SALMON FISHING ON LOCH TAY.

SALMON FISHING ON LOCH TAY.BY “ROCKWOOD.”

BY “ROCKWOOD.”

PARTRIDGESand pheasants have just come under the protection of the Close Time Act, and the gun has been laid in its old place on the rack, there to remain till the 12th of August, when the grouse-shooting opens; the greyhound courser is thinking of the near approach of Waterloo, when, on the plains of Altcar, at Liverpool, the Blue Riband of the Leash will be fought for amongst the cracks of the “longtails;” the fox-hunters of the shires are hard at it and keen as ever, though their horses are leg-weary and suffering from overreaching and attendant sprains of the sinews, when we fly north from London by the London and Northwestern Railwayen routeto Loch Tay for the early spring salmon fishing.

Every Scottish lake has had its poet. Scott and Christopher North have in prose celebrated the praises of Loch Lomond. The Gaelic bards, like Robb Donn Mackay, have sung of Loch Maree, the silent and majestic, beloved of all the lakes by Her Majesty the Queen; but Loch Tay is the loch of the angler and the sportsman. It is,par excellence,the lake homeof the Scottish salmon, that fish which, viking-like, cruises annually along the west side of the German Ocean, and with health and vigor charges mill-lades, linns, weirs, and a hundred other obstacles, with all the fury of a Highlandman on a battle-field, and not a little of the Celt’s cunning in dodging round the ends of stake-nets on his return to his native waters.

The Purdies and the Kers of the Border may swear by the superior charms of killing “a guid Tweed fush.” On the Solway Dee they will contest for the merits of their own waters, and where the Dee of Aberdeenshire sweeps through the woods of Invercauld and down under the shadow of the windows of Balmoral, the Farquharsons and the Gordons, adepts at throwing a long fly, will hold in contempt the anglers of less favored streams. Each riverman has his opinion, yet all are agreed that Loch Tay is the premier fishing loch.

“FROM KENMORE TO KILLIN.”

This magnificent sheet of water drains, by means of the rivers Dochart and Lochy, the large range of hills which guard central Scotland from the storms which sweep across the Atlantic past the North of Ireland, and to whose accompaniment of heavy seas Mull, Skye, and other of the Hebridean islands form a huge breakwater. Loch Awe takes the drainage of the west water-shed, the river Awe carrying it through the Pass of Brander to the Atlantic. Loch Tay gathers all on the east and north and carries it by means of the silver Tay right across Scotland to the German Ocean, through varied and unsurpassedscenes of beauty. Onward the river flows, under the walls of stately mansions, once the homes of fierce chieftains, now the residences of enthusiastic sportsmen. Among these the most noted is Murthly Castle, where Sir John Millais every year makes known to the salmon the lightness of the hand required to successfully apply a brush to canvas.

THE BOATS STARTING—KILLIN.

But the train whirls northward, through counties renowned in hunting song, past old coaching “half-way” houses, famous in the history of the English mail coach. Here the travelers of sixty years ago used to hold merry jinks, whilst the coachman fretted and the guard shouted and four good steeds pawed the sward, anxious to start on the next stage. On between blazing furnaces, the coal ground of the iron horse, past reeking coal pits. Descending those dark shafts and traveling along every corner of the mine, you will find British sportsmen, each as ready and as enthusiastic in backing a horse or a greyhound as his master, the wealthy mine owner and member of the Jockey Club. Over the Cumberland hills, where wrestling is still the favorite pastime, as in days of yore, to merry Carlisle, that old English border-town which was the scene of many a fierce battle between Scotch and English. Skirting Gretna Green, where runaway couples were hitched tight by the old blacksmith in the days when marriages were made more binding than now, Bectloch summit is crossed, and soon the train crosses the Clyde valley. At Stirling Junction carriages have to be changed, and while the setting sun is gilding the western sky, we dip from Killin old station, beyond Callande, down into the lovely valley of the Dochart, to Killin, the capital of Breadalbane and the head fishing quarters of Loch Tay; and this, too, only twelve hours after leaving Euston Station, London.

All the time the talk has been of fish and fishing-rods, of big fish that were caught and the far bigger fish that escaped. The angling romancer has a special license as regards story-telling. Rarely, indeed, does he fail to take full advantage of his privilege. But in the journey up the talk has been all of the past; now it is all of the future; the hope is of the morrow.

