We have had a late summer sporting visitation in pursuit of salmon and duck. The shooting son appeared with a friend called Ed who spoke knowledgeably about bits of Tweed, as you must call it (the "the" is dropped). He smiled nicely and made sensib
le conversation and appeared to be trying to build a wind farm for a client in Wales, confirming my suspicions that wind farming is good money if you can get it – £10,000 a year rent per turbine in some cases, but don't expect the neighbours to talk to you ever again.
The pair drove through the night from the south in the middle of the week and by 11am the following morning were on the river, having fried the best part of half a pig and shovelled it into bacon butties.
I do admire such dedication. When the river is free and available ten minutes down the road, it is very easy not to bother when you live here all the time. There had been rain, but not too much and the barometer sort of hovered around the "Rain" mark but never quite made it, and it was warmish.
It was that sort of weather they call "fishy". There is no need for heavy wet-weather gear; you can stand in the river in a shirt and maybe a fleece in a light breeze and put up with the odd shower. And there are quite clearly fish in the river; not because someone says they have seen some but because you have seen them yourself.
They go splosh or silently "top and tail", their humped backs breaking the surface like dolphins, and then gone. The first fish was what I think we call a stonker, a cock of 13lbs, clean and silvery and terrifically deep, almost tuna-like.
And it was caught by Ed on a Cascade, which is the fly that seems to catch the majority of fish these days, mainly because if everyone uses the same fly then that is the one that is likely to be responsible for catching the most fish.
At the end of the day a red 4lb grilse came out and was put back. The following day was partially ruined by the opposite bank where they were spinning, stirring up the one good pool for hours on end, probably in desperation as they had been fishing for a week and caught one fish.
We are inclined to be rather snobbish about the other bank as they have what might easily pass for a small Swiss chalet, rather than our rustic and run-down shelter with rats under the floorboards living off the remains of old barbecues.
The difference is that the other side is a commercial operation and our side is a bit of fishing that occasionally gets let but is offered by one of my many cousins to friends and family.
The third day, the water hovered not too high and not too low, and the other side had gone. The boys flung out long and lazy lines so perfectly pitched and placed it made you want to be a hungry fish.
But nothing. The fish were there, the weather was there, the water was there, the skill was there.
And they had put in six hours a day for three days. So we went duck flighting instead, which I'll tell you all about another time.
The full article contains 574 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
