The Ewe is not an early river, and many of the fish that do come in the spring run through into Loch Maree, and as far as Loch Clair. The kelts, or spent fish, often remain in the river until May or even June. There is generally a run of salmon early in May. The grilse and more salmon come in June and July, especially July, and fish continue running until the breeding season in November; indeed, some say there are always fresh-run fish in the water. If a low state of the water hinders the kelts from going down to the sea, they become very numerous in the Ewe in the spring, and I have landed as many as eight in one day. Of course they had to be returned to the river, pursuant to law. The Ewe salmon is a handsome fish when fresh run. I once caught a fresh-run bull-trout in the river weighing 21 lbs., a very handsome fish. The natives call these bull-trout Norwegian salmon. Mr Osgood H. Mackenzie, some years ago, caught one of them which weighed 27 lbs., the largest fish he ever took from the Ewe. I have caught several large sea-trout, which were of the same species. A few of the ordinary sea-trout are got in the river when they are running up to Loch Maree, and occasionally a respectable brown trout. The largest salmon on record from the Ewe weighed, I believe, 34 lbs., and was taken from Mac Cordaigh by an angler fishing on the west bank of the river. I got a fine hen salmon of 30 lbs. from the Middle Narrow in August 1876. The best flies for the Ewe have yellow or black bodies rough and full, and mixed wings also pretty full, jay hackle or heron hackle, and a gold pheasant tail. Small flies kill best, unless the river be in spate.
If the Ewe could tell its own tale, it would mention many illustrious characters, and would no doubt give us some good stories of them. Here is an amusing yarn of Dr Mackenzie's. Speaking of the landlady (about 1808) of the Kenlochewe Inn, the doctor writes:—
"She would wait long for a character from the late Sir Humphrey Davy, who used to fish and write 'Salmonia' on the river Ewe. Once going east with Lady Davy, he had put up a 20 lb. pattern salmon, probably to show his friends what sort of fish he was catching. They arrived at the inn, when, I suppose, the larder was rather empty, and the landlady, who valued a salmon no more than any other fish, imagined the twenty pounder was being carried by Siromfredavi (as a foreigner once addressed him by letter) to help empty Highland larders as he moved through the land; so she chopped Mr Salmo in two, without a hint or 'by your leave,' and astonished her guests by presenting it boiled as their mainstay for dinner! It was reported that Sir Humphrey's ugly language was audible half a mile away, and that listeners suspected he was on his way to an asylum."
Not many years ago I was walking along the road from Inveran to Poolewe, and saw, as I thought (and rightly), a well-known politician fishing the river. His attendant was the water-bailiff, John Glas, who came up to speak to me about something or other. I asked him, "Who is that gentleman fishing?" He replied, "One Bright." I said, "The great John Bright, you mean?" His answer was, "I never heard of him, but he is a good fisher." Such is fame!
How many odd little incidents happen to the angler; they seem so extraordinary at the moment, but perhaps lose their effect by repetition. When a salmon is in good humour, or hungry, or irritated, or vicious, or whatever it may be, he will take any sort of fly. Having gone out one day to fish the Ewe without my fly book, I suddenly discovered the old fly I was fishing with had come to pieces; there was little left of it but the hackle, untwisted, and attached to the hook at one end. I shortened it to the length of the hook, and got a salmon with it at once.
What a pleasant incident it is, how flattering to one's self-esteem, when a friend who has toiled in vain all day begs you to try his rod, and you immediately get a salmon from a pool he has just fished! This has happened to me more than once, each occasion being a palpable fluke.
I remember hooking a very lively fish one day in May 1881 at the Middle Narrow; he jumped, he flashed hither and thither; he now had out almost the whole of my line, and in another instant was at my very feet. After a little of this sort of work, he got off; I was horrified when the line came slack, and in a bit of a tiff jerked the rod up, drew the line, and threw it again. At the moment the fly touched the water another fish took it, which I ultimately bagged. A friend standing by positively never noticed that I had parted company with the first fish!
Fishing a year later at the same Narrow, I felt a slight suction as my fly approached a well-known yellow stone in the water. I pulled the fly away, thinking it might be a fish. My gillie said he saw nothing. After a brief pause I began again, and again felt the slight suction at the same spot. My gillie had seen nothing, and assured me it was but the eddy round the stone that I had felt. However, I allowed the usual interval, and, instructing my attendant to place himself where he could command the best view, I re-commenced. The same suction, the same remark by the gillie. So without further pause I threw again, and this time hooked a good fish at the same stone, which, after a sharp struggle, I brought to bank. It was he who had been at me all the time.
On another occasion, after I had fished the New Cruive Pool, I was coming ashore from the stone I had stood upon, and carelessly left the line dangling in the water. On lifting the rod I found there was a fish on, and I soon grassed a fresh run grilse of 7 lbs.