Stewart, the landlord of “The Royal,” is too busy looking to the comfort of his guests to answer all the questions so eagerly put by the new-comers; but the boatmen of the lake stand near, ready to shake hands with old patrons and to tell them that in the late floods “the fish have jist been literally croodin’ into the loch, till there’s scarcely room for them unless they lie heids and thraws [head and foot] like bairns in a bed.” The Scottish boatman does not promise so much as his Irish brother, who said that the snipe in the bog were “jist jostlin’ wan another, sir,” but he does not find it advantageous to damp your spirits with prospects of indifferent sport. A shilling or so will make them happy enough in the back bar of the hotel. There, in Gaelic, they will hook and kill salmon which they gaffed long ago for old sportsmen long since dead, for the ranks oftheopening-day fishers of Loch Tay have of late been very much thinned of veterans.

Before breakfast the early-rising angler will have time to explore Killin, which is beautifully situated within the peninsula formed by the confluence of the rivers Dochart and Lochy. The great Dr. McCulloch, most charming of all writers on Scottish landscape, says:“Killin is the most extraordinary collection of extraordinary scenery in all Scotland; unlike everything else in the country and perhaps on earth, and a perfect picture gallery in itself, since you cannot move three yards without meeting a new landscape. A busy artist might here draw a month and not exhaust it. Fir-trees, rocks, torrents, mills, bridges, houses—these produce the great bulk of the middle landscape, under endless combinations; while the distances more constantly are found in the surrounding hills, in their varied woods, in the bright expanse of the lake and the minute ornaments of the distant valley, in the rocks and bold summit of Craig-Cailliach, and in the lofty vision of Ben Lawers, which towers like a huge giant in the clouds—monarch of the scene.” This picture we can endorse, having seen Killin in all seasons of the year, when the Dochart in spate was foaming and churning among the rocks and the tree-roots of the numerous wooded islands; where the bluebell and fox-glove bloomed bonnily on the banks of the Lochy in early summer, and again where the red glow on the upper mountain betokened that the grouse-hiding heather was in full bell. But the angler loves it best when Ben Lawers has on his nightcap of snow. No matter though a snow-shower sweeps like spin-drift before a squall and makes him shiver as he watches the rods at the stern, if he have the shelter of the bays and the “saumont” is in a taking mood.

But the “halesome parritch” is reeking on the breakfast table, and every angler, be he Scotchman or not, will be wise if he puts the contents of a “coggie” and some rich milk from a Highland cow within him. They will keep heart in him and cold without all day, besides “man,” as his boatman will tell him, “they mak’ gran’ bottoming for the whisky ane maun keep drinking.” Breakfast over, the boats are soon manned where they lie at the lochy a few minutes’ walk from the hotel door. This leads to a description of the system of fishing which is pursued on the lake.

Except the reserved water of the Marquis of Breadalbane, the proprietor, who keeps a favorite portion for himself and his guests, the rights belong to the hotel proprietors, whose houses are situated on the lake. Kenmore Hotel has four boats and about eight miles of water at the east end of the loch, and across its whole breadth. Killin Hotel has six boats, and its beat extends to about eight miles, also across the whole breadth. Bridge of Lochay Inn, with three boats, has the same water as the Killin Hotel. Ardenaig Inn has two boats, and Lawers Inn, at the foot of Ben Lawers, two boats. The regulations at these hotels are the same, each boat being allowed to carry only two rods at £5 per week, or 25 shillings a day; if two anglers are in one boat, at 30 shillings a day, all fish caught to be the property of the angler. Two boatmen are necessary, and these are paid 3s. 8d. per day, the angler allowing them luncheon only when he feels so disposed. This, no doubt, looks very costly, but when the sport obtained is considered, in reality it seems very cheap. Take the following score made by Mr. I. Watson Lyall, made through the favor of Lord Breadalbane a few years ago:

Feb. 5.—Opening day, after two o’clockP. M., 8 salmon, 28, 23, 23, 21, 20, 19, 18 and 16 lbs.

168

Feb. 6.—6 salmon, 32, 20, 20, 18, 19, 17 lbs.

126

Feb. 7.—4 salmon, 20, 19, 23 and 18 lbs.

Feb. 8.—Weather too stormy for fishing.

—

Feb. 9.—6 salmon, 32, 17, 22, 19, 21, 17 lbs.

128

Feb. 10.—Stopped at two o’clock, 2 salmon, 30 and 19 lbs.

Total for five days’ fishing, 26 salmon, weight

lbs.

551

Not bad fishing that, and far from costly when salmon is selling in London at two shillings per pound.

“HE LOOPED THE LINE ONTO THE OTHER ROD.”

