Lot’s of my pals and acquaintances imagine that I spend the long, weary winter days and nights tying swarms of flies. I’m not slow in setting them right.

I almost never tie flies in the wintertime. Okay, I rattle a few together for magazine articles, and do the odd, occasional demonstration, but I never tie out of inspiration or desire. I’m at a distance too far removed from fish or fishing to consider that much of value come of it.

The days before an important match or a trip to far-flung places I tie like a demented fool, and inspiration sleets through my mind like meteors through space. During the warm days of summer, ideas pop up like mushrooms and I can happily spend hours at the vice, putting form to fantasy.

You see, I’m not really a fly-producing assembly line; if I tie three of any pattern then I move on to something else. Three is my number – one on the cast, one in the box, and one for my mate (if it’s working). If I lose one – and I rarely do – then I can soon rattle up another three. I am really a pattern devisor. I believe that there is nothing which can’t be improved on. Nine times out of ten such foolishness is unproductive, but then there is that one time ………..

The Doobry

Most people get there inspiration from magazines, other people’s fly boxes or hurried chats in the car park. Mine seem to come out of nowhere. I can be lying in bed of an evening and, as sleep slips up on me, a material or colour combination can suddenly materialise in my head, and there’s nothing for it but to postpone sleep and stagger through to the vice. That’s how the Doobry came about. I was trying to work out why I wasn’t doing so well on a loch in Orkney when others were caning fish on Zulus and Dunkelds. Just as I was about to ‘drop off’ an image formed in my mind of a red tailed, gold bodied, black palmered fly with a mixed hackle of orange and black. I could see it, fully formed in my mind’s eye, and that was, as they say, that!

The Result!

Every man to his own, so if your idea of a perfect holiday is to sit hunched over a vice tying hundreds of Diawl Bachs, get in there. Oh, and send me a dozen, ‘cause I can’t be bothered.

Wishing you all a very happy, fishy New Year.

Stan

When the romcom movie Salmon Fishing In The Yemen hit the big screen this spring, we received a welcome flurry of interest from novice female fly-fishers. We called it the Yemen Effect. Possibly Ewan McGregor had something to do with it.

This was a good sign, as the more people of different ages, backgrounds, genders and walks of life, take up our sport, the more enriched we’ll all be.

Whilst there are many women who excel at fly-fishing, with thriving ladies’ clubs and teams, it is still largely the preserve of us menfolk.

This makes the achievement of Kate Pelham-Burn even more admirable.  Last week, Kate was declared runner-up to Jim Reid, in the the coveted Savills Malloch Trophy – Scotland’s most prestigious angling award – for the largest salmon caught on the fly and safely returned during the year in Scottish waters.  Her monster salmon, caught in the Home pool on the River Shin with a Frances Orange Conehead on a Mackenzie15 ft DTX G2 Rod, was calculated at a whopping 40 lb.

Taking a fish of this magnitude from a wee Sutherland river, speaks volumes.

It’s here that I must reveal my hand. Kate P-B is a dear friend, we’ve fished on the Carron, the Ewe, and the Shin countless times together. We’ve partied together, we’ve talked nonsense together and we’ve shot together (annoyingly, she’s no slouch in that department either).

So, i can vouch that this was no fluke.  With a car boot that looks like she’s ram-raided Sportfish and a fly for absolutely every occasion, her commitment to the cause is unwavering.  She consistently outfishes most mere mortals. Let alone chancers like myself.

Kate with her monster salmon on the Shin

If that isn’t enough, this Aberdeenshire born and bred jeweller, crafted the diamond oakleaf and acorn earrings worn by Kate Middleton when she married Prince William last year.  (www.robinsonpelham.com if you’re looking for a last minute Christmas prezzie. Commoner’s options available.)
Whilst I digress slightly, my point is that we simply don’t see enough ladies on the riverbank.  In my experience, those I have encountered, including my better half, punch above their weight.  Some call it pheremones, I call it patience.

And of course, let’s not forget that the record for the biggest rod caught salmon in the UK goes to Georgina Ballantine for her 64 pounder landed on the River Tay back in 1922.

