but wasn’t (anatomically speaking at least). Somehow he survived.

When Edward walked into the sitting room at The Hirsel, his family home, on his return from prison camp, his father is reported to have looked up from his newspaper, so overcome was he by the sight of his lost son that he blurted out, ‘Ted, where have you been all this time? There are two ducks down there on the Leet, why don’t you go and shoot them?’ Which my father, all six foot and barely seven stone of him, duly did, thereby giving his aged parent time to gather himself. Palpable raw emotion has never knowingly been a Home family long suit.

Shortly thereafter, in 1946, Edward married my mother, prompting his brother Henry to tell us all later, ‘Poor Edward, three and a half years in a Japanese prison camp and married the first girl he came across when he got back!’ There might be rather more truth in them having met when their fishing lines became entwined, when one was fishing at what is now Lower Birgham on the Scottish side of the river, and the other at Carham on the English side.

After the horrors of war and prison camp, sufficient for a lifetime, was just being alive, enjoying his home with his adoring and attentive wife, luxuriating in the glorious freedom of the Borders countryside, in pastimes he loved, with his dogs, his children, then his grandchildren and in the most comfortable surroundings, enough? He must have dreamed of such a life for nearly four years away and in captivity. The only time I saw him visibly shaken was in the 1990s when he heard that the British doctor who had kept them all alive, with almost zero resources, had died.

It would take too long to explain that to those strangers; not famous or infamous like all those other Douglas-Homes, but were any of them as contented, or as deserving of contentment?

Whatever his apparent lack of earthly achievements, he was right up there with the others in the merit stakes. Maybe even more so. My father, the one you haven’t heard of. Edward.

Currarevagh

One of the unsolved mysteries of life is the passage of time, and how it rushes by as our allotted span on this earth begins to run out. Yet when we are young, time seems to stand still, especially in those interminable summer holidays from school.

My parents used to take their three over-energetic boys fishing in the summer, once we had outgrown the charms of the peerless beach at Bamburgh and the delights of staying with the Misses Gibson at North Raw, looking over the castle, the nesting fulmar petrels and the cricket ground. When we were sunburned, seemingly all the time, cooling pink calamine lotion was applied in vast quantities. We caught shrimps in the pools by Bamburgh’s Stag Rock, about the only reason for which my father would deign to come and join us. He otherwise stayed at home quoting ‘the harvest’ as his reason for absence. My mother loved Bamburgh, adored sitting in the sun, the beach, the whole place and, had she outlived my father, she might have moved there. There was a blacksmith (there were blacksmiths in every small town in the 1950s) called ‘Glamour’ and, shockingly, my mother and her friends would titter and giggle whenever they saw him.

The summer fishing trips started with Connemara on the Irish west coast, for two weeks in the second half of August. My mother went along with all this fishing. Despite catching two salmon over 30 pounds in the same week at Carham, where she was brought up, she hardly fished after her marriage. I now have recurrent guilt. Outnumbered four to one by male fishermen, her life was one of self-sacrifice, always putting the enjoyment of the men in her life before her own. She had been a fine horsewoman before we came along, but gave that up when none of us showed any interest. One by one a pony called Twinkle threw us off and ended her equestrian ambitions for the family.

Travelling to Connemara was no easy matter in the early 1960s: load up the Morris Oxford estate, drive over to Glasgow, have the car winched onto the overnight boat to Dublin, and arrive early the next morning by the River Liffie – ‘whiffy’ Liffie, for it really did stink in those days. We set off across Ireland, often on single-track roads, always stopping on the bridge in Galway to see the rows of salmon piled up waiting to climb into Loch Corrib. Then on to Oughterard and beyond to the lovely Currarevagh, the beautiful guest house of the Hodgson family, looking out over Loch Corrib.

Who could forget the breakfasts? Porridge with your very own individual pot of cream, then eggs and bacon, the works, all before setting off to fish for sea trout and the odd salmon at Fermoyle. Occasionally we had a day on Corrib, trying to catch the brown trout by dapping* and dry fly†, or by trolling some lure to catch the really big ones, or even possibly a salmon. Currarevagh had boats in a beautiful old boat shed. You could take one out whenever you wanted and paddle about in the glorious bay below the house. In the long summer afternoons, which were too hot for fishing, we played croquet on the lawn and sought out the exotic butterflies.

Fermoyle was then a sea-trout fishery of the highest quality. I pray it has survived the sea-lice ravages of the fish farms that have sprung up since. There was a series of small but prolific connected loughs, a tiny river between each, which meandered slowly down to the sea. The names were beautiful – Clogher, Shanawonna, Carrick, Dereen – and all the loughs were full of sea trout and the occasional salmon, which were more easily caught in the rivers. A sea trout of four pounds was a big one, but there were masses, weighing between one and four pounds, all caught on little trout rods and the best to eat.

We fished from a boat, drifting, with ghillies at the oars, invariably and inevitably called Pat. They knew their fishing and their loughs. We used mainly wet fly, Blue, Black or Red Pennels, not much else, these being the weapons of choice. They were incredibly effective and we caught so many sea trout, always over a hundred in six or seven days’ fishing, that we never kept a proper record. It was just the salmon that we recorded.

My favourite loughs were Clogher and Shanawonna, which could be reached only by walking, a long hike from the car-parking place. There was no boat on Shanawonna, and I caught a salmon there on a breathless, bright sunny day as we fished around the edges. The fish had never seen a fly before.

