To me, fly fishing is about more than the numbers or sizes of fish I have caught. I recently made my yearly trip to the Deveron in Scotland with my wife, Emma, against a background of low water and low catches of salmon
On the last leg of our journey, as we head into Scotland, Emma and I keep half an eye out for other anglers heading north, also in search of salmon. It isn’t always clear but we’ll look for the tell-tale sign of a net on show in the boot of a car or 4x4.
We both said at almost the same time that it seemed as though the numbers were lower than in recent years, perhaps put off by the lack of water that has been a feature for many of the rivers of the UK this year.
We talked about this a bit and came to the conclusion that we were on a fishing holiday and it really didn’t matter if we caught any fish.
We were in no rush and so decided to drive over the top and through the Cairngorms. As we drove we craned our necks to see what, at first, were little babbling streams slowly grow in size to well-known rivers like the Dee and Don. We drove past some mouth-watering trout water near the ski centre that made us pull over, stop and take a look. It was heartbreakingly beautiful. I hadn’t packed any trout gear as this is a salmon trip and so it was just the double handers in the boot of the car.
After passing the Deveron for the first time we got an idea of just how low it was. I’d been watching the webcam for a week or so and knew it was low but seeing it for real really drives it home. Still, we are on a fishing holiday and it didn’t matter if we caught any fish.
The fishing wasn’t easy but the masochist in me likes this. At the end of the day we would compare notes and share in the sights we had seen. It might have been a large resident salmon making a territorial leap or the young osprey learning to fish and crashing into a pool and leaving the water fishless while its parents flew overhead proudly displaying the small sea trout they had just taken. No doubt the young osprey will eventually hone its fishing and become as skilled as its parents. It has to, simply to survive.
A young otter ran down the bank beside me and took to the water just a short distance downstream. I stopped fishing for I don’t know how long and just watched. If we had decided the water was too low and not made the long trip we would have missed all of these moments. It isn’t about the catching it is so much more.
I sat, made some tea from the flask and watched Emma work her way down the pool. It was towards the end of the day and I hadn’t noticed the small crowd of people watching her spey casts elegantly deliver her fly to its target and then watch her vary the way her fly was fishing. Sometimes short, little jabs of the fly line, sometimes a dead drift and sometimes a gentle figure of eight.
Just watching this was a pleasure. Emma prefers spey casting a double handed rod to the single handers we usually fish back home and there wasn’t even the slightest hint of rust as another needle shaped loop headed out.
We looked up and it was our last day of the week. There had been occasions when I had to drag Emma off of the water but we left every day knowing we had done what had needed to be done. We ate well each evening and slept the sleep of tired, content anglers. It was a fishing holiday and it didn’t matter if we caught any fish.
The drive back to the South West was a lot quicker than we had planned. The traffic played ball and we had plenty of time to discuss the trip. The drop in temperature and just the very slightest rise in the water level had brought some fresh fish into the river and had also stirred some residents. Emma had led the way with a fish on Tuesday and a spanking fresh, sea liced fish on the Thursday too. I brought up the rear with fish on Thursday and one on Friday too. You know what? It didn’t really matter. We were on a fishing holiday and it didn’t matter if we caught fish.