Worthy of the king
Freddie Sandford journeys to the wilds of Scotland in search of his first Atlantic salmon
THE CIGAR shop wasn’t what I had imagined. Sandwiched between a second-hand clothing store and a disused office on a grimy road in Sheffield, northern England, it lacked any sense of mystique or class.
I was here following an unexpected call from Andrew, editor of The Take. A place had come up on a fishing trip to the far north of Scotland.
“We’ll be starting on the River Inver, west Sutherland — if you’re going to catch a salmon anywhere in the UK, this is the place to do it,” he said. “Fancy it?”
I didn’t think long before accepting, and over the following weeks, salmon ran through my thoughts. I’d never fished for them before, and this was the sort of trip I had dreamed of as a boy. Although ten-year-old me wouldn’t have expected the adventure to begin in a shop like this.
Stepping inside, I was greeted by a wall of vapes, energy drinks and cheap booze. My aim was to buy a cigar to celebrate my first salmon — I’d read somewhere that it was the thing to do. But, dazzled by the store’s tacky displays, I was sure I had come to the wrong place.
Then I noticed an open doorway at the back, from which a dim light spilled. I followed it to a short flight of stairs, where the shop’s cheap vinyl floor gave way to a carpet patterned with swirls of black, cream and gold. It led to a perfectly square room, fringed by glass cases, each filled with hundreds of cigars.
Freddie’s supply, ready for the special moment.
Freddie’s supply, ready for the special moment.
I didn’t think long before accepting, and over the following weeks, salmon ran through my thoughts. I’d never fished for them before, and this was the sort of trip I had dreamed of as a boy. Although ten-year-old me wouldn’t have expected the adventure to begin in a shop like this.
Stepping inside, I was greeted by a wall of vapes, energy drinks and cheap booze. My aim was to buy a cigar to celebrate my first salmon — I’d read somewhere that it was the thing to do. But, dazzled by the store’s tacky displays, I was sure I had come to the wrong place.
Then I noticed an open doorway at the back, from which a dim light spilled. I followed it to a short flight of stairs, where the shop’s cheap vinyl floor gave way to a carpet patterned with swirls of black, cream and gold. It led to a perfectly square room, fringed by glass cases, each filled with hundreds of cigars.
I’d never fished for them before, and this was the sort of trip I had dreamed of as a boy
A few minutes later, I stepped out carrying three Cubans sealed in a dodgy-looking plastic bag and felt about as ready as I could be. In the weeks leading up to the trip, I’d bought flies and leaders, taken a half-day casting lesson and absorbed everything I could find on salmon fishing.
Casting seems to dominate “how-to” content on the species, so much so that I assumed that you didn’t really need to fish for them — just cast well and hope for the best. But a few days later, as Andrew and I set off on the long journey north, he explained that this wasn’t strictly the case.
“Your fly must be working — it should be enticing to the fish. The angle of your cast, your mends and your retrieve all make a difference.”
Orchids, rowan and ferns proliferate by the River Inver.
A small Cascade fished on a loop for maximum movement in the currents.
After an 11-hour drive through a landscape that grew wilder by the mile, we arrived at our hotel. Before checking in, we walked the river’s lowest beat, just before it enters the tidal Loch Inver. It’s a narrow, aggressive river here, stabbing its way through deep pools, rapids and falls. Steep, rocky banks were splattered with moss and lichen, and large ferns brushed our knees as we picked our way upstream, weaving between birch, hazel and rowan.
I slept well that night, aided by a few pints. But the following morning, months of anticipation hit me. I couldn’t finish my breakfast.
Thirty minutes later, we pulled in next to the river, just upstream of where we had walked the night before. It was humid, drizzling and overcast. Perfect conditions.
I showed Andrew the flies I’d bought, but the size 6 and 8 doubles were too big for the low, clear water. He handed me a little Cascade, size 12, and I made my first-ever cast for a salmon. In my excitement, I skipped half the steps to a single Spey that my instructor had drilled into me a few weeks earlier. Andrew gave me some pointers and a compliment or two, which lifted my confidence.
We spent the rest of that morning exploring the beat, neither of us touching a fish. After lunch, we headed further upstream, where Andrew told me of a spot in which, last season, he had seen several salmon. We climbed uphill until we reached a point high above the river.
I showed Andrew the flies I’d bought, but the size 6 and 8 doubles were too big for the low, clear water
“This is it,” Andrew said.
I peered down the sloping bank, through an opening in the trees and into a deep gorge, where a long pool of twisting water plunged suddenly into rapids.
“Keep low, and be quiet,” Andrew instructed as we inched our way down to a grassy ledge, eight feet or so above the river. As we neared the vantage point, I lifted my gaze, and there it was. An Atlantic salmon. The first I’d seen. It was a large fish, well into double figures, sat just above the white water. It flitted effortlessly from side to side, occasionally lifting in the water column before dropping back down, completely at ease in the treacherous flow.
“Are you ready?” Andrew asked as I tightened my drag. I crept upstream and crawled into a tight, rocky clearing, a few feet above the river, where I could just about plant my feet. From here, I could make a cast. The rain intensified.
“If you hook a fish, don’t give it an inch — if it reaches those rapids, it’s over,” Andrew instructed. “I’ll stay up here and watch.”
Freddie covers the fish on the lip of the pool.
I flicked the small fly across the pool. Each cast, I worked out a few more yards of line. On my third, Andrew shouted. Quite what he said, I don’t remember, but instantly, my rod was ripped downstream and something silver thrashed on the surface.
I’d dreamed of experiencing a salmon’s legendary first run, but now I was wide awake, and I had a fish to stop. I clamped down and my seven-weight Trak switch lurched into an alarming curve. Each lunge from the fish shuddered down the blank, reverberating through my body. I hung on and, when the pressure eased, pumped the fish away from the rapids into deeper, safer water.
“It’s not the fish we could see,” Andrew said as he scrambled beside me. “I was watching your fly swing across the pool when one appeared from nowhere and took it.”
My rod was ripped downstream and something silver thrashed on the surface
He climbed below me into an even more precarious position and crouched patiently with the net.
“Ease off the drag now — here, if it wants to go, let it.”
In the clear water, I could see the fish charging around. Up to this point, the fight had been a haze of adrenaline, but now I could breathe. There is lots of talk about “mindfulness” and “living in the moment” these days. While yoga may work for some, try hooking a salmon. I had never felt more alive.
Eventually, the fish surfaced, and after one final thrash for freedom, Andrew netted it. He let out a loud, high-pitched laugh and shook my hand. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so happy.
Welcome to the club: a delighted and shaking Freddie with his first-ever salmon — and a cracker too!
I crouched in the margin and admired the fish: a bright 5lb grilse. Holding the wrist of its tail with shaking hands, I understood immediately why the aristocracy went to such lengths to make salmon fishing its preserve a few centuries ago. King of fish? Of course it is.
This was the perfect time for a cigar, but as I reached into my pocket, I realised: I had left them in my hotel room
After a quick picture, the salmon kicked strongly into the dark water. I climbed up the bank and sat back amongst the ferns. I felt numb with happiness. This was the perfect time for a cigar, but as I reached into my pocket, I realised: I had left them in my hotel room. I couldn’t have cared less.
Over the coming days, I met numerous experienced salmon fishers, and when I recounted the story of my first salmon, they listened with knowing smiles. They seemed less interested in my words than in the way that I spoke, judging my mannerisms and searching for a spark in my eye. They knew what it meant to catch that first one, and it was as if they were checking whether I had, like them, been infected with a slight madness that only a salmon can bring.
As I sit at home now, months after catching that fish, I can, if I listen closely, still hear the crashing water of the Inver. I can see that big fish drifting in the tail and, if I really try, I can still smell that grilse on my hands. Madness? Perhaps, but if anything deserves it, it’s a salmon.
The next steps
It’s safe to say that I’ll be going on a salmon-fishing trip again, but before I set off, there are a few things I need to consider:
- Book another casting lesson: My casting improved over the course of this trip, but I’ll be booking more lessons to tighten things up. This will help iron out any habits before they become deep-rooted.
- Practise: As much as I would like to fish the rivers in the north of Scotland every week, they are far from home. So, I have joined a club on a local river where I can practise casting, and there’s an outside chance of a salmon.
- Purchase more flies: I learned on this trip that having a selection of flies is key to success — not necessarily lots of different patterns, but trusted flies in different sizes and weights for tackling different pools and flows. I’ll be adding to my collection soon.
- Learn to “work the fly”: It was clear that, on some casts, my fly was only fishing effectively through a small section of the pool. So, to cover the water more effectively, I’ll now be focussing on mending the line and varying my retrieves to make my fly look lively and enticing throughout the swing.
Photography: Andrew Flitcroft/Freddie Sandford
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Freddie Sandford
Freddie Sandford is a budding and increasingly fanatical fly-fisher with a passion for wildlife and the outdoors. He is based in Yorkshire, northern England, and helps with The Take. He is also the News Editor of UK fishing magazine Angling Times.