The British record salmon of 64lbs was caught on the Tay by Miss Georgina Ballantine in 1922

Kate, and other fishing ladies out there, you know what needs to be done….

From myself, Greig and the team, we would like to wish you and your families a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year when it comes.

All the best,

Will

P.S. Next blog, look out for some fishy words from our top trout man Stan Headley.

There’s no shortage of Scottish salmon fishing stories grabbing the headlines at present.

For the time being, I’ll lay off the latest ludicrous complaint by Dr Martin Jaffa, made through his fish-farming consultancy Callander McDowell, calling for an end to recreational angling of spring salmon to help preserve declining stocks.

As Hugh Campbell Adamson, chairman of the Salmon and Trout Association Scotland, said: “It is extraordinary that Callander McDowell, a cheerleader for the salmon farming industry, is now advocating that salmon angling should be curtailed. This complaint is no more than a smokescreen to divert attention away from the damage done to wild salmon stocks in the salmon farming areas of the west Highlands and Islands.”

Early season salmon fishing at the Linn Pool on the Taymount beat on the River Tay

Moving on swiftly, I’m here to talk about another heated but now resolved issue: the debate between rafters and fishers on the river Tay.

This is a long-running feud triggered in recent years by the increase of ”disruptive” commercial rafts, especially on the upper Tay around Aberfeldy.

You can imagine the scene: a serene spot of the river, you’ve risen a salmon twice, the adrenaline is up, you smile as you accurately flick the line out to the sweet spot, when lo and behold, a team of leery stag-weekenders appear round the corner, churning up the water, neatly putting paid to any chance whatsoever of catching anything for a wee while.

I can see both sides of the coin. Whilst it’s mighty frustrating for owners of the beats not to maximise catches, and protect their centuries old fishing rights, tourism is essential to highland Perthshire, and local operators are keen to cash in on the rise in adventure sports, such as kayaking and white water rafting.

A full legal hearing has been cancelled, after an 11th hour deal was reached out-of-court last week.

Rafting on the Tay near Stanley

The upshot is that that the rafters have agreed not to take their vessels out on Monday, Tuesday (and Wednesday up to 1.30) during the season.

As fishing folk, this still isn’t ideal, but at least all parties know where they stand.  Or sit.

Until next time

Greig.

PS.  And I still can’t help chuckling at the acronym for one of our main freshwater conservation bodies – Rivers And Fisheries Trust Scotland.

Richard was a genuine free-spirit.

A vet by trade and a bohemian by nature, he entered my life at the age of ten.

Two years later he was my stepfather.

Three years later he had a fly rod in my hand.

So, it’s thanks to this animal loving, madcap, maverick that I came to appreciate and enjoy this noblest of sports.

Always on the breadline, fractionally ahead of the bailiffs, Richard managed to pull off a roguish glamour. He lived for his annual fishing expeditions to New Zealand and British Columbia.

Rascal that he was, I daresay he had a girl in every port, but he most certainly kept a Harley-Davidson in both countries. Untaxed and uninsured, he’d roar off in to the wilderness with his rucksack, tent, Hardy Smuggler and assorted clobber.

Weeks later, he’d return misty-eyed with stories of his exploits. Sadly, I don’t recall the rivers or exact locations, but I do remember tales of being dropped into deep, deep BC by helicopter before floating off down some torrent of a river in an inflated inner tube hunting down the mighty Steelhead.

And I’m sure memory serves me right when I proudly tell you that he was once cover boy for Trout and Salmon, writing up his Canadian adventures.

We lived in mid-Wales at the time, and I cut my teeth – with limited success, I hasten to add – on the Usk and the Wye.

The local publican in Hay-On-Wye owned a stretch of the river and recognising the glint in our eyes, was happy to slip us a half-day or two.

Richard died last year.

Seventy-something, he was in the back and beyond of California at the time, exploring and fishing. He’d substituted two wheels for four, but true to form he was on a solo mission with camera, rod, and bags of exuberance.

So this post is really to acknowledge those who instilled this passion in us, who patiently nurtured and guided us, and to whom we are all eternally grateful.

You’ll all have your own Richards, but to my very own: I salute you, sir.

Richard holding a BC Steelhead

Until next time,

Will