Many of us have been there: the brief connection between angler and the fish of a lifetime comes to a premature end. Donny Donovan shares one such experience.
You know it’s bad when you’re trying to punch yourself in the mouth. It’s a giveaway – one’s esteem is not high and the only honourable course of action is self inflicted pain. Some sulk, others adopt a stiff upper lip and try and forget anything bad that has happened - immediately erasing it from their memory. Keep calm and carry on. I fleetingly thought of that as I caught myself another left hook just above my ear and if I was capable of kneeing myself in the bollocks, I would have done so.
I cannot think of anything like it, complete and utter loss. It’s also the guilt of feeling so bad over something ultimately so trivial that most people could not possibly understand, or rightly so have one iota of pity for. I kept thinking to myself, she’s right, God damn I thought, my wife was right – salmon fishermen really are all spoilt tosspots who constantly crave unworthy sympathy.
My knees felt weak as another long, pathetic moan emptied from the pit of my stomach. The fish was lost. The rod was still in the raised position with the tip wobbling in the evening breeze and my hands ached for the resistance that I knew was gone forever. All the sprung tension had suddenly, immediately stopped and what seconds before had been a singing, tugging line that Eric Clapton could have played a tune on drifted loosely downstream in catastrophic failure. There I stood like an embarrassed porn star all limp and flaccid. My magical connection through numbing arms, bowed rod and cheese wire line to something mystical in the depths on the far side of the river was gone. I felt so, so cheated. Self pity and disbelief started again and another embarrassing moan echoed around the banks of the Tweed.
I glanced up at the magnificent Coldstream Bridge and wondered what a non fishing onlooker would possibly make of my child like behaviour. They’d be forgiven for thinking that maybe my fishing partner had been swept away or perhaps my wallet containing a thousand pounds had fallen from my pocket. Perhaps even a panicked phone call to the emergency services; “There’s a poor, desperate man in the river moaning and screaming. He needs help; he looks to be in terrible pain and also appears to be self harming – punching himself in the face!” Perhaps a sympathetic fly fishing operator could have eased the poor fellows worry with a reply of; “Not to worry Sir, sounds to me like he’s a self pitying fly fisherman who’s just lost what he thinks was the mother of all salmon.”
The fly fishing operator would also understand that there is always a greater fascination with lost fish than there ever is with landed monsters or big bags of salmon. It’s the ones that get away that hold our attention, the ones we don’t see, the ones that we can turn into something they probably weren’t.
As I trudged back along the bank in the darkness towards the fishing hut, I was kicking through the water and dragging the rod like a badly behaved Jack Russell – it was after all, the rod's fault.
It was the last week in September on the Tweed at Lennel about seventy five yards downstream of the Coldstream bridge on a beautiful run known as “The Stream.” A salmon fisher's paradise and I knew how privileged I was to be there.
It was all fantastically surreal, especially the early autumn weather – bright sunshine and eighty two degrees. I burnt my arms and neck. The only other person ever to be burnt in Coldstream during September was about five hundred years ago and she had long white hair with a pointy black hat on and was tied to a stake. We both probably felt a bit unlucky and we were probably doing about the same amount of cursing, albeit it cost her her life and she was unfortunately burnt a bit more than I was.
I suppose it was a fairly typical day’s salmon fishing in bright sunshine and extreme temperatures and I hadn’t had so much as a touch all day. I’d fished bloody hard too and I could feel the pain in my lower back and knew I’d be sore in the morning. Still, I thought, a few pints of Guinness, hot bath, comfy bed and like all fanatical salmon fishermen I’d be ready to do it all again tomorrow. The ghillies had long gone home knowing all too well the pointless nature of chasing salmon in a heat wave and me and my fishing mate John Hackney were left to act the part of desperate, nothing better to do sad blokes and fished on into the evening. It’s called an addiction.
