The Virtue of Patience
- Details
- Published on Saturday, 28 July 2012 11:54
- Written by Bruce Sandison
“It’s a wrist action. Keep your elbow tucked in . . . pause on the back cast . . . let the line straighten out behind you . . . No, not like that... stand perfectly still . . . wait a minute, I’ll get it out. Now, aim about 6 ft above the surface and drive the butt of the rod forward! That’s more like it!”
We were standing on the banks of Tweed, fishing the stretch of water above Innerleithen known as the Red Yetts. The day was warm, not too bright. There was the promise of a good evening rise. My companion had never handled a trout rod before, but as he gained confidence I introduced more complicated matters; the circular motion of the tip of the rod in the twelve-o-clock position; making line, false casting.
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a particularly promising rise towards the far bank, under the branches of a beautiful beech tree. The best fish always rise in places like that, don’t they? Muttering suitable words of encouragement to my companion, I edged downstream and made a few false casts to get the distance.
Under the beech the water swirled and I caught a glimpse of an enormous tail. I cast sideways, the rod parallel to the water. As the size 16 Greenwell sneaked in below the branches, I raised my wrist and drew back slightly. The Greenwell stopped and jerked upwards. The light breeze did the rest. Floating perfectly, the fly approached the largest trout I had covered for years. I could hardly breathe, every muscle and nerve tensed and poised for action.
Suddenly, an ear-splitting scream rent the air. My head turned, the fish rose and I struck. Too late. There was a brief turmoil on the surface and the monster was gone. That’s life. I waded back to see what had befallen my friend. He was sitting in the middle of the river, line wrapped round his neck, clutching the rod as though his very life depended upon it. Gently, I helped him to his feet. We reeled in. Attached to the first dropper was one of the smallest trout that I had ever seen.
“My! What a beauty!” he exclaimed.
Over the years I have introduced several friends and acquaintances to the gentle art. All of them have become adherents. Perhaps we have been lucky, but in most cases success was almost instant. I remember taking a Londoner out onto Derwent Reservoir on the Northumberland/Durham border. The closest he had ever come to fishing was Billingsgate Market, but with typical Cockney confidence he ignored my proffered advice, thrashing away making it impossible for anyone else to raise a rod, let alone cast.
I sat watching in speechless amazement. Flies were whistling backwards, landing with an almighty splash, and then hurtling forwards with demonic fury, crashing into the water 2 ft from the bow of the boat. As a particularly violent back-cast hit the water, a trout rose. It managed to grab the tail fly a fraction of a second before the line lashed forwards again. Why the rod didn’t break I shall never know.
With studied indifference my friend turned to face the action. The trout had set off for the horizon, jumping spectacularly on the way. He started to reel in and didn’t stop until the fish was stuck, half drowned, with its snout hard against the top ring of the rod. “What do I do now?” he asked. “Well,” I answered, “why don’t you just climb up the rod and just stab the poor thing to death?” Somehow, I managed to net the fish, a trout weighing about 1lb 8oz in weight. “There you are,” he announced lighting a cigar, “Nothing to it.”
Most anglers would agree that a lot of talking and fishing do not go well together. I remember Lew Gardner, another friend I introduced to fly-fishing. Lew was a mighty talker. A ‘media man’, he operated on the fringes of great affairs and was fond of such phrases as “£4,000-a-year-baby Maoists.” On our first visit to the waters edge he was in full flood. Loch Awe on a sunny spring day is a joy to behold, but he was too busy talking to notice. The water sparkled. There was the feeling that fish were on the move again after the long, cold winter months.
After some rudimentary guidance from me, Lew entered the water and began waving the rod about. I retreated to a safe distance. During the few pauses he took for breath I interjected hints on technique. It was so much wasted breath. I was regaled with gripping accounts of Biafra, Vietnam, what Moshe Dayan said the last time they met and so on. My attention wandered and I fell asleep in the warm sunshine.
I was awakened by a cold, wet feeling on my face and I looked up straight into the eyes of half a dozen fine trout, all in the order of 8oz to 10oz in weight. “Come on,” said Lew, “I’ve caught them all. The bar’s open.” Oh well, who knows why fish take anyway?
All things considered, I think it’s been worth it. The hours spent explaining the intricacies of the blood knot, the dangers of wading, when to strike, how much water to put in the whisky, and other essential matters. My friends all caught fish. We none of us forget that first fish, so to be able to introduce someone to this magic world is reward enough.
But, alas, as facilities for expert tuition expand and become more readily available so no doubt will the demand for my services diminish. So be it. Let those better equipped to do so carry on the good work. Perhaps then I’ll be able to really concentrate on that ever-elusive, one-for-glass-case?
Bruce Sandison is a writer and journalist and author of nine books, including the definite anglers' guide, 'The Rivers and Lochs of Scotland' which is being revised and updated prior to republishing.
He contributed to 'Trout & Salmon' for 25 years and was angling correspondent for 'The Scotsman' for 20 years. Sandison writes for the magazine 'Fly Fishing and Fly Tying' and provides a weekly angling column in the 'Aberdeen Press & Journal'.
His work, on angling, Scottish history and environmental subjects, has appeared in most UK national papers, including 'The Sunday Times', 'The Telegraph', 'The Daily Mail', 'The Herald', 'Private Eye', 'The Field' and in a number of USA publications.
Sandison has worked extensively on BBC Radio. His series 'Tales of the Loch' ran for 5 years on Radio Scotland and was also broadcast on BBC Radio 4 and on BBC World Service. His series, 'The Sporting Gentleman's Gentleman' and his programme 'The River of a Thousand Tears', about Strathnaver, established his reputation as a broadcaster.
Sandison has had extensive coverage on television. He wrote and presented two series for the BBC TV Landward programme and has given a number of interviews over the years on factory-forestry, peat extraction, wild fish conservation and fish farming.
Sandison is founding chairman of 'The Salmon Farm Protest Group', an organisation that campaigns for the removal of fish farms from Scottish coastal and freshwater lochs where disease and pollution from these farms is driving wild salmonid populations to extinction.
Bruce Sandison won 'Feature Writer of the Year' in the Highlands and Islands Press Awards in 2000 and in 2002, and was highly commended in 2005. Bruce lives near Tongue in Sutherland with his wife Ann.