In the pink on the Laxford
Our fishing correspondent and his father-in-law, The Doctor, enjoy red-letter days and quaff Pink Snapper cocktails in Sutherland
The Prof and The Doctor go in search of birthday salmon
THE trout don’t rise in Greenwood Cemetery,’ observed that American angling sage Sparse Grey Hackle, urging us to fish every day we can. However, a burn runs through The Doctor’s clan burial site near Glenurquhart and, when we visited last month, there were several brownies there rising away contentedly. Thence we drove to the Falls of Shin and it seemed to be thronging with salmon. I took these as auspicious signs, as we headed out west for two precious days together on the beguiling River Laxford.
There had been a welcome downpour over the weekend and the water was just at ‘fishing level’ on the gauge. Things looked promising, but this was salmon fishing, remember. All that Monday, we worked the various pools and it was nice to see fish about after a lean season last year. In my favourite gorgey run above Duke’s, I moved four fish that swerved and glanced at my miniature conehead Sunray, but only one briefly touched it.
Osprey-eyed gillie John spotted several more flashing deep in the pots, which he reckoned were fresh fish ridding themselves of sea lice. I had the impression they were running hard.
One goes to the riverbank partly to avoid routine pressures, however, I was aware that the meter was running on our mission to get The Doctor attached to a salmonid. Tuesday brought a blustery smirr and a falling water. Backing up the walkway on fabled Top pool, my fast-stripped fly was engulfed and I landed a ninepounder, bluish chrome from the ocean; in triumph, I waved at my father-in-law, but I confess I have seen him look happier.
I proffered him my rod and saw him eye, with Presbyterian disdain, the fancy Bogdan reel. A few casts later, he too was taken below the rowan tree, but the fish threw the iron. I thought ‘that’s our chance gone’, but he pressed on, without even turning round, and then—zowee! A proper fight was on.
For 15 anxious minutes, both contestants struggled grimly, with just the Satchmo growl of the pirn to reassure us. John slid me the net and I tiptoed into the current, finally hoisting a fine, tide-liced cock fish. ‘Nine and a half,’ proclaimed The Doctor instantly. He turns 87 this year and I have seldom seen him look happier. We celebrated with photographer Glyn Satterley’s special cocktail the Pink Snapper (rhubarb-and-ginger liqueur with Prosecco). Mission accomplished.
After The Doctor left, our party continued to pick away at the run of fish, but they just were not settled. I stuck to my Sunray tactics on a single-hander, which is easier to retrieve and helps pitch your lure tight into the crannies of the far bank (although I also hooked a lot of muckle rockfish). Every day, I had the thrill of fish surging off their lies, sometimes repeatedly, but we were starting to run out of water. Then, Mrs Reel Life arrived and the heavens opened.
One of the more wondrous sounds in the known universe is the vigorous bustle of a burn spating through the lodge gardens. By mid morning, the river was rising (you could see new foam lines slinking down the current) and I managed a small grilse from Dudley’s.
Despite wielding my 13-footer with admirable persistence—and enduring a sodden trek, in unfamiliar waders, through the beetlebrowed crags of the numinous Gorge—mrs RL did not trouble the scorer. I had now averaged a fish a day; if that kept up throughout the salmon season, one sure would be Mister Happy.
Piscatorial lore asserts that salmon will seldom take on a quickly rising water, yet, like many fishing theories, however thinly you slice it, it’s still baloney. During Saturday, the river went up 9in, but everything somehow came together. I moved numerous fish and actually hooked nine, of which five were landed—including a large summer salmon at 14lb that three times launched itself at my Sunray Shadow.
As a finale, we grassed a 10lb hen from the high-water Cottage pool, on a trusty Red Frances. ‘It’s beginning to look like the old Laxford,’ murmured Robert the gillie, approvingly.
Thus ended one of the most eventful and thrilling week’s sport I’ve enjoyed in many years. I have surely used up a decade’s worth of good luck. The only drawback is that The Doctor is wanting a Bogdan for his birthday.
David Profumo caught his first fish at the age of five. A novelist and biographer, he lives up a glen in Perthshire with his new cocker puppy, Pompey