FISHING IS GREAT LEVELLER... IF I EVER MET THE KING, WE'D TALK TACTICS

It’s the lap of the loch’s water on mossy rocks. The plaint of the oystercatcher in the evening, as the sky blazes from blue through azure to copper and gold. The whirr of the reel as you cast – and its joyous, unwinding song as, out there in the depths, something bites.

For the first time in years, I hope in a day or two to go fishing. I am eyeing rods; checking out tackle; thinking of this babbling burn or that promising lochan – ideally, somewhere holding out hope not just of fat brown trout but, early in the season as it is, their still more interesting silver kindred.

I like the mindfulness of the practicalities. The tying, in immaculate blood-knots, of backing to line and line to leader and leader to hook or fly.

I enjoy the hunter-gatherness of the expedition; bringing home, by calculation and skill, food for the table.

For angling, to me, is a sport and not a game. A conscious, canny hunt for an acutely intelligent adversary: your big old trout does not get big and old by being stupid.

You dress in browns and greens, keep your hand out of the water and boots clear of skittering pebbles – and never, for a moment, let your shadow fall on the surface or be silhouetted against the sky.

And the pursuit of fish is hardwired into me. All my great-grandfathers were crofter-fishermen. Most of my best memories of my late father involve evenings, just the two of us, by some soft loch.

We are, too, on the Isle of Lewis, superbly placed for fishing. Its Old Norse name, Ljodus, means ‘a place abounding in pools’.

There are hundreds and hundreds of freshwater lochs; dozens and dozens of little spate rivers – waters of astonishing purity, and almost all to be fished for free.

Almost the longest-possessed of all my books is Begin Fishing With Uncle Bill, by the late and gruff W E Davies – a warm, wry classic which Daddy gave me back in 1975 and before I had mastered joined-up handwriting.

Not that I am a purist. I still take deep, childlike pleasure in perching on some boulder and watching a float.

There are certain lochs, too, on Lewis and Harris where little Mepps spinners, birling back from the depths in a flutter of copper or gold, can be gratifyingly productive – though the incessant chuck-and-reel becomes boring after a bit, and it’s inevitable that, in the course of your expedition, you will lose a spoon or two to snagging.

After heavy summer rain, too, there is great fun to be had by downstream worming, using a fly rod and floating line.

Unless I start catching salmon smolts – in which case, one nobly reverts to the fly – or I find myself in one of those odd spots infested with eels.

Which invariably have to be killed, are locally thought too unclean for eating, and cover everything in slime.

Including you.

There are odd lochs, especially on the west side, where the sea enjoys some ingress at high spring tides and where you are as apt to catch a flounder as a trout.

And there are seasonal hazards. At this time of year, especially in bright sunshine, clegs are a pest; come August, and the midgies must enter your calculations.

I live with two odd glass ceilings. Though I have caught many fine trout, the biggest have never exceeded 2lb 2oz.

Though larger fish are out there and, oddly, many have been caught by quite small boys – a few years back, some wee Lewis gribban landed a five-pounder.

And a salmon has to date eluded me, much as the Wimbledon singles title remained just beyond the reach of Rosewall, Lendl and Roddick.

I did once, 30 years ago, foul-hook a dead one in some Harris stream I deem it good and expedient not to name.

The fish was fresh run, still bore sea lice and the gills bled when I cut them – and my parents subsequently assured me it was delicious eating. But I suspect the beast saw me coming, and died laughing.

Sea trout, in my experience, are much easier to hook but a lot harder to land.

There is also a maddening paradox. You have to ‘strike’ immediately when a sea trout takes your lure, but leave a salmon to turn around, and away, and thereby hook itself. Problem, though, is at the given instant you have not the least idea which species has just dropped in for supper.

Hook either, and in short order you will know about it – though a salmon is apt to ‘sulk’, tucking itself under the bank and hoping its little local difficulty will go away, whereas your sea trout will fight for its life.

I’m still haunted by the memory of one silvered beauty, back in July 1993, which I somehow caught on a Toby spoon.

The fish sprang to the surface and ‘tailwalked’, going boing-boing-boing on successive leaps, until the lure fell free. And I sometimes still think he gave me a wink in the passing.

There are places on Lewis where, for a modest fee, you can fish with serious prospects for salmon and sea trout.

But, with one exception, these clubs or estates all insist on catch-and-release.

I don’t in the least object to a bag limit – one salmon in an evening, and I would retire happily – but I think, if a fish has been played to exhaustion and landed, it is kindest to kill it; and putting a dozen or more through that seems to me reprehensible. (The little club one carries for the purpose, by the way, is universally known as a priest – because it gives your prey the last rites.)

Fishing is a great leveller. If ever I met the King, I would not feel comfortable asking for recollections of his mother or bringing up anything remotely controversial, but I am confident he would gladly talk tactics for salmon.

Indeed, his late and adored Granny was an accomplished angler: the Queen Mum waded the Dee chest-deep into her eighties.

As for cooking your catch, almost all our cheffy cookbooks insist on pointlessly gussying everything up.

The fish should be left overnight on a white plate, under a damp white cloth, in the fridge – it improves their appearance, and the lactic acid generated in their death-struggle will dissipate.

And then dealt with very simply. Little trout are best rolled in seasoned oatmeal and fried in butter.

And, as Nigel Slater properly points out, an elaborate court bouillon for poaching is a waste of time.

Drop your salmon steaks into cold, well-salted water, bring the pan just to the boil, and let the fish cool in the covered pan overnight.

But wilder waters beckon – and it is time for tight lines.

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2024-05-08T22:38:45Z dg43tfdfdgfd