The fish, which rarely weigh under twenty pounds, fight strongly, and carry out as much as eighty yards of line at a single rush, so that they always give magnificent sport before being landed. Forsome reason or other which cannot be explained, they will not rise to the fly. Phantom minnows of the ordinary form are used, with small screw-propellers at the nose to make them spin, and the better they spin the more likely is the angler to be successful. On arrival at the fishing-ground, the rods, which as a rule are fourteen feet long, are fixed in little forked rests and so made to point sternward at an angle over the gunwale. Forty yards of line are let out to trail (some allow as many as sixty yards), and a small stone is placed upon a part of the line under each of the rods. When these stones are jerked off, the watchful angler knows that he is fast in a fish. There are, of course, certain favorite bits of water, and these the boatmen take the rods over with great care.

“WAS OBLIGED TO SIT DOWN WITH SUCH A STORM ON.”

The Loch Tay tackle has for some reason or other remained very heavy, and so boats cannot be taken close inshore for fear of the lines fouling the rocks or the weeds, which grow in many places in rich profusion at the bottom. And yet in these waters, near the shore, the most of the salmon are to be found lying in wait for food. Last year the heaviest salmon of the year—a magnificent forty-pounder—was caught with the lightest tackle and lightest rod ever used, and so there is very likely to be a considerable reform in Loch Tay trolling rods within the next few years. The capture of this fish is worth relating.

Mr. Geen, of Richmond, Surrey, a famous angler of southern waters, had determined to use the very finest tackle, notwithstanding remonstrances from fellow-anglers and boatmen. He made up his mind that with lighter tackle he could “troll” his phantom a few feet nearer the surface than with heavy tackle, an undoubted advantage in the bays, and that with a line less likely to be seen a fish was far more likely to take the bait. A light rod, he moreover thought, would kill a fish once caught, quicker than one which had neither spring nor balance, so he used what might be classed as an ordinary fly trouting rod of cane, with greenheart top. All the epithets of derision to be found in the Gaelic dialect were hurled at this determined innovation. Mark the sequel, and with it the adventure, one of the greatest feats of perseverance with a salmon under difficulties ever known in any angling water.

One of those sudden squalls which come down on Loch Tay and raise lumpy water in the centre came up. To seek shelter from it, he directed his two Highland boatmen to keep as near the shore as possible, so as to come circling round on the landward side of the fleet. This was close to a bold bluff known as Fat Man’s Rock. It was well on to five o’clock in the afternoon, and he had not struck a fish. Suddenly the stone sprang off the line under his inner rod as the boat swept round, and the reel began to run with a desperate speed and noise.

“We have got hold of the county,” said his boatmen—this being an ironical way of saying that he had hooked the land.

“No, we’ve not; it’s a fish,” said Mr. Geen, seizing the rod.

A fish, and a good one it was, too, for away it went seaward for 100 yards with a rush which staggered the boat, and then, salmon-like, jumped into the air. It was not long, however, before it returned to the place it was hooked, and here it began to be most troublesome among the rocks. These troubles, however, were small compared with what were to follow. As they reached deeper water again, his holder began to handle with much success, apparently, for he got him almost within reach of the gaff.Almost, but unfortunatelynot quite. James reached out, but miscalculated his distance, caught the line, and Mr. Geen felt something slip. His heart fell. Was he free? No! for immediately the music of the reel was heard again, and he was off, this time right to the bottom, sunk like a newly harpooned whale. There he assumed the customary sulky disposition. In vain they tried to drop stones on him. He was fully sixty yards down, and the stones no doubt never dropped near him. The weight of the rod was tried on him, with the result that six feet broke off at the top.

“HE WAS CAUGHT IN THE BACK FIN.”

Darkness was now gathering, and the boats were crowding down homeward to Killin and the Lochy Hotel. There was little sympathy on the part of boatmen and sportsmen for the gentleman with the light tackle and the cane rod. Some said he had hold of “the county,” others that his fish was a small one, too much for his rod, and some betted him two to one that he would not get it. One gentleman hailed him and said: “I will stand by you all night, and watch the result.” This gentleman, though he had not touched a fish for three days, was rewarded in the next five minutes by a salmon on his own line—the recompense of true sympathy with a fellow sportsman.

But what was to be done, and how was the rod to be mended? “Row quietly out, James, so that I may cut all my trolling line” (the line which is used outside the boat), “and I will put him on the other rod.” This was slowly done, till the line was fastened quietly on the second rod; though for precaution it was still, for the time, kept fast on the broken rod. The broken rod was then slipped by cutting off the connection, and once more Mr. Geen was prepared to fight in earnest, but this time against almost pitch darkness.

“We maun raise him, sir; he’s a deed fish,” said James; “he’s like a stane at the bottom.”