It was about seven o’clock and just beginning to get dark. The Coldstream Bridge was lit up and looming large in the background as I fished through the stream pool one final time – at least the fifth final time that evening. I’d changed back to an inch and a half copper Posh Tosh, my favourite fly and as it swung across the river I had the same sense of great expectation. Like I say....addiction, or as my wife calls it...acting like a sad tosspot. One more cast, not quite straightened out so one more. Ok, really the last cast and as the fly came around on the swing I left it on the dangle and slowly teased it back towards me with a figure of eight motion just as I’d done a thousand times before that day. Then the bolt of electricity as the glorious tug comes in response and I subconsciously slip into that sensation of not really knowing if I’m dreaming or not. There always seems to be a silent stop to everything around and I hold my breath before the rod starts its heavy tugging and the line starts to run away. The reel begins to whizz and you hang on praying for your connection with the unknown to continue.
I’ve salmon fished for many years and whilst no doubt exaggerating a lot, I’ve caught salmon from 3lb grilse to 26lb torpedo springers. With all those captures not once had I ever seen my backing. Being a river keeper and supposed semi-experienced fly fisher I always play the fish hard and try to land them as quickly as is safely possible so have never given too much line. This one was different, very different and as the reel emptied with alarming speed I couldn’t help but think of what knot I’d used to attach fly line to backing and when, if ever, I’d checked it. As the join in question rattled through the tip ring and the lime green backing screamed after the fly line, I decided now was probably not the best time to worry about it. After a few minutes of this never ending shedding of backing I also began to question exactly how much was left on the reel. That’s when I began to walk downstream after the fish and eventually broke into something of a trot trying to gain a bit of line as I went. This was a big fish. Foul hooked? Possibly but I don’t think so and what with a take on the dangle, the head shaking and me being the big salmon romantic anyway - no way, this was a monster big fish who was trying to tow me back to the North Sea and there was no way I had eight miles of backing on. I tightened the drag to maximum, wiped the sweat from my brow and began to run after it like that Mr. Bolt bloke from Jamaica.
After twenty minutes of stumbling and slipping onto my knees, cursing and splashing I began to regain some kind of control and saw the dreaded backing/fly line knot coming out of the river towards the tip ring. The knot made an impossibly big clunk as it made its way through the eyes and back towards the safety of the reel and once there I began to slowly breathe again. That was the hard part done and I remember thinking to myself there’s no way this backing’s coming out again tonight. I held the fish so hard that with every tug I felt a pain between my aching shoulder blades and the line began to cut upstream as I wound in the slack. I could see the fish wallowing on the far side of the river, still the full fly line length away and I was stood almost opposite to it as the line still edged its way upstream as I wound in. There was now an upstream “v” between me and the fish and the realisation set in that a Ford Escort sized boulder had come between us.
Ask any salmon fisherman and they will tell you that if you close your eyes and hold your breath you can hear your fly line slowly scraping across a boulder albeit thirty yards away and under ten feet of water. You can feel every little bump and graze and it sets your teeth on edge as you pray for a gentle release. The pain and lingering tension is such that you’d just as well be rubbing your bared arse cheeks, or any other body part close to genitalia, on that same boulder which being a salmon fisherman, your pessimism has turned into a rusty, razor sharp cheese grater.
When the inevitable happened and me and the fish parted company as the leader very pathetically gave in, I wished for that same kitchen implement and could quite easily have grated my dick away to absolutely nothing. Even the thought brought about another punch in the mouth.
As I got closer to the fishing lodge next to the Coldstream Bridge I could see that the light was on and that John was inside kicking his waders off. I opened the door fully expecting at the very least an understanding shoulder to cry on and perhaps a consoling hug or two. As it was, two minutes into the story and just as I was going to elaborate on that first electrifying run into the backing I was stopped in my pitiful tracks by my fishing mates raised hand.
“Hooked up the arse ten pounder Donny. Win some lose some mate. Get over it and stick the kettle on.”
That’s why I love my fishing mates, especially John and Paul. They let me down quickly.
As a footnote to this story I was toying with the idea of a different title but thought “Up the arse in Coldstream” might have led to misunderstanding and if lucky enough to be invited again, an awkward return to Lennel and the magnificent Tweed.
Donny Donovan has an excellent book published about his life as a river keeper on the Test. More details here