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AMID THE HIGH HILLS
* * * * * *
AGENTS
AMERICA THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
64 & 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
AUSTRALASIA THE OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
205 FLINDERS LANE, MELBOURNE
CANADA THE MACMILLAN COMPANY OF CANADA, LTD.
ST. MARTIN’S HOUSE, 70 BOND STREET, TORONTO
INDIA MACMILLAN & COMPANY, LTD.
MACMILLAN BUILDING, BOMBAY
309 BOW BAZAAR STREET, CALCUTTA
INDIAN BANK BUILDINGS, MADRAS
* * * * * *
[Illustration: SEPTEMBER SNOW, LOCH CARRON, ROSS-SHIRE.
By FINLAY MACKINNON.]
AMID THE HIGH HILLS
by
SIR HUGH FRASER
“But on and up, where Nature’s heart
Beats strong amid the hills.”
RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
A. & C. Black, Ltd.
4, 5, & 6 Soho Square, London, W.1
1923
Printed in Great Britain by R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh.
TO ALL WHO LOVE THE HIGH HILLS, AND
PARTICULARLY TO THOSE--MY DEAR KINSMEN
AND FRIENDS (SOME OF WHOM HAVE
PASSED TO THE GREAT BEYOND)--TO WHOM
I AM INDEBTED FOR MANY HAPPY DAYS
ON HILL, LOCH, AND RIVER.
PREFACE
For many years past from time to time I have contributed articles
on sport and natural history to various journals.
It was recently suggested to me that I should publish these
articles in book form, and I was fortunate enough to have friends
who kindly offered to illustrate them. I have accordingly selected
some of these articles, and have included others which have never
been published before. Amongst the former are some which in the
same or a slightly altered form have appeared in _The Field_,
_Country Life_, _The Scottish Field_, _The Salmon and Trout
Magazine_, and _The Saturday Westminster Gazette_. To the editors
of these journals I tender my warmest thanks for their courtesy
and kindness in allowing me to republish the articles in question.
To my friends, Mr. Finlay Mackinnon, Mr. Vincent Balfour-Browne,
and Mr. Frank Wallace, I am greatly indebted for the pictures in
colour and black and white, and the pencil sketches which they have
contributed.
To my friends and neighbours, Lady Anne Murray of Loch Carron and
Mrs. Schroder of Attadale, my grateful thanks are due--to the
former for the photograph, “Winter Sunshine--Wild Geese at the
foot of Applecross Hills,” and to the latter for the water-colour
drawing, “An Autumn Day--Loch Carron, looking West.”
To my friend, Miss Diana Darling, I am indebted for the photograph,
“Among the Western Islands,” and to my son-in-law, Mr. Noel Wills,
for the pencil sketch of Donald McIver, my gamekeeper and constant
companion on the hill for many years.
I wish to thank Mr. W. R. Bousfield, K.C., F.R.S., for helpful
criticism from the scientific point of view on my article “Birds of
Fastest Flight in the British Isles,” and Mr. A. D. Bateson, K.C.,
for his kindness in reading the book in manuscript.
In conclusion, I should like to say that, having derived so much
pleasure from reading the experiences of others who love sport and
natural history, I venture to hope that these pages may bring back
to some of my readers recollections of their own delightful days
amid the High Hills.
H. F.
STROMEFERRY, ROSS-SHIRE,
_August 7, 1923_.
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. THE CHARM OF SPORT AMID THE HIGH HILLS 1
II. STALKING IN ITS MOST ENJOYABLE FORM 6
III. A GREAT FISH AND A GREATER FISHERMAN 12
IV. THE BIRDS OF FASTEST FLIGHT IN THE BRITISH ISLES 23
V. A GOOD DAY IN THE FOREST OF COIGNAFEARN 71
VI. A STALKER’S PERIL 81
VII. THE LUCK OF SALMON FISHING 85
VIII. A STORMY WEEK IN THE FOREST 97
IX. A SALMON LOCH IN SUTHERLAND 113
X. THE HOMING INSTINCTS OF WOUNDED DEER 123
XI. THE METHOD BY WHICH EAGLES AND HAWKS SECURE THEIR PREY 136
XII. INSTANCES OF WOUNDED STAGS ATTACKING STALKERS 155
XIII. TRAPPED 165
XIV. THE LAST STALK OF THE SEASON 170
XV. THE LOCH PROBLEM 182
XVI. THE SURGEON OF THE DEER FOREST 197
XVII. THE SECRET OF THE HIGH HILLS 215
INDEX 221
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
* _Those marked with an asterisk are in colour._
*September Snow, Loch Carron, Ross-shire. _Frontispiece_
By Finlay Mackinnon.
FACING PAGE
*“The joy of watching deer when they have no suspicion
that they are being watched” 1
By V. R. Balfour-Browne.
Golden Days 4
By V. R. Balfour-Browne.
*“See! from the tops the mist is stealing” 6
By Finlay Mackinnon.
*“The salmon leaped twice straight up into the air” 16
By V. R. Balfour-Browne.
The Peregrine Falcon 26
By V. R. Balfour-Browne.
Winter Sunshine--Wild Geese at the Foot of the
Applecross Hills 36
From a Photograph by The Lady Anne Murray of Loch Carron.
*The Spine-tailed Swift 40
By V. R. Balfour-Browne.
*The Golden Eagle 64
By V. R. Balfour-Browne.
Where the Golden Eagle reigns 68
From a Photograph by Frank Wallace.
*Preparing for Battle 76
By Frank Wallace.
*“Take the fifth, he’s the best” 80
By V. R. Balfour-Browne.
In the Forest of Fannich 82
By Finlay Mackinnon.
“He had the advantage of some inches over my little
grandson, who was nearly five years old” 90
From a Photograph by Mrs. Noel Wills.
*Sligachan, Isle of Skye 96
By Finlay Mackinnon.
“Lying on a ridge we spied some deer” 98
From a Photograph by the Author.
The Five Sisters of Kintail 104
By Finlay Mackinnon.
Old Angus nearing Home 110
By V. R. Balfour-Browne.
The Sanctuary, Kinlochewe Forest 124
By Finlay Mackinnon.
“The trusty allies of our fathers on the hill” 128
By Philip Stretton.
“I was spying for some time” 134
From a Photograph by the Author.
*The Applecross Hills, and a Highland Fishing Village 142
By Finlay Mackinnon.
Death of the Mallard 148
By J. Wolf.
Among the Western Islands 166
From a Photograph by Miss Diana Darling.
*Where Strome Castle looks over the Sea to Skye 168
By Finlay Mackinnon.
*“The big stag is still there” 176
By Frank Wallace.
*An Autumn Day, Loch Carron--looking West 184
By Mrs. Schroder of Attadale.
Sunset on the Shores of Loch Carron 192
From a Photograph by Miss Alexandra Fraser.
*On the Edge of the Deer Forest 200
By Finlay Mackinnon.
In Achnashellach Forest 204
By Finlay Mackinnon.
*Evening Glow, Poolewe, Ross-shire 212
By Finlay Mackinnon.
*“The morning cometh” 218
By Finlay Mackinnon.
Also pencil headings to each Chapter.
[Illustration: “THE JOY OF WATCHING DEER WHEN THEY HAVE NO
SUSPICION THAT THEY ARE BEