Salmon Fishing at the Boathouse
A week in the Scottish Borders on the River Tweed at Norham.
‘It has been said that a salmon river is a piece of water that was in perfect condition last Thursday and might be all right next week if the weather changes.’
Jack Hargreaves; Fishing for a year.
You would not believe how many books have been written about the salmon and how to catch this king of fishes. I’ve read none of them, and I don’t think I ever will, but I love to try and catch them all the same. In fishing circles, there are probably less of us lunatics trying to fish for salmon with a fly rod than any other section of the sport. For those of us daft enough to dip a salmon fly into the water it almost inevitably becomes an obsession. Fly fishing for salmon is big boys fishing.
Don’t get me wrong, I love all forms of fishing. I mainly fish for trout but if the opportunity arises I will take a day out sea fishing or perhaps return to my fishing roots and take a coarse rod to hunt for carp or chub. I don’t think I am unusual in having gravitated to fly fishing as my preferred method and I certainly never pontificate the virtues of one method over another. Fly fishing is just what I like to do.
As I’ve alluded to, salmon fishing on the fly is not for everyone and by that I’m not talking about elitism, it’s because it is so hard! Not only are the fish quite elusive to catch, the method in itself is difficult too. There’s the added difficulty in that Atlantic Salmon are mainly found in Scottish rivers in greater numbers than in England. That is a bit of a generalisation but I don’t think any salmon anglers would vehemently disagree.
Without going into too much technical detail, because a salmon river is usually wide the further the distance you will need to cast a fly. That means you need a longer more powerful rod. To put some perspective on this statement, a trout rod is somewhere between 7ft and 9ft long, the angler being able to cast this with just one hand. The salmon rod will range from about 12ft through to 15ft, the angler being required to use both hands to wield such a weapon.
The way to cast these types of rod are different too. A trout rod is by no means easy, but it is indeed a lot harder to cast a double handed salmon rod. There are a number of methods these days with such names as the ‘Snap T’ or the ‘Snake Roll’, but the most common is the ‘Double Spey’ cast. I’m not going to attempt to describe these here as I want to get onto the point of this article, however if you are interested then simply search on YouTube using those names and you’ll soon see what they are all about!
On the majority of rivers the angler will be accompanied by a Ghillie. He will oversee the particular beat the angler is fishing knowing all the best pools and glides where the fish are likely to lie. In most cases the angler will need to wade into the water and cast across the river to the best lies, which always seem to be just beyond the range of the anglers cast! The pool will have a start and an end point. The angler will make his first cast, letting the fly drift downstream with the current. When the fly has completed traversing the river the angler takes one or two steps downstream and casts again repeating the process until he reaches the end of the pool. So let us go fishing.
The village of Norham is sixteen miles to the south west of Berwick upon Tweed. Along a dead end track at the edge of the village, on the banks of the River Tweed stands The Boathouse. It is a place that once visited gets under your skin, it almost feels like a second home to me after some twenty years of visiting the place. Looking out from the front door, the Tweed runs constant, polished slate flecked with bubbles, the skittering wake of a Grebe, the splash of a running Salmon and if you are lucky the fluorescent flash and ‘pip pip’ of the Kingfisher. But it does have its moments when the rain in the far west is ejected from the river Teviot and the Till. The Tweed at Norham then changes from reflective black to filthy brown, it swells and boils until the torrent subsides draining into the sea and returning the river to its former tranquility.
There’s no point going on a fishing trip without friends and fellow fishermen and of course their wives too. There are ten of us who travel up to the Boathouse every September to share the experience. We catch up on old times, drink and eat our fill before sitting by the fire telling tales of fishes caught and the loss of monster salmon, the one’s that got away.
Getting into your waders is always a nightmare, talk about fighting your way into a plastic bag. If it’s chilly out there then it’s not only the water temperature to contend with, so a warm fleece over a thick jumper is necessary. As donkey would say, I’m all wrapped in layers, onion boy. Stuffing those layers into tight waders is exhausting. Then it’s time to don the wading jacket over the top and if necessary a life jacket. Fortunately the wading at the Boathouse is not difficult and I can dispense with this today.
Mel is our Ghillie for the week, and a fine chap he turns out to be. His enthusiasm is infectious, he is driven to catch fish. Tall, well built with a soft Derbyshire accent he is difficult to age, but the grey flecks in his black beard suggest mid to late thirties. He goes through my fly box, picking out a sensible pattern for the water conditions, which on the Monday are very clear and at a level (low for the time of year), where a smaller, lighter fly will do. The day is overcast and still; perfect conditions.
The first two days of fishing draw a blank for me. Wednesday dawns with clear blue skies and a light breeze. This is not so good as the bright sunlight shinning into the water tends to send the fish deeper and they are not as active. However the other rods have been successful, they already have three fish on the bank. On Sunday evening we set up a sweepstake predicting how many fish we would catch this week. The pessimist went for five, the optimist fourteen, I went for ten.
Stepping into the river that morning I would not have swopped places with anyone. The Tweed was once more like glass, it reflected perfectly the reeds and willows along the bank, the mature trees still fully leafed from summer but with a hint here and there that autumn was on its way. The sky was faultless blue with not a hint of cloud, the sun warm on my back. The water was so clear that I could see the soft pebbled bed with ease. Darting about are hundreds of little fish, I can’t quite tell what they are but I suspect Minnows and Sticklebacks, food for another fisherman in his bright blue jacket.
