Breaking the ice

On a once-in-a-lifetime fishing trip to Iceland, the Editor and the Judge compete to catch the king of fish on the River Fjótaá

Mark Hedges tries to catch the king of fish on Iceland’s River Fjótaá

In the past decade, four polar bears have floated on icebergs from Greenland and swum the last 200 miles or so to touch land in the fjord where we were staying.

The rim of the Arctic Circle is just 35 miles from Deplar Farm, originally a sheep hut on the northern tip of Iceland, but now one of the world’s most remote luxury lodges. Iceland, a mere three hours from the human tide of Heathrow, is the land that time forgot. The language is largely Old norse, the landscape sculpted by fire and ice.

From the moment I walked into Deplar, I knew I’d be at home. Stuffed local birds adorned the walls of the dining room and naming them provided the first of several competitions between me and the Judge. Having taken an early lead with the whimbrel, My Lord trumped me with a merlin and an Arctic skua. One nil to the judiciary.

Each spring, Deplar is home to some of the world’s outstanding heli-skiing, but we were there for the charms of the Atlantic salmon, the king of fish. After an outstanding dinner, I woke to bright skies and, following breakfast, we fished on the lake below the lodge with Griff, who had chosen to swap Snowdonia for a quieter place.

The real fishing began on the River Fjótaá after lunch—all the fishing equipment can be provided to ease your way through customs—and we were introduced to our guides. I made my way down to beat two and began flicking out a line. Surely, here of all places, I could break a four-year drought—including several weeks of fishing in Scotland and Ireland—since catching my last salmon?

The water looked promising in the first pool, but, after changing fly several times, we moved on. The clouds above bruised, turned black and eventually decided to rain.

I was using a little six-weight singlehanded rod and my Sunray Shadow fly was skating nicely across the surface, when, suddenly, there was a lunge and a boil. I held my breath and cast again. nothing. Again I cast and, as the fly swung round, my rod lurched forward in my hands. Twenty minutes later, having released a 7lb grilse, my shaking hands were hardly able to light my

celebratory cigar. We rang upstream to announce the news—the Judge was still blank and journalism was back in business.

By the end of the day, we’d both caught a fish—a relief for both sides—so we retreated to the bar to celebrate. With just 13 rooms at Deplar Farm, there are easily more staff than guests, which meant that our glasses were readily replenished, snacks brought and dinner served promptly. Even at 1.30am, although the sun had briefly set, it was still light enough to see down the glacial valley through the gloaming. We toasted Iceland before the Judge called order.

It was an early start the following day— fishing in Iceland runs from 7am until 1pm and then 4pm until 10pm. The Fjótaá is a short river with just four beats and fished for a mere 90 days a year. By the time we arrived in mid August, most of the fish were already in the upper beats.

The Judge has an eccentric taste in salmon flies, often foregoing all known wisdom, and his greatest fish was landed several years ago on what could only be described as a Hairy Tangerine, which continues to work for him.

We also adopted different tactics to beat the insects, with his team nattily dressed under a mesh net, as my gillie and I powersmoked through some of Cuba’s finest. The cigars were far more successful, but, despite owning a forehead that made him look as if he had measles—his wig would have been a better defence—the Judge landed a sparkling fresh-run fish on beat three.

I didn’t care. The difference between catching one fish and none is the size of the universe, the difference between one and two almost inconsequential—or so I explained to him over claret at the dinner table. For once in his life, he was too happy to argue.

He was less successful in enjoying a stint in the floatation tank, lasting just a few minutes, but after we’d been in the steam room, sauna and plunge pool, we were ready for day three and decided to take it in turns on the prime top beat.

After a quiet hour, we changed tactics and were soon regularly catching Arctic char up to 1lb, every third or fourth cast. These beautiful fish, with a smear of lipstick on their bellies, are tigers, bending the rod violently for a few minutes. The salmon sulked somewhere else beneath the ripples and creases, but we barely cared. Euphoria was close to setting in.

Later, we drove to nearby Dalvik, scene of the Great Fish Day held the previous Saturday, at which 30,000 people (almost 10% of the entire Icelandic population) descend on this little fishing village to be welcomed into the locals’ homes to try a variety of free fish recipes, to promote their industry. An idea for Grimsby, perhaps?

However, we were there for something bigger: the humpback whale. After fizzing across the fjord, a whoop announced that a whale had been spotted. It turned out to be a pod of three and we were soon soaked by spray from their blowholes, as they leisurely went about the process of consuming the one ton of krill they need each day, spending four minutes feeding and four minutes breathing. The Judge was overwhelmed, describing it as one of the most humbling sights of his life.

Back at Deplar, I won the clay-pigeon shoot, before we swam in the beautiful steaming outdoor pool, complete with bar. It called for dry martinis.

On our last night, other guests were busily extending their holiday at Deplar, but we had to leave. When we totted up the scores, which the former barrister insisted should include table tennis, pool and table football, the Judge was triumphant, but the winner was Deplar Farm itself.

‘The difference between one fish and none is the size of the universe