the river wye goes out to sea

by stealth, in silent secrecy:

among the hills she winds and wends

and wanders by the sombre woods,

and cleaves her way in circling bends

through mountain solitudes.[1]

towards the end of march 1921 i received an invitation to fish the river wye, which, as every one knows, is famous for its heavy salmon. my own rods and tackle were in the north of scotland,[13] and there was not sufficient time to send for them. i knew that in the spring the fishing in this particular river was almost entirely by spinning with the minnow. i arrived at my destination on monday, march 28, and had five days fishing before me. there had been a good deal of rain before i arrived, and the river was both too high and too much color. the fishing on my host’s beat had so far been very disappointing. during the preceding six weeks the river had been fished almost every day by my host and one or other of his friends; but although hardly any fish had been lost, only five had been killed, all with the minnow, the largest being 29 lb. my kindly host, who is a past master of all things connected with salmon and trout fishing, fitted me up with first-class equipment. i had never used a nottingham or silex reel before, and it took me the greater part of my first day to acquire the art of throwing the minnow effectively. for the next two days i fished with the minnow from morning till night without getting a pull or seeing anything. i have been a keen fly-fisher all my life and have killed a good many salmon and many trout, and on friday morning, as the river had fallen considerably, i[14] told my host that if i might do so i should like to try the fly. he readily assented, and said that i should have one of his own fly rods, and before we started he kindly gave me several salmon flies, and said that his butler, c., who was an experienced hand at gaffing salmon, should come with me. among the flies which my host had given me was a “mar lodge” (size 4/0), and with this i fished all the morning and up to about three o’clock in the afternoon without, however, seeing or touching anything. c. said that he was afraid the day was going to be a blank again. i said that i would like to try once more a particular spot below a rock in the upper part of a pool higher up the river, which i had fished in the morning and which i thought looked a very likely place for a salmon to lie. in order to fish this pool it was necessary to use a boat. it was a beautiful afternoon and the sun was still shining. we crossed over the river at the bottom of the pool and rowed up on the other side, keeping close to the bank so as not to disturb that part of the pool which i was going to fish. c. worked the boat with great skill, and at my first cast i managed to place my fly exactly where i wished it to go below the rock. as the fly swung round with[15] the current i suddenly saw for a second a huge silvery fish in the clear, transparent water upon which the sun was shining. at the same moment the line tightened. “i have him,” i said, as the line went screeching off the reel. the fish ran straight up-stream for about ninety yards, and then leaped twice, high into the air. it was by far the largest salmon i had ever seen, clean-run and glittering like a silver coin fresh from the mint. this first danger safely passed, i gradually persuaded him to come back again. c. said, “he must be well hooked, and he’s a very big fish. that fish of 29 lb. which the major got would look quite small beside him.” for some time after this the fish moved about the pool, but made no attempt to run. he then made a violent rush of about sixty yards, and lashed about on the top of the water, once more showing himself and giving us a fair idea of his size. again i got him well under control, and for a considerable time he adopted the same tactics as before, moving slowly and steadily backwards and forwards at varying depths. i had been thinking for some time that perhaps i had been rather too easy with him, and that i had not acted on the maxim with which, i suppose, almost every salmon[16] fisher will agree, that one ought never to let a fish rest, and that a big fish may take hours to land if he is not worried enough. the line and cast had been thoroughly tested before we started, and i felt that i might depend upon them. c. told me that as soon as i had hooked my fish he had looked at his watch, and that i had now had him on for an hour and twenty minutes. this greatly astonished me, as i had not realised how the time had gone. but it was nevertheless the fact, and i felt that we must do something to stir the fish. we accordingly decided to move a little way up-stream. c. had hardly begun to move the boat with this object in view when the salmon suddenly moved, and moved to some purpose. neither i nor c. had ever seen anything in the movements of any fish to compare with the strength and rapidity of that rush. the salmon went at a terrific pace, straight up the river as hard as he could go for about 110 yards, and then leaped twice, straight up into the air, about a couple of feet above the surface of the water, broadside on, showing that he was a tremendously thick fish. at the very moment he was in the air the reel fell off the rod, and at that moment i became conscious, although, of [17]course, i had lowered the point of the rod when he leaped, that the great fish had parted company with me for ever. “he has gone,” i said, as with a sickening sense of disappointment i reeled in the slack line in the faint hope that he might still be on, having turned and come down the river again—but no, it was not to be, and the line soon came back to me, the cast having been broken about a foot from the end. c. said not a word, nor did i for a time. no mere words are appropriate on such an occasion and cannot diminish the loss of a fresh-run spring salmon, so marvellously brilliant and beautiful, and in this particular instance probably half as large again, perhaps twice as large, as the biggest fish i have ever landed during the time, now more than forty years, that i have been a salmon fisher. within a short time i started fishing again, but the day was done and we saw nothing more. after the catastrophe i found that the reel had been loose, and that the wedges used to make it fit closely to the rod had shifted and finally fallen out in consequence of the rushes made by the fish. i also learnt later on that the rod did not belong to my host, and that by a misunderstanding this rod, which happened not to have been taken[18] down, but was among the other rods ready for use, was given to me. probably, had i been warned about the reel, i could have prevented it from falling off, though whether this would have made any difference it is impossible to say, as many a good fish has broken the cast by falling back on it after jumping at the end of a long rush, and the more line there is out the more danger of losing the fish when he jumps.