Inch by inch for sixty yards of line did James draw him up. At last he said: “I have come to the first swivel.” Still no fish showed the white of its belly. Up and up an inch or two more, and then—

“She’s gone, James!” said the holder of the rod, breathless with excitement, as the boatman made a lightning movement.

“Yes, sir. Give him the gaff!” and the next instant the magnificent fish was in the boat. Yes, there he was,hooked by the back fin. No wonder, indeed, that he was hard to lift. The reason that he had been hooked foul was because he had somehow got a turn or two of the line round his body, and while the hook had been jerked out of his mouth at the firsttime of gaffing, it slipped round and fouled him.

It was eight o’clock when the boat got back to Killin, and the whole village, man, woman and child, turned out to learn of this wonderful exploit, which will long be talked of on Loch Tay side.

Because Mr. Geen fought and killed this salmon successfully, it would be absurd to argue that all men who fish under the shadow of Ben Lawers should follow his example and fish with tackle of the finest quality, and rods as springy as a tandem whip. It will be argued by many that the difficulties in landing the fish were partly his own creation,i. e., the use of a rod which was not equal to the heaviest Loch Tay fish. We have had the pleasure of handling the rod, which is one of Canter’s best make. We have no hesitation in saying that though a lady might handle it without fatigue, it would prove far more fatiguing to a fish than the stiff rods at present in use on the lake. A salmon would come quicker within reach of the gaff when such a rod were wielded by good hands—and a man with bad hands will never make a good steersman or a clever man on horseback.

An invention made by Mr. Geen we liked much. It is a telescopic extra length of rod which drops off when the butt is seized and a fish is about to be played. This arrangement permits the point of the rod, in trolling, to be lowered, so that the angle between the phantom and the point is made more oblique, and the more oblique the angle is made the higher in the water will remain the lure. This is a matter of the utmost importance with revolving baits, as the screw will not work at times unless kept going almost parallel to the waterline, and the illusion remains incomplete. If any one is exercised in his mind about this, let him take a phantom and attach head and tail to something which will whirl round at the rate of six or eight revolutions per second, and he will understand the necessity. Hooks and all disappear, and you see but a small fish, and so does the salmon. Stop the revolutions and you see a fish with hooks, barbs, and everything else. I believe the double-screw propeller, which I saw some years ago, though not successful when applied to ships, would do well for phantoms, as giving one extra spin. However, it might raise the Gaelic bile to say too much, and when that is raised there are more than broken rods flying about.

“THEY HEAVED HIM UP INCH BY INCH.”

When the fishing on Loch Tay palls on the angler, he may have some capital off-days in the neighborhood, a drive up Glenlocky being a favorite. The hotel is noted for its good horses. Then one can have a sail up the lake in these little fresh-water models of Atlantic greyhounds,The Lady of the Lake, andAlma Carlotta, to Kenmore. These pretty little steamers were designed by Mr. G. L. Watson, whose name is so well known in the yachting world. At Kenmore the beautiful grounds of Taymouth Castle may be visited, and they are well worthy of it, as there is nothing to beat them in either the Highlands or Lowlands of Scotland. Three miles beyond Kenmore is Abergeldy, where are the celebrated Banks of Abergeldy, whose praises the poet Burns has celebrated in undying song. The ascent of Ben Lawers may be made from Ben Lawers Inn, and a grand view of the Taymouth district be obtained, as it is the fourth highest mountain in Scotland.

As a rule, many of the off-days are spent nearer home, and a much frequented spot is the old ruins of Finlarig Abbey, close to Killin, and situated on the banks of the lake. One of the smoking-room stories tells how on one occasion, before an off-day party had been arranged by Stewart the landlord, a Macgregor had been bouncing about his famous ancestor, Rob Roy, in a manner which would have astonished the famous cateran himself. These, if not taken with a pinch of snuff, would denote that the Macgregor was always jumping rivers at the widest points, and playing at hop, step and jump from Ben Lomond to the Cobbler, and from the Cobbler over to Ben Lawers. Common report makes Rob out to have been a very clever gentleman cattle-lifter, but when a Macgregor gets hold of a few southern anglers over a tumbler of toddy in the smoking-room of a Scotch hotel, he is allowed to make him execute performances worthy of Jupiter. And “ye must na’ doot the word o’ a Macgregor, for ye ken it has aye been true, no like the word o’ the Cammells, which has never been kept.”

To get a joke out of a real genuine Macgregor was quietly suggested, and next day it was fully carried out. In the large hotel drag the Macgregor of the party was allowed to continue his marvelous sketches of the old chief’s exploits.

