I returned to the Tweed, one bright summer day. It was in August this time and not in May.

The magic was there and so was the fish and my longing to fulfil a really great wish of catching a salmon, a grilse would do. Fresh run, lice covered, silver, and blue.

We fished the Wheal Pool for an hour or more. Sand martins, herons and otters we saw. but where were the fish, fresh run, and new?

Hiding deep down at the back of the pool? And then, with a bang and a lurch, I was in!

The line pulled from the reel, I saw the big fin.  The salmon was hooked, I played all my line. Mac, my guide, said be careful, you’re fine. Was I really? My heart in my mouth I watched as the fish pulled hard to the south.I leaned the rod over, an eye on the bend, The fish pulled some more, and here was the end.

I knew it was mine, it came to the net.

It lay there, silver, fresh liced, glistening wet. I couldn’t take it, my heartbeat so fast. Man against fish, my conscience asked, This fish has travelled thousands of miles across the wide sea towards the isles. and now it is home on its way to breed.

Must I really satisfy the need of showing to friends the fish that I caught when I know in my heart that I really ought to set it free, to travel some more past Tweed Hill, Lennel, and Floors?

I let it go, so proud and so grand. It swam upstream through the rocks and the sand, back to its birthplace ready to spawn as the new day breaks on a glorious morn.

A poem by Sally Pizii