There are two pools, however, above the Long Pool that I have not attempted to describe—the lower one the Yellow Pool, an ideal, leg of mutton-shaped piece of water, where a beginner could not well go wrong, and above it the Bridge Pool, so called because the railway line crosses the neck of it. It was in this pool that I once had a rare bit of sport. The whole of the water I have attempted to describe was then hotel water, the fishermen staying at the inn having the right to fish for a nominal sum—5s. a day I think it was. But the river had been in fair order, and several good fish had been got. It was then rapidly getting on the small side. The records of the previous week having been published in the columns of the Field, the inevitable result was a rush of ardent anglers, and the dozen or so of good pools—nice water for two rods—was perfectly inadequate to accommodate the six keen fishermen who had arrived to try their luck. It was necessary, therefore, to "straw" for the pools, and to my lot fell the Bridge and Yellow Pools. The next morning, on reaching my little beat, I found the Yellow Pool far too low to be fishable, and there remained only the Bridge Pool. Fishing it down carefully twice produced no result, so I lit a pipe and clambered up on to the railway bridge to scan the water below me.
I was able, after a careful search with shaded eyes, to locate three fish, all low down on the far side, lying behind a big stone below the water and upon a slab. I could see at once that to reach them I should have to do my utmost in the casting way, and should have, moreover, to bring my line up through the centre arch of the bridge above me to get out the length I wanted; but it seemed to me that if I could get my fly to travel and work well over the oily water formed by the stone it ought to be irresistible to any well-conducted fish. So, putting on a small Thunder, I regained the water side. The second cast brought up the smallest of the three fish, who made no bones about it, but hooked himself handsomely, and was shortly after disposed of in the tail of the pool; he weighed a bare 9 lb. The other two I knew were better fish; one I had seen should be over 20 lb., the other, a very pale-coloured fish, I could not see distinctly enough to form any idea as to his weight. Back I went to my spying point, only just missing being caught on the narrow bridge by a passing train, to see, to my delight, that the other two fish were there, apparently undisturbed. After a few casts the fly went exactly as I could have wished, and there was the answering boil. "By Jove! that is the big one I think; anyway, he is hooked, and well hooked, too." After a long, splashy fight in the pool I got on terms with him, and he began to flounder, and then I could see I had the light-coloured fish on. The big one was still there, I hoped. The pale fish soon came to the gaff, and, getting it nicely home with the left hand, I hauled him on to the bank, a good fish, and in good condition, turning the scale at barely 17 lb.
By this time the pool had had a good doing, and I judged it advisable to give it a rest. The Yellow Pool, which I had fished down more for occupation than for anything else, yielding me no response—and, indeed, it was all I expected—I ate my luncheon, lit my pipe, and proceeded once more to my vantage spot. There, sure enough, was the big fish, undisturbed and immutable. Unable to restrain my impatience, I sent a fly (the same one that had accounted for the two other fish) on its errand of quest. But there was no movement, no reply, nor was there to two other changes of fly I put over him. Having nowhere else to fish, and being disinclined to try the Yellow Pool again, as I felt sure it would be hopeless, I sat me down to cogitate and look over my fly box. The day had become sultry and heavy, and clouds had been rolling up, and suddenly there broke a regular deluge of rain, turning the pool into a seething mass of big drops. Instinctively I ran for shelter under the bridge, but before I reached it changed my mind and determined to try once more for the big one in the heavy rainstorm.
Hastily putting on a Thunder and Lightning two sizes larger, I sent him out, braving the ducking I was undergoing. The first fly that reached the spot was answered by a fine head and tail rise, and I was fast in the big one. For a short time he played sulkily, either through not grasping the situation or through trying to induce me to believe him to be a small one. But I was not to be deluded, and, as he kept edging up into the big water coming down the centre arch of the railway bridge, I let him have a bit of the butt of my 18 ft. Castleconnell. But, with a savage shake of his head and strong whisk of his broad tail, he was now thoroughly aroused, and, despite all I could do, up he went, carefully threading the central arch and working up for all he was worth into the heavy water round the corner. My running line was thus against the buttress, but, despite the imminent danger of being cut, there was nothing to do but give him "beans." Fortunately for me my lucky star was in the ascendant. A convenient patch of moss between the courses of the bricks saved my line from the grinding process; the strain of my supple rod, combined with the weight of the water, did the trick. I felt him yield, reeled up as hard as I could, but, as he turned tail and came down (fortunately for me through the same arch), I soon had to give up reeling in in order to haul in the line by hand to keep touch with him in his downward rush. Steadying the line when he got ahead of me, I felt he was still on. Ten minutes of the fight against rod, water, and luck had been enough for him, and, rolling on his side, he swung round into the slack below me. I had had no chance till then of taking my gaff off my back; luckily it came off my shoulders quite freely, and the steel went home. As I hauled him out with some difficulty, the hook, which had worn a big hole, came out of his jaw; so my luck continued to the last. I could not make him scale 30 lb.; he was a good 29½ lb., and, inasmuch as I had never landed a fish of 30 lb. or upwards, that part was somewhat aggravating. But, as I toiled home that evening over the three miles of sleepers and rails to the inn with the three fish weighing just about half-a-hundredweight, I several times wished he had not been quite so heavy.
The upper waters of the Awe, above Awe Bridge, formerly retained by the Marquis of Breadalbane in his own hands, and therefore not open to the general public, can nowadays be fished from Dalmally Hotel. Through that nobleman's enterprise one of the two big cruives has been done away with, and there is to be an additional slap nightly, between 6 p.m. and 6 a.m. The results cannot but be both beneficial and prudent. The characteristics of these upper waters are totally distinct from those of the lower ones, being unusually broken and rapid, the pools small, and not easily distinguishable.
The pent up waters of Loch Awe, finding through the dark Pass of Brander their only outlet to the sea, take full advantage of their opportunity, and rush and boil over the boulder-bestrewn bed of the river in a way that renders it imperative that your gut should be of the best, your tackle sound, and your determination great that you will not consent to be a mere follower of a hooked fish, but intend to give him "beans" when necessary.
The Black and Seal Pools and Verie are fairly typical of the upper Awe waters; most of them are fished from planks rigged out on staging, and wading is not generally practicable. A hooked fish can never be reckoned on as caught, nor can you ever be certain of him until the gaff has gone home and your fish lies on the bank beside you. This remark, of course, applies in a greater or lesser degree to all salmon fishing; but here the perils from heavy water, combined with the rugged, rock-strewn bed, afford unusual chances of escape, and at the same time add much to the sporting charms of a successful capture.