in the words of one of the most experienced of fishermen, mr. horace g. hutchinson: “there is one antic that a fish may perform which may, if you are unlucky, defeat you, however quick and skilful you are—that is, if he jumps and falls back on the cast. if you do not drop the point of the rod so as to let the gut go slack when he jumps, you are nearly sure to be broken if he falls back on it. if you drop quickly enough, it is bad luck if you are broken, but it is bad luck which sometimes does befall. if much of the reel line is in water, the drop of the rod top does not communicate slackness to the cast quickly enough; the fish may come on to it when it is tolerably taut—result disaster!”

being a highlander and therefore of a superstitious race, need i emphasise the fact that the[19] day of this, the greatest, tragedy of my life as a fisherman was a friday, and that friday the 1st of april. in this connection it is worth recalling that no references to april fools’ day have been found in our earlier literature, and it seems that this country has derived the fashion from france, where april fools’ day is a very ancient institution, and where the dupe is known as “poisson d’avril.” the april fool in this story was the fisherman, not the fish. the following day, saturday, i tried to make the most of my last chance and fished all day long, but without a sign of anything. of course, there was a great discussion as to the probable weight of the fish, which had given both c. and myself several opportunities of forming some estimate on the subject. we both agreed that it could not have been less than 35 lb., and was more probably round about 40 lb. but my story has an interesting sequel. on the following monday i returned to london; and on the tuesday, when fishing the pool which was the scene of the catastrophe, my host made a discovery which i can best relate by quoting from a letter which he wrote to me on the following day.

“yesterday afternoon,” he wrote, “when[20] fishing your famous pool i found what i feel pretty sure were the mortal remains of your big fish. he had fallen a prey to an otter, which after your long fight with him is easy to understand. he lay on a rock just above the place where you hooked him, and considerably below where you parted company. a large ‘steak’ from the middle had been removed by his ultimate captor, but the head and tail portions were there. from examination of his head he had certainly been recently hooked firmly on the right side of the upper jaw. he was extremely thick, and must have been a most handsome fish of at least 35 lb. i took home two or three scales, and his age appears to have been between four and five years.”

i subsequently learnt that from its condition this fish had no doubt been killed some days before it was found, and as it seems highly likely it was the fish that had defeated me, it must somehow or other have got rid of the fly by rubbing it against the rocks, a feat which is generally believed to be by no means unusual and which in this instance would, no doubt, be rendered easier by the fact that the hook was a good-sized one, being about 2 in. long.

c., who was with my host at the time, said that[21] he also felt sure that it was the same fish. so it would appear that the victory of the great fish was after all shortlived, and that he was probably captured by a far greater fisherman than any mere mortal man—let alone my humble self.

it is a very interesting fact that in the week before that in which i was fishing, among the salmon which were killed on the neighbouring beats were three, each of which weighed slightly over 41 lb. it seems not unlikely, therefore, that my fish may have run up from the sea in the company of these splendid fish, and have been much the same weight as they were.

notwithstanding my great disappointment i heartily agree with the words of arthur hugh clough in peschiera:[2]

’t is better to have fought and lost,

than never to have fought at all.

on describing my battle to an old friend, who is himself no fisherman, but a great sportsman, [22]he replied by quoting from a writer, whose name he did not know, the following lines, which i had never heard before and the authorship of which was at that time unknown to my friend also:

upon the river’s bank serene

a fisher sat where all was green

and looked it.

he saw when light was growing dim

the fish or else the fish saw him

and hooked it.

he took with high erected comb

the fish or else the story home

and cooked it.

recording angels by his bed

weighed all that he had done or said

and booked it.[3]