Game Fish

A tributary of the River Teviot runs through the farm in southern Scotland, its banks covered in mature alder trees and willows. These trees used to be coppiced a hundred years ago, with clogs for the workers in the nearby woolen mills made from the cut-off alder wood, and baskets made from the willow rods. It is an enchanting, peaceful place; the motion of the water is as soothing as its soporific mumbling sound, tumbling over shallows. In the early summer there are kingfishers and dippers, scudding just above the surface; mallard and duckling creep under the overhanging banks. Iridescent dragon flies dart here and there and bees drone among cow parsley, pink campion, and flowering wild garlic. I come down here with my old Sharpe’s Parabolic, an 8½-foot split cane rod designed by Cesar Ritz, the hotelier, and try roll casting for little brown trout that lurk in the shady pools. I know that my chances of catching anything are pretty remote—there are far too many herons—but like the 3½ million other fishermen in Britain, I do love trying.