There was something mysterious and exotic about Fermoyle House. Palm trees in the garden, a reclusive owner we never met. He was a hawker or a falconer and there were strange hawks flying around all the time – or am I imagining that? The last time we went was awkward; unknown to us, after we had booked, the whole place had been sold to the famous O’Brien racing family, who did not really want us there. It was a sad end and we never went back, but it remains a lovely childhood memory. There was something very soft and enchanting about the whole place, and behind the eyes of everyone we met was the twinkle, the charm and the humour.

My only regret was not catching one of those Corrib monster brownies, but then August was not the best time for that. We caught trout up to 3 pounds and a few salmon (I even had one casting off the Currarevagh bay pier with a spinner), and lost something mighty when trolling for those monster trout in the boat, but those 8-pounds-plus heart-stoppers eluded us.

You can still stay there: Currarevagh, just outside Oughterard. It is magic.

* Allowing just the fly to touch the surface of the water, off a short line with no casting.

† Where the fly floats on the surface rather than sinking beneath.

My Fishing Book

I started with a small fishing book, which quickly became full, and some kind person, I wish I could remember who, gave me a beautifully bound book from Smythson of Bond Street simply marked FISHING. Some would call it a register, but I am not very keen on that word; it sounds too clinical, so ‘book’ will have to do. I wonder why I bother to keep it.

Now I am aged seventy-one, my book has maybe just enough pages to ‘see me out’, if I am lucky enough to live another ten or fifteen years. Perhaps 25 per cent of its roughly 200 pages remain unused – and no, I am not telling you how many fish can fit on a page.

Some keep a book recording every day spent on the river, successful or not. I could not do that because (a) I fish so much and (b) almost never for a full day. Two hours, mostly on summer evenings, is my average, for after that I have both had enough and my neck starts to hurt, a product of RFI, repetitive fishing injury. For the same reason, I never now catch very many in a day; for those days that do have an entry, the number ranges from one to three. Nowhere is there any record of the countless fruitless hours – just as well as it would force me to face up to my incompetence.

The other product of a book covering sixty years is how much my handwriting has changed, not just once but several times. Initially scruffy and all over the place, when I reached twenty-one it became small, incredibly neat and amazingly legible. It has remained small, but is now neither neat nor legible. It seems to have been a gradual process of deterioration, with no obvious watershed moment when it slipped. If I want my writing to be read easily now, I have to print in capitals, or preferably not write longhand at all.

The first entry is for 26 April 1960, a six-pounder in the Weil Stream at Birgham Dub, and the last, at the time of writing, for 3 November 2020 on the Glenn, a tributary of the Till, itself a tributary of the Tweed. I caught three old salmon there on my trout rod, 10, 9 and 2 pounds respectively. In between, in the intervening sixty years, is a catalogue of what used to be slaughter, for we killed almost everything, but over the last thirty or so years has been a succession of ‘catches and releases’, with the odd casualty where the fish swallows the fly and is bleeding too much to be saved. I never deliberately kill salmon now, and have not done so for years.

There are days, even big days, when I was younger and fished for more than two hours, that I had forgotten, but a glimmer of recognition returns when I reread the details. Of the numerous entries with just one salmon caught, unless it was a monster, I have no memory whatsoever.

The purpose of my fishing book remains something of a mystery. I appear to be ruled by that Mastermind quizmaster’s mantra, ‘I’ve started so I’ll finish’, without knowing why. When I ask others if they too keep a ‘book’, so many say they do not but now wish that they had because so many glorious and happy memories have been lost forever. There is a ‘remarks’ column on the far right of each entry, but I have made that tediously functional and tend to record such minutiae as river heights, the weather and how many other fish were caught that day. For example, the entry for 22 August 2011 says I caught ten on a No. 6 Cascade in four different pools (carefully noted), as were the weights, all between 9 and 13 pounds, with the ‘remarks’, ‘Amazing day, 2ft 3ins and a bit coloured after lots of floods. No grilse. Mostly hen fish and sea-liced, 7 on a full floater and 3 intermediate, all wading.’

The whole book contains just two photographs: one of the immature European Crane that lived on the fields to the east of our house for one whole winter, and the other of my only 30-pounder.

Does any of that get us any further? Does the mounting tally mean very much except that I have fished a lot over the years on the best river in the land? I suppose it is interesting, for example, that I caught four salmon in the worst pool, the Annay, on the day that the record score was made here – sixty-one salmon by four rods on 27 September 2010. ‘Remarks’ tells me that I rescued my son Richard off the London train to Berwick with an hour of daylight left, and rowed him in the Annay; he caught two more.

Would I have remembered any of that detail without my ‘book’? Certainly not. It helps jog the memory of some happy times. That alone is something.

Grandhome

After the Irish Currarevagh summer holiday adventures ended, for another three or four years our parents took us to the River Don in Aberdeenshire, renting the fishing and a little cottage at Grandhome, next to the big house. Although there were salmon about, coming from the Tweed, the real added attraction was the trout fishing. The Don was then – and maybe it still is now – the Test of the north.

We went for two weeks in August, not the easiest month to catch brown trout, but catch them we did, all on a dry fly, and in considerable numbers. Each time we went we caught well over a hundred, averaging amazingly over a pound. There would be a rise in numbers around midday, then our success would be sporadic during the afternoons, depending on the weather. The evenings could be spectacular with trout everywhere, when the fly of choice was a Coachman as it became darker. Otherwise Olives, Greenwells and March Browns did the business during the day. In the three or four years we went, I caught two trout over 4 pounds, and another of just under 4 pounds, rising in the short stream below the cauld,*