Fishing
“Och, Wattie, fishing?! You go out full of hope, you come back full of whisky.”
Dr. Harry Heddle
There were a couple of moments this week which transported me back to my youth. A friend of mine was heading off to a retreat in Washington State. One of his activities was going to be fly fishing. Then yesterday I received the traditional, annual post card from my brother, Bill, who is fishing in the Outer Hebrides off the west coast of Scotland. He does this every year at this time.
The early morning journey from Nairn to Inverness is a straight road for 16 miles. The fishing shop was in the heart of the town. In the mid-1960s it was there that we would stop to pick up the keys to the boat on Loch Ruthven. Then our father would continue the drive out of Inverness over the top of the east side of Loch Ness past the lochs of Duntelchaig and Ashie and finally to the south end of Loch Ruthven. There we would park and walk the short distance to where the rowing boats were moored. My brothers, Bill and George, and I would help rig the two fly rods (I remember rubbing the rod joins vigorously on the back of my neck so that they would be greased and easier to pull apart!). One of us would row gently out into the loch. There would be one rod at the bow and one at the stern. We would take turns casting our lines on the water. The rower and the other would wait their turns. Occasionally Wattie would light one of his Henri Winterman’s cigarillos, a not unpleasant smell. The boat would rock gently as we drifted on a beat. At times the oarsman would dip his oar slowly into the water to keep the boat broadside to the wind. And the flies would be cast and as the line landed it would be fed slowly through the fisherman’s fingers as it moved along the surface of the water towards the boat and then was cast out again. The rhythm, the lapping of the water, the sound of the rowlocks, the sheep bleating on the hillsides, are with me now. Occasionally the wind would get up and we would have to battle our way against it when the drift came to an end. Sometimes the calm of a day was disturbed by the gentle beginnings of a shower of rain. And, rarely it seems, the routine would be broken when somebody hooked a brown trout and suddenly we were clambering to reach the landing net, stumbling off balance on the rocking boat to get the empty line out of the way, noting the bend on the rod, feeling the wriggling of the fish and hoping that it would not escape. Then the brown trout would tire and would surface and gently the net would be underneath him and he would be scooped on board. If he was small he would be released back into the water, if not his destiny lay elsewhere.
Lochindorb was a different journey. There we drove out of Nairn along the Grantown-on-Spey road on the old bridge over the River Findhorn and up onto the moors. There we would drop down to the right of the moor along a narrow B road and then up a farm track to the crofter’s house where the lady, ever friendly and ever ready to chat, would produce the key to the boat house. And the routine would be the same as on Ruthven and the waters would lap and the oars would break the silence and we would move through the ripples, sometimes with the wind and sometimes against it and we would find a beat and a drift and hope for fish. The silence would be companionable, broken only by the rasp of the reel, the fluid cast of the line, the lap-lapping of the water, the sheep bleats and the bird cries.
There is no escape from our youth so you who are kind enough to read my new book, “Fatal Frailties”, will find that I have returned to many of those places with a story that is fiction but a memory that is real.
So I have fished infrequently since those days and my brother, George, I doubt at all. Yet Brother Bill was hooked then and is hooked now. Those days of our youth have not left us, the sights and sounds are with us still. And yet, Dear Reader, I am no longer drawn to be in a boat trying to catch a fish. I am, however, pulled to those lochs, moors and hills. I have been back on occasions and, over the last few years, to Lochindorb with my brother, George. I feel an almost atavistic pull to walk on the heather clad moors, to look out on these places of a bygone age, to climb the surrounding hills, to stumble among the rocks and rowan trees and silver birch on the shore lines but, Dear Reader, I am stangely not drawn to cast a fly on the water.
I think that I understand the pull of fishing, the slow calm of being; the quietude that soothes; the peace that stretches out its hand; the balm to the soul. I do comprehend the excitement of a fish on the line. So when Harry Heddle offered my father, Wattie Davidson, his homespun philosophy at the beginning of a day on a Hebridean loch all those years ago, then I, in time, have come to realise that fishing has little to do with catching fish and everything to do with calm, with tranquillity, with the joy of gentle movement, the peace of whispering nature, the sense of being a part rather than apart and, perhaps, a wee dram at the end of the day!
8 Replies to “Fishing”
Hi Pete. Although I’ve never fished near Inverness, my mom’s family is from that region. I wonder if you knew of them. My grandfather was a Munro (Stew’s pipes were inherited from him) and my grandmother was a Marshall from ‘near Nairn’. We visited the Marshall farm back in 1973 – it was called ‘Marshfield’. At that time some of mom’s relatives still worked on the farm.
Hi Val, I would love to know where ‘near Nairn’ is. I had family at Petty, Loch Flemington, Ardersier as well as in Nairn itself where my grandparents on my mother’s side lived. My mum and dad were married in Nairn. I would love to find Marshfield on a map. Stew must have looked after his bagpipes exceedingly well. Thanks for reading and enjoy the rest of the good weather.
Does Bill ever catch anything? Had a brief word with him at the CRFC 100 year reunion back in April. Amazing catching up with people. Do you remember John Edgar, after your time I am sure, one of the best players ever “produced” at Clevedon school. He flew in from Orlando where he is a realtor, estate agent in English.
Yes, I do remember John Edgar. Back row forward who had a few games for Bristol, I believe? But you had 50 Welsh capper, Huw Bennet at Clevedon School, did you not?
Yes, Bill catches fish. I was a witness to him catching a 6lb salmon a few years back, admittedly he foul hooked it which means the fish had a look at his fly, rejected it but was caught by the tail when it swam away. Seumas was with him to land that one. Seumas now lives and works as an arborist in Oslo, by the way, and his sister, Rona, is teaching in Weston-Super-Mare.
Peter
Although I’ve never fished in the highlands ( assuming the Aviemore fish farm d’is nae count) your prose about the area brings fond memories of the mid-70s when I was introduced to the area. My question is “why would a fish be attracted to my artificial fly, with a gazillion midges and mossies in abundant supply?”
Good point, Bruce. Possibly ‘cos yer average West Highland Midgee hasnae had any competition before and had niver dealt with my faither’s ‘Black Pennell” or “Peter Ross’, artificial flies to be sure, but stunningly attractive. Things of beauty, no red blooded brown trout could possible resist them. And no, the Aviemore fish farm disnae count. You could drop an anchor from one of yer merchant ships in there, Bruce, and those dossers would take it. Nae competition there. And they wouldn’t taste as good as a wild fish anyway. Is there not a tear in your eye when you think back to the days spent with the West Highland Midge!!!!????
Hi Peter.
I know this area well. I lived in Hopeman for two years, whilst I taught at Aberlour and Forres.
I have driven along the A96 Elgin to Inverness road many a time. The miles always seemed longer than normal! A proper country mile!
Maybe it was the fact the road was a tarmaced farm track or just the laid back life style?
Never fished! Golf was my bag! Both share the qualities you write about. Especially the 19th hole!
I shall be heading to Hopeman in a couple of weeks time. Visiting friends and relaxing.
As I travel along the A96, stuck behind the tractor and nowhere to pass. With a wry smile i will remember your fishing trips. Then i shall sit back in the seat with a sigh. “Its the Highland way of life”! Yet, it has always been that way! Sometimes we forget how to take it easier! Viva “fishing” my friend!
Martin
Have a wonderful holiday, Martin.