Presently I heard the ‘pip pip’ preceding that particular gentleman, a Kingfisher who came close by. He too was fishing. He came within yards of me, his wings beating like mad as he hovered ten feet over the water peering with those bright eyes into the river below. In a moment he dived and almost immediately surfaced with a wriggling lamprey which he dashed to death on a nearby rock. Nature is harsh at times. Indeed my gaze was drawn by three swans that cruised past majestically, one of which had particular purpose. He was chasing the other two away. His wings were arched in an aggressive posture as he meant to drive the other two from his territory. Apparently this particular swan was known on the river for his violent nature. The six signets, identifiable by their grey coats kept their distance. There had been seven until this dominant swan had attacked them, forcing one’s head under water until it drowned.
The following day was in complete contrast to the proceeding. The wind blew upstream in such gusts that it was almost impossible to cast any line whatsoever. Despite the conditions the other rods caught fish whilst again I drew a blank. I was beginning to feel a little downhearted but on the other hand so pleased that my fellow anglers had connected. I persevered through the day but returned empty handed once more. Once inside my face glowed with wind chill, the heat accentuated by the warm fire and a glass of whiskey.
On Friday the weather had not improved. The rain that had arrived in the night may have gone but the upstream wind remained. According to the Met Office it was gusting at some 40mph. The river was up by over a foot and it looked very angry indeed. The wind whipped up the surface of the water creating white horse waves that rolled upstream. When we took to the boat later in the morning it was not only difficult to cast but somewhat disconcerting. The waves tossed us about so much that the anger I perceived in the river earlier felt directed towards us who dared to sail upon it.
The afternoon was somewhat calmer. We headed to what is known as the Boathouse pool. Here there is a bend in the river, the water flowing very deep, dark and almost foreboding. Here be monsters. Indeed a monster had been caught here in October 1922 weighing some 51.5lbs! I cast out, snagging some weed on which feels like a long, lingering drag on the line when it occurs. A sharp pull on the line tends to un-snag the hook, but you need to bring the fly in to check none of the weed remains. A fish will not take a fly if this is the case. Casting again I felt the same thing occur, this time I jerked hard on the line to free the hook. In the next instant came a distinct reaction, a sharp jabbing on the line. I had a fish on! It powered off into the pool running deep into its dark depths. The rod bent with the weight of the fish that certainly felt like it could be substantial. But in the next moment I began to despair. The line went very taught indeed and started to ‘sing’ under the tension. It could only mean the fish had either got under some weed or around a rock. Suspecting the former I lifted the rod keeping as much pressure on as I dared, hoping that the fish may free itself. Shortly, with another ounce of pressure I felt the fish once more, it was still there! I felt it shake its head twice and very hard. Then the line went slack, it was gone. There are very few feelings worse than losing a good fish.
For I say that there is no misery quite so keen as that experienced by an angler, who, after many hours of patient waiting and perhaps of a-playing of his fish, loseth it at the bank side. It is enough to make any man mourn…like a man’s first disappointment in matters of the heart, takes much forgetting. B.B.
Hence by Saturday morning I was beginning to think that I would not catch during this particular trip. The sweepstake was stuck at eight fish for the week, so far. Two of the rods and their partners had already headed home, it was down to me and my father-in-law (Tim) now. In the morning, my casting had not been its best. You have to cast a straight line to get the fly moving. A good cast is all in the timing as much as the technique. Mine was all over the place, the fly not getting enough distance and not running straight either. In the final half hour Mel put me in a spot that was difficult to cast without snagging some willow tree’s behind me. My first cast did just that, as to my annoyance, did the second. I fumed as I grappled with the willow that tried to hold on with all its might to my fly. Finally I extracted it and stomped back to the bank, sat down to re-attached the fly to the line. I may as well give up, I thought. But something drove me on and I got back into the water. I adjusted my cast to avoid those awful willows and suddenly it all came together. The line and my fly simply rocketed out over the river, straight, true and at distance.
After lunch the winds had died right down, the clear skies of the morning gave way to some cloud. The river had dropped a little in height and the clarity had become akin to weak tea. It is very hard to describe the feeling of anticipation when all the conditions appear right. With this comes expectation, a real sense that something is going to happen that is very tangible. I began to cast with confidence, the line snaking over the water, the fly landing with a little ‘plop’ half way across the river. The current was a little stronger, straightening the line out allowing the fly to fish properly in the current. I took five more casts, and caught my first Salmon of the week. The fish took with two strong pulls and within moments I had the rod bending and the line onto the reel.
The technique in playing a fish is to remain in contact with it at all times. That is, never, ever let the line go slack. However, too much pressure and you are likely to pull the hook from his mouth. A Salmon’s mouth gets harder as it gets older, so it is imperative to keep the pressure on all the time. If the fish runs away from you, then you have to let it do so but try to keep alongside it as best as possible otherwise the side strain can pull the hook from the mouth. Gradually the fish tires, although a Salmon is incredibly powerful and muscular and can take time to be brought to the net. Trying to get its head out of the water helps with the process.
After a few nerve wracking moments where I thought I would lose it, Mel came with the net and at last the wait was over. I had my first fish of the week. Although it was not quite over. At a quarter to five in the afternoon, just before we were due to finish for the week I landed my second fish of the day, the tenth for the group that week and I had won the sweepstake.
Can’t wait to go back there next September.
