Tipped for success

You can own the best rods and flies that money can buy but always remember that you’re nothing without the knowledge and power of a ghillie, says Michael Wigan

On some rivers the season has closed or is closing. Anglers are booking next year’s fishing and one of the first thoughts that surges from the deeps is the ghillie. For many anglers go back to the same water not only for the likelihood of salmon, the promise of another fish in the same place, but the human presence of the ghillie.

One reason is that anglers in the throes of a mighty tussle with the king of fish expose themselves. Not to aghast passers-by, we hope, but an angler’s behaviour is not edited by the normal courtesies whilst playing fish. The ghillie sees them in the raw.

In winter ghillies communicate with fishing folk, exchanging river talk and fish gossip. It suits everyone. The ghillie is dwelling on memories, so is the angler. The other participant in the triangular emotional linkage, the salmon, is off to Greenland or Iceland, getting fatter. Maybe the angler is getting fatter too, maybe the ghillie is. The time to burn this away is down the line.

Ghillies study a new angler from the moment he appears. Every move is telltale. Covert glances check the boot of the car, the tackle-box, the rod. The best can mean the worst, ghillies well know. Good anglers can have indifferent rods, but not reels.

Flies mean almost nothing. One of the most successful ghillies in Scotland only uses one fly. His box has different sizes, in one pattern. He can even snip off the riff-raff flies and put on his own. Another star ghillie doesn’t favour dressy flies in low or bright water. Shocked anglers gape as lustrous and costly fly creations are unceremoniously sheared to wisps with scissors.

One reputed angler had a spell only using one colour. He echoed Henry Ford: ‘You can have any colour of car you like so long as it’s black.’ This individual would have caught salmon with flies which were white. No one figured why, he just did, always on black. Flies are anyway determined by fads, fashion, and the need to make sales. Most of the big fish long ago were caught on Jock Scotts. You don’t see these around much any more. But big fish are still caught.

The angler with flies festooning his hat arouses worry not confidence. The angler who says ‘God Bless’ won’t tip. If he shakes hands using both, there is nothing in either. These are ghillie truisms.

Long ago I arrived at a palatial fishing hut on the Spey around 9am. No other anglers were there. The ghillie had his feet on the table and a stiff iced drink in hand. Sensing trouble, I asked where to go. ‘Out there,’ he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Where the water is.’

But to add insult to injury, at the end of the week I told my host that I didn’t fancy tipping this ghillie. The host remonstrated: you have to or I’ll not get back. So with clenched teeth, I did, the ghillie smiling indulgently.

Ghillies like to discuss anglers, when time is passing slowly. If you want to be described as a fine game fisherman, make sure you tip well. If you want to be reputed for not being able to cast in wind, or in the cold, or anywhere anytime, tip in coins. Next time you will be told you can only reach the fish at the right angle from a place in the river described as ankle-deep, but actually with a pressing current and a mobile bottom which shifts as you shuffle. Soused anglers are a lively topic of conversation amongst ghillies. The surest guide: tip better the worse the fishing is, for tedium is toughest on the ghillie.

Even if the ghillie’s presence is truly vital, anglers should not panic if he is away for a while. As you get the gear off at the car the ghillie will materialise, with solicitous enquiry, don’t you worry.

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If you want to be described as a fine game fisherman, make sure that you tip well