“But,” said a Saxon of the party, “how does it happen that all the places of interest connected with the Macgregor family are associated with escape? In Loch Lomond you are pointed out his Cave of Refuge; on the burn at Inversnead, the place he jumped when pursued, and the same in the Lyon—all, too, when fleeing from a Campbell.”

“A Cammell, did you say? A Macgregor flee from a Cammell? Never! It takes ten Cammells to make a Macgregor turn his back. Say a hundred Cammells and you will be right. Rob Roy flee frae a Cammell? That’s impossible! No; when his foot was on his native heath, and his good broadsword in his hand, all the dead Cammells that are in the ill place itself would never have made him run. Sir, you do not know the speerit o’ the Macgregors!”

“But they were a lawless, useless lot,” was the interruption of another knight of the rod, “and the country around here never did any good till they got rid of them in the old-fashioned Scotch way.”

“What do you call the old-fashioned Scotch way?”

“Oh, the gallows; dancing Gillie Callum and the Highland fling from an ash bush, with three feet of daylight below them.”

“And who dare do that with a Macgregor?” was the response, in tones of thunder.

Fortunately the skirr of the brake on the wheels of the trap, as Stewart took a pull at his horses, stopped the conversation. It heralded, also, our arrival at the old castle gates. The castle of Finlarig was in stormy times the residence of the Breadalbane Campbells, and the “auld laird” who occupied it made short work of such as were not Campbells who were found straying in the neighborhood. As the party walked in quietly, Stewart whispered to Mrs. Campbell, the guide, “When ye come to the hangman’s-tree ye maun say ‘saxty Macgregors’, instead of sax.”

“Guid save us, Mr. Stewart! Saxty Macgregors!” was the astonished reply, “that would be the hale clan o’ them!”

“Never mind; say saxty,” was the whispered answer.

The old ruins having been well explored—the Macgregor fuming all the time because “Sassenach fushing-men” would persist in making comparisons in its favor with the dirty old fox-kennel-like caves in which Rob Roy used to live—the party was then shown the old gallows-tree.

“Thet’s the plece,” said Mrs. Campbell, “where the auld laird hanged saxty Macgregors one morning before his breakfast.”

“Gregarach, woman! ye dinna say sae. It could na be saxty Macgregors,” was the indignant response of Rob Roy’s descendant.

“Saxty Macgregors, I say—saxty Highland vagabonds, if ye like; a half-dizzen [dozen] at a time. And a bonnie braw mornin’s work, nae doubt, it would be for the country side!”

“Saxty Macgregors allow themselves to be hanged! Hoots, woman, ye be bletherin’; they could nae have been true Macgregors!”

“TrueMacgregors? Weel, I’ll no say that; the Lord never made sich a thing as atrueMacgregor.”

“And never anything but false Cammells. Saxty Macgregors!” and the champion of the old clan fairly wept for his unfortunate countrymen. Had the Maccalumore himself looked in and a claymore been handy, there would have been more tragic narrative. Humbled before the Sassenachs, he remained silent till the graves of Black Duncan and the old Campbell chief were pointed out, and then he had his revenge.

Jumping into the vault, he shouted to the attendant piper to play up “Macgregor’s March.” He then danced on the stones above the grave till the sparks were flying from the hobnails of his heavy boots. Ever and anon, as he wheeled and jumped, he uttered the words, “Saxty Macgregors!—hang saxty Macgregors! the scoundrels! Blaw up, piper, a guid auld Macgregor reel tune, Rothermurchis Rout, or anything with the music o’ the deevil in it. I could dance over a Cammell’s bones for a fortnicht!”

Mrs. Campbell possibly did not relish the performance as much as the “Sassenach fushing-men,” but very wisely did not interfere. Had there been a hatchet on the spot, the gallows-tree would soon have been removed and flung into the vault or hollow. Fortunately there was nothing better handy than the old headsman’s axe of the Stuart period (James Rex) given in the picture.

The Macgregor told no stories in the smoking-room that night about the feats of his ancestors, but if any “Bleck McFlea” roused him in the night-time, he was heard murmuring “Saxty Macgregors!” and then letting forth his opinions of the whole Clan Campbell in certain Gaelic words which are forbidden to be used by the Free Kirk in preaching Gaelic sermons. The little story of the gallows-tree at Finlarig Castle, where he was fair effronted afore the “fusher’s folk,” still haunts him, and he shows this by sudden fits of temper, which seemed to worry him when on the streets. But the smoking-room at Killin reeks with fishing stories and anecdotes of the kind, and more than one number of OUTINGwould be required to give them as they are given, over a tumbler of good Scotch whisky toddy, after a long day in the boats when salmon fishing on Loch Tay.

“HE WAS SENT HOME TO BE STUFFED.”

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