THE FIELD FROM THE ARCHIVES

The 64-pounder of Glendelvine: the record salmon to a lady’s rod. Taken from The Field, 11 April 1931

Through the courtesy of Sir Alex P Lyle, Bt (‘the Laird’), we have been able to obtain this first-hand account from Miss Ballantine, who wrote it at his request. “Are you there? Hurry up, you will have to fill in a vacancy today.”

As I raced up the riverbank to join the boat how I blessed the Laird for having a headache! A whole day’s fishing, a glorious, sunny autumn day – how I rejoiced to be alive. But such feelings only an angler can understand. To some the uncertainty of fishing constitutes its chief attraction; to others, the fascination lies in the solitude of the surroundings, the songs of the birds and the enchantment of running water.

And what of the boatmen? A good deal of the angler’s success – or failure – depends on the efficiency of the men at the oars. The oarsman that day was one of the finest anglers who ever cast a salmon line on the waters of the mighty Tay – my father. In addition to him was Melvin, who is blind of an eye and takes size nine in boots.

THE EVENING’S SURPRISE

At teatime we returned home with three salmon, and as fishing days were nearing an end we decided to continue till dusk. Father and I refreshed ourselves with tea, and leisurely towed the boat to the top of the Boat Pool, a favourite haunt, where the stream is rapid and the current broken.

As is customary when harling, two rods were used: the fly Wilkinson on the right and the dace, which I plied, on left. We swung out as the October sun hung low over Birnam Hill, and a few turns at the top brought no result. As the last rays of the great crimson ball shone direct in the eyes of the fish there came a draw upon the line that I was plying, a sharp strike, and the fish was on.

Then began an Homeric battle. The fish was hooked in the stream above the Bargie Stone, and after a few seconds of very ordinary play we decided to land it at the broken bank behind Bargie, on the Murthly side, the slack water there being an advantage.

But the fish’s plans and ours did not coincide. Whir-r-r! An alarming amount of line was torn off, the reel screeched as it had never screeched before, the fish careered madly downstream. Within the fraction of a second the boat was turned heading downstream, and down, down, following hard on the heels of the fish. After this first furious rush, about 500yd, it lost its bearings and came to a sudden halt close to the north bank and about 100yd above the bridge. By that time, however, I had retrieved all the slack line, though my arm ached desperately and my left forefinger was cut. Here we were in the act of landing, when the fish rolled into the end of the boat, thus offering an opportunity for gaffing. Had a third party been at hand to hold the boat, the fish would have been gaffed in the space of 10 minutes.

Without delay it righted itself and sailed off majestically into the deep. It again elected to go downstream and ran out in a line with the north pier of the bridge. A moment of frightful anxiety followed when it threatened to go through between the piers. But it chose to favour us and the bridge was safely negotiated.

We were now out of the boat and following the fish, which kept about 20yd from the bank but showed a tendency to get farther out into the current. Twilight was fading fast, so father fetched the boat while I hung on to the ‘refractory beast’, which kept advancing and retiring at intervals but inclining always downstream.

Again, boarding the boat we endeavoured to get round to its other side, but that seemed only to spur it on to further effort, and though we worked with it for fully half an hour in midstream it showed no signs of weariness. Then it settled down to intervals of sulking, giving an occasional dive and shake of its head. This period was a steady, solid fight for victory between man and monster.

I suggested pelting it with the stones in the boat but got short cuttings: “Na, na, we’ll try nane o’ the capers.” Eventually we manoeuvred it to the opposite side.

Tiring of sulking, the fish began to jag, each jag running like an electric shock down my spine. What language can describe the phases we passed through in that hour: apprehension, hope and deadly fear. Would that line hold? Was the cast frayed? Was the fish lightly hooked? Would the rod top straighten out if a heavier strain was put on? Victory – or failure – was at hand; the next few minutes would see us the happiest or most miserable of human beings.

SHEER DETERMINATION

Though utterly exhausted, sheer determination kept me from giving up the rod, as tighter and tighter still came the order, and nearer and nearer came our quarry. By changing my seat to the bow of the boat, and keeping the rod in an upright position, father was enabled to feel with the gaff the knot at the junction of line and cast. Gauging the distance by the length of the cast, the stroke was delivered and a wriggling monster was heaved into the floor of the boat.

It was hooked half a mile farther up the river at 6.15; it was now 8.20 – two hours and five minutes of nerve-racking anxiety, thrilling excitement and good stiff work. One thing was decidedly in our favour: we were mercifully ignorant of the size of the fish. That it was hefty we could well judge from its weight and movements. It proved to be the heaviest fish of the season, the fish of many seasons, the record to a lady’s rod for the British Isles, 64lb.

Two passers-by were hailed to carry the ‘beast’, slung on a pole, to Boatlands Farm, where it was carefully weighed on a tested steelyard half an hour after capture. Though slightly copper-coloured, the fish was in good condition and fresh run, as sea lice were found still adhering to its tail. It was given to Perth Royal Infirmary by Mr Lyle, where it was relished by both patients and staff.

A cast was made at P D Malloch’s, and now the fish displays its lordly proportions at the Mansion House of Glendelvine, where it is looked upon as one of the sporting treasures. An expert’s reading of the scales showed that the salmon had not spawned previously, had spent two years in fresh water as a parr, three years in the sea, and would have been six years old in 1923. Its condition factor, worked out by Mr J A Hutton, was 40.6.