The lure of the mighty salmon

the annual influx of seasonal visitors heading north pleases Philip Howard. But as the likelihood of catching a salmon falls, will they still come?

It always surprises me that so many southern friends and acquaintances ask to pop in and stay with us around August and September. I was brought up with that wise maxim of Dr Johnson’s ringing in my ears: “the noblest prospect which a Scotchman ever sees is the high road that leads him to England.” that possibly explains my mild bewilderment about the traffic moving northward. Presumably they must be coming to visit me… But, of course, I neglected to take account of the lure of the mighty salmon.

Depending on your point of view, one of the advantages of living near Carlisle is that you are a halfway destination to the Scottish Highlands. though those of you forced to navigate through the 100-mile car park between Birmingham and Preston might disagree. At the end of August last year an exhausted friend arrived, his four-wheel drive hidden under roof and boot racks, bristling with canoes, bikes, tents, poles and oars, with a trailer full of quad bikes and other paraphernalia. the inside was packed with fly rods, spinning rods, pigeon hides, at least two dogs, clothes for wet weather, clothes for dry weather and two very tired but excited 10-year-olds, who were telling me that they were going to catch their first salmon. their proud father – a Scot whose drive had taken him south but whose heart remained in the north – and I talked late into the night of the exquisite pleasure that only a parent may enjoy of introducing something they hold precious to a new generation. And the next morning they all set off, full of excitement and anticipation to continue their adventure.

So it saddened me to receive his generous thank-you letter, which began thus: “I am sorry to say, but the rest of my fortnight in Scotland was a singularly depressing experience. Of course the company was fine, the comings and goings of different friends, old and young. there were quad bikes, kayaks, high-wire ropes, plenty of food and wine. But the point of the trip was for salmon. I am unable to recall a more bleak time in the history of this most majestic of fish.”

He continued, “the days of spending hard-earned money on a gillie are gone. In two weeks I saw three fish, all resident with that trademark red colour and not a single running fresh bar of silver. those same weeks 30 years ago would have seen 30 or so fish caught but this year yielded nothing. I fear we are witnessing the slow, steady extinction of a species and no one seems empowered to do anything about it.

“Mankind is creating pressures on every fragment of its life. the threats start from its birth in the river to the moment two or three years later when it might come back to spawn in the river of its birth. the riparian owners fear the politics if they shout too loudly. the theorists attempt to explain the demise in their dozens, with each giving the perfect excuse and blaming each other – the explosion of newly protected predators such as mergansers and seals, the unchecked licence, the encroachment of fish farms, trawlers and, of course, climate change.”

But then he came to the crux of the matter. “When I asked the children to come and fish with their newly acquired 13ft salmon rods, their response was, ‘What’s the point, Dad? there are no fish!’ they are, of course, correct, and had we not learned to fish in an era of possibility, no doubt I would have felt the same. But it does beg the question. What future for the sport and, without the guardians that come with it, what future for the species?”

I cannot disagree with a word of what my friend says. But, for me, it also begs another difficult question. Why invest in a river and farm and estate with all its expense and infrastructure upkeep that might be visited a few times a year if the next generation has no interest? I wonder how many fishing owner mums and dads are facing the same, troublesome question.

My fortnight in Scotland was a depressing experience. I am unable to recall a more bleak time in the history of this most majestic fish