Part 2

Towards the end of March 1921 I received an invitation to fish the river Wye, which, as every one knows, is famous for its heavy salmon. My own rods and tackle were in the North of Scotland, and there was not sufficient time to send for them. I knew that in the spring the fishing in this particular river was almost entirely by spinning with the minnow. I arrived at my destination on Monday, March 28, and had five days fishing before me. There had been a good deal of rain before I arrived, and the river was both too high and too much color. The fishing on my host’s beat had so far been very disappointing. During the preceding six weeks the river had been fished almost every day by my host and one or other of his friends; but although hardly any fish had been lost, only five had been killed, all with the minnow, the largest being 29 lb. My kindly host, who is a past master of all things connected with salmon and trout fishing, fitted me up with first-class equipment. I had never used a Nottingham or Silex reel before, and it took me the greater part of my first day to acquire the art of throwing the minnow effectively. For the next two days I fished with the minnow from morning till night without getting a pull or seeing anything. I have been a keen fly-fisher all my life and have killed a good many salmon and many trout, and on Friday morning, as the river had fallen considerably, I told my host that if I might do so I should like to try the fly. He readily assented, and said that I should have one of his own fly rods, and before we started he kindly gave me several salmon flies, and said that his butler, C., who was an experienced hand at gaffing salmon, should come with me. Among the flies which my host had given me was a “Mar Lodge” (size 4/0), and with this I fished all the morning and up to about three o’clock in the afternoon without, however, seeing or touching anything. C. said that he was afraid the day was going to be a blank again. I said that I would like to try once more a particular spot below a rock in the upper part of a pool higher up the river, which I had fished in the morning and which I thought looked a very likely place for a salmon to lie. In order to fish this pool it was necessary to use a boat. It was a beautiful afternoon and the sun was still shining. We crossed over the river at the bottom of the pool and rowed up on the other side, keeping close to the bank so as not to disturb that part of the pool which I was going to fish. C. worked the boat with great skill, and at my first cast I managed to place my fly exactly where I wished it to go below the rock. As the fly swung round with the current I suddenly saw for a second a huge silvery fish in the clear, transparent water upon which the sun was shining. At the same moment the line tightened. “I have him,” I said, as the line went screeching off the reel. The fish ran straight up-stream for about ninety yards, and then leaped twice, high into the air. It was by far the largest salmon I had ever seen, clean-run and glittering like a silver coin fresh from the Mint. This first danger safely passed, I gradually persuaded him to come back again. C. said, “He must be well hooked, and he’s a very big fish. That fish of 29 lb. which the Major got would look quite small beside him.” For some time after this the fish moved about the pool, but made no attempt to run. He then made a violent rush of about sixty yards, and lashed about on the top of the water, once more showing himself and giving us a fair idea of his size. Again I got him well under control, and for a considerable time he adopted the same tactics as before, moving slowly and steadily backwards and forwards at varying depths. I had been thinking for some time that perhaps I had been rather too easy with him, and that I had not acted on the maxim with which, I suppose, almost every salmon fisher will agree, that one ought never to let a fish rest, and that a big fish may take hours to land if he is not worried enough. The line and cast had been thoroughly tested before we started, and I felt that I might depend upon them. C. told me that as soon as I had hooked my fish he had looked at his watch, and that I had now had him on for an hour and twenty minutes. This greatly astonished me, as I had not realised how the time had gone. But it was nevertheless the fact, and I felt that we must do something to stir the fish. We accordingly decided to move a little way up-stream. C. had hardly begun to move the boat with this object in view when the salmon suddenly moved, and moved to some purpose. Neither I nor C. had ever seen anything in the movements of any fish to compare with the strength and rapidity of that rush. The salmon went at a terrific pace, straight up the river as hard as he could go for about 110 yards, and then leaped twice, straight up into the air, about a couple of feet above the surface of the water, broadside on, showing that he was a tremendously thick fish. At the very moment he was in the air the reel fell off the rod, and at that moment I became conscious, although, of course, I had lowered the point of the rod when he leaped, that the great fish had parted company with me for ever. “He has gone,” I said, as with a sickening sense of disappointment I reeled in the slack line in the faint hope that he might still be on, having turned and come down the river again--but no, it was not to be, and the line soon came back to me, the cast having been broken about a foot from the end. C. said not a word, nor did I for a time. No mere words are appropriate on such an occasion and cannot diminish the loss of a fresh-run spring salmon, so marvellously brilliant and beautiful, and in this particular instance probably half as large again, perhaps twice as large, as the biggest fish I have ever landed during the time, now more than forty years, that I have been a salmon fisher. Within a short time I started fishing again, but the day was done and we saw nothing more. After the catastrophe I found that the reel had been loose, and that the wedges used to make it fit closely to the rod had shifted and finally fallen out in consequence of the rushes made by the fish. I also learnt later on that the rod did not belong to my host, and that by a misunderstanding this rod, which happened not to have been taken down, but was among the other rods ready for use, was given to me. Probably, had I been warned about the reel, I could have prevented it from falling off, though whether this would have made any difference it is impossible to say, as many a good fish has broken the cast by falling back on it after jumping at the end of a long rush, and the more line there is out the more danger of losing the fish when he jumps.

In the words of one of the most experienced of fishermen, Mr. Horace G. Hutchinson: “There is one antic that a fish may perform which may, if you are unlucky, defeat you, however quick and skilful you are--that is, if he jumps and falls back on the cast. If you do not drop the point of the rod so as to let the gut go slack when he jumps, you are nearly sure to be broken if he falls back on it. If you drop quickly enough, it is bad luck if you are broken, but it is bad luck which sometimes does befall. If much of the reel line is in water, the drop of the rod top does not communicate slackness to the cast quickly enough; the fish may come on to it when it is tolerably taut--result disaster!”

Being a Highlander and therefore of a superstitious race, need I emphasise the fact that the day of this, the greatest, tragedy of my life as a fisherman was a Friday, and that Friday the 1st of April. In this connection it is worth recalling that no references to April Fools’ Day have been found in our earlier literature, and it seems that this country has derived the fashion from France, where April Fools’ Day is a very ancient institution, and where the dupe is known as “poisson d’avril.” The April fool in this story was the fisherman, not the fish. The following day, Saturday, I tried to make the most of my last chance and fished all day long, but without a sign of anything. Of course, there was a great discussion as to the probable weight of the fish, which had given both C. and myself several opportunities of forming some estimate on the subject. We both agreed that it could not have been less than 35 lb., and was more probably round about 40 lb. But my story has an interesting sequel. On the following Monday I returned to London; and on the Tuesday, when fishing the pool which was the scene of the catastrophe, my host made a discovery which I can best relate by quoting from a letter which he wrote to me on the following day.

“Yesterday afternoon,” he wrote, “when fishing your famous pool I found what I feel pretty sure were the mortal remains of your big fish. He had fallen a prey to an otter, which after your long fight with him is easy to understand. He lay on a rock just above the place where you hooked him, and considerably below where you parted company. A large ‘steak’ from the middle had been removed by his ultimate captor, but the head and tail portions were there. From examination of his head he had certainly been _recently_ hooked _firmly_ on the right side of the upper jaw. He was extremely thick, and must have been a most handsome fish of at least 35 lb. I took home two or three scales, and his age appears to have been between four and five years.”

I subsequently learnt that from its condition this fish had no doubt been killed some days before it was found, and as it seems highly likely it was the fish that had defeated me, it must somehow or other have got rid of the fly by rubbing it against the rocks, a feat which is generally believed to be by no means unusual and which in this instance would, no doubt, be rendered easier by the fact that the hook was a good-sized one, being about 2 in. long.

C., who was with my host at the time, said that he also felt sure that it was the same fish. So it would appear that the victory of the great fish was after all shortlived, and that he was probably captured by a far greater fisherman than any mere mortal man--let alone my humble self.

It is a very interesting fact that in the week before that in which I was fishing, among the salmon which were killed on the neighbouring beats were three, each of which weighed slightly over 41 lb. It seems not unlikely, therefore, that my fish may have run up from the sea in the company of these splendid fish, and have been much the same weight as they were.

Notwithstanding my great disappointment I heartily agree with the words of Arthur Hugh Clough in _Peschiera_:[2]

’T is better to have fought and lost, Than never to have fought at all.

On describing my battle to an old friend, who is himself no fisherman, but a great sportsman, he replied by quoting from a writer, whose name he did not know, the following lines, which I had never heard before and the authorship of which was at that time unknown to my friend also:

Upon the river’s bank serene A fisher sat where all was green And looked it. He saw when light was growing dim The fish or else the fish saw him And hooked it. He took with high erected comb The fish or else the story home And cooked it. Recording angels by his bed Weighed all that he had done or said And booked it.[3]

IV

THE BIRDS OF FASTEST FLIGHT IN THE BRITISH ISLES

Some little time ago, a correspondence appeared in the _Observer_[4] and the _Field_[5] as to which is the quickest bird in flight. Various correspondents, some of them well-known naturalists, writers of repute, and sportsmen of experience, expressed their views, by no means unanimous, on the question. I have always been greatly interested in the subject, and for many years past in the North of Scotland have been in the habit of watching bird life in some of the wildest and most inaccessible parts of the country.

I have examined the evidence contained in the valuable and interesting correspondence mentioned above, and have also obtained all the information I could get elsewhere from books of authority and persons who have had special opportunities of observation. At the present day a valuable and novel class of evidence is available--that of observers in aeroplanes. Upon all the material thus obtained I have tried to form an impartial opinion.

There appear to me to be four points to be borne in mind before arriving at any conclusion as to which bird is the quickest in flight, and the maximum speed of which each bird is capable.

Emphasis is laid on the first three of the following points in some of the letters in the correspondence above referred to, but I think that the fourth point is of at least equal importance.

1. Ground speed must be distinguished from air speed.

2. The path of flight must be horizontal.

3. There must be something to show that the bird is flying at its maximum speed.

4. There must be a standard length of flight to which the test is to be applied.

1. _Ground speed must be distinguished from air speed._

It is not generally realised that a bird has two speeds: its speed relative to the ground and its speed relative to the air.

“Ground speed” is “air speed” as influenced by the wind. In a perfectly still atmosphere “ground speed” and “air speed” are the same. To quote one of the writers in the _Field_ of February 11, 1922: “The wind has no effect on the speed at which a bird is capable of driving itself through the air. Take a parallel case, substitute for the bird a caterpillar, and for the atmosphere in which the bird is flying a sheet of paper. The caterpillar can always crawl at a constant speed across the paper, although it is possible to increase the relative speed of a caterpillar to the ground by moving the sheet of paper.”

Or to put the same distinction in the words of another writer in the same number of the _Field_: “It is the speed of the object over the ground or still water that matters; and if the medium (_i.e._ air or water) in which the object under discussion is either flying or floating is also in movement, then the pace over the ground will naturally be correspondingly increased or decreased.”

Wind, of course, varies in two ways (1) direction and (2) velocity, and is uniform only at a given height.

The direction of the wind must necessarily be either along the line of flight of the bird, against it, or at an angle with it. In the first of these instances the speed of the bird over the ground is determined merely by adding the velocity of the wind to, and in the second by subtracting it from the air speed of the bird, in the same way as a swimmer’s speed is increased or reduced by the speed of the current. The third case is more complicated, as in this calculation allowance must be made for “drift,” _i.e._ the tendency of a bird under such circumstances to deviate from its desired course. It is, however, unnecessary to say anything further as to this third case, as the comparison of speeds of various birds can only be made satisfactorily by ascertaining their speeds under identical conditions in horizontal flight.

2. _The path of flight must be horizontal._

In the words[6] of Captain C. F. A. Portal, D.S.O.: “If any one has seen a peregrine stooping from 1000 feet at between 150 and 200 miles per hour at a partridge, and has later seen the same peregrine chase the same partridge from a standing start, he will appreciate the importance of considering only level flight. In the first instance, the hawk is nearly 100 miles per hour faster than the quarry, in the second, he can only just overtake it at all. There is no conceivable way of measuring the speed of these downward flights accurately, but no one who has done any hawking will deny that 120 miles per hour is within the power of a great many species. When we come to consider level flight, there is a very different story.”

3. _There must be some evidence to show whether the bird is flying at its maximum speed or not._

As was recently pointed out in an interesting article[7] by Colonel R. Meinertzhagen, D.S.O.: “Birds have two speeds: a normal rate, which is used for everyday purposes and also for migration, and an accelerated speed, which is used for protection, or pursuit, and which in some cases nearly doubles the rate of their normal speed; some of the heavier birds can probably only accelerate to a slight extent. In this conclusion I am naturally excepting courtship flight, which is usually of an accelerated nature.”

To quote the words of Major C. R. E. Radclyffe:[8] “The only possible test we can accept is where two birds are matched one against the other, and we are certain they are both trying their hardest. No better test than this is the case of a hawk pursuing its quarry, when it means to one of them its food and to the other its life.”

The same writer draws attention to a common fallacy: “It is,” he says,[8] “purely a matter of optical illusion to imagine that a smaller-sized bird is flying faster than a larger bird of similar shape and make; for example, a snipe on rising ground seems to go much faster than a woodcock, similarly a teal than a duck, and possibly this may be so for a short distance, but put up the first two together, and also the last two, and let there be a peregrine after them--as I have seen many times--and the scene is amazing to a man who is not a falconer, as the smaller bird is overhauled first every time by the falcon, and presumably they are all trying their hardest.... I have dozens of times put up a peregrine over ponds and marshes where teal and ducks were sitting together, and then flushed the wild fowl all simultaneously. In every case without any exception the first bird overhauled and brought to the ground has been a teal and in the case of a long flight, when every bird has been flying for its life, the further they go the further the teal lag behind the wild ducks. The same remarks apply to woodcock and snipe, to black game and grouse, to pheasants and partridges--all of which I have flushed simultaneously in front of hawks.”

In dealing with the same point in a letter written to me, Major Radclyffe makes the following interesting observations:

“... Few people realize that a pheasant flies much faster than a partridge when they have both been going a short distance. If you flush an old cock pheasant and a covey of partridges together in a big field of turnips, you will see the partridges are quickest ‘off the mark’ and away with a bit of a lead, but the pheasant will catch them, and be first over the fence if they have 200 or 300 yards to go.

“Again take as an example a woodcock and a snipe. I have several times flushed these two birds together, and in no time the woodcock has left the snipe far behind him, and yet I believe that ninety-nine sportsmen out of a hundred would say the snipe flies faster than the woodcock.

“I have seen woodcocks give my hawks some great long-distance flights before they are overtaken and turned; but a snipe has no show at all when trying to keep ahead of a peregrine or merlin in straight flight.”

In his letter to the _Field_ already referred to, Major Radclyffe further says: “There is no doubt whatever that the heavier bird of similar type is far the faster on the wing when once it gets going.”

It was suggested in one of the letters to the _Field_ that whilst this is no doubt the general rule there is at least one exception to it. “If asked,” said the writer, “to quote any instance when the smaller bird is faster than a larger one of similar type, I should say that the pochard (_Fuligula ferina_) is faster on the wing than the common mallard, as I have seen the former pass mallards on the wing when both have been flying before a falcon. But from my experience of over thirty years as a falconer, a naturalist, and a shooter, I should say that the above case is one of the rare exceptions where the heaviest bird is not the fastest on the wing if each bird is trying its hardest and best.”

Colonel Meinertzhagen, whilst agreeing that the heavier bird of similar type is the faster flier once it gets going, has kindly sent me the following observations on the foregoing statements as to the pochard and mallard. “The common pochard is not a bird of ‘similar type’ to a mallard, the one being a diving duck and the other surface-feeding. They differ in the proportion of wing area to body weight, also in bone structure. The pochard and all diving duck, probably fly faster than surface-feeding duck under similar conditions, having heavier bodies in proportion to the wing area than is ever found among surface-feeding duck. The eider duck, which is even heavier than the ordinary diving duck (_Nyroca_), probably flies faster than them all when once started.”

4. _There must be a standard length of flight to which the test is to be applied._

If the question were asked, “Who is the faster runner, A or B?” the reply would surely be “To what distance are you referring?” A short or a long distance? Applying the analogy, it is obvious that a bird might be much faster than another for a short distance, but if the flight has to be prolonged, may not have the lasting powers of another bird, and therefore would be beaten on the longer course.

It seems likely that the fact of not considering one or other of these points may account for the difference in regard to some of the views held by observers of experience. For instance, may it not account for the fact that there is such a marked difference of opinion as to whether the peregrine is faster than the golden plover? May it not be true that for a short distance the latter bird may be the faster flier, but that in consequence of its lack of staying power it is overtaken before it goes half a mile unless it can elude its pursuer by twists and turns. In this connection it is worth recalling the experiences of that acute and accurate observer Charles St. John[9]: “The golden plover,” he writes, “is a favourite prey, and affords the hawk a severe chace before he is caught. I have seen a pursuit of this kind last for nearly ten minutes--the plover turning and doubling like a hare before greyhounds, at one moment darting like an arrow into the air, high above the falcon’s head; at the next sweeping round some bush or headland--but in vain. The hawk with steady relentless flight, without seeming to hurry himself, never gives up the chace till the poor plover, seemingly quite exhausted, slackens her pace, and is caught by the hawk’s talons in mid-air and carried off to a convenient hillock or stone to be quietly devoured.”

Colonel Meinertzhagen has been so kind as to consider the observations I have made above, and writes:

“I should doubt whether the golden plover has less staying power than the peregrine. The former migrates long distances (thousands of miles, in the case of the American golden plover, a bird almost identical with ours, which goes from Labrador to Brazil by sea), whereas the peregrine is nowhere believed to be a regular or persistent migrant over long distances. It is more probable that the peregrine is a faster bird than the golden plover and that the latter becomes exhausted by continued acceleration and fear, whereas the peregrine is accustomed to long periods of accelerated flight and is stimulated by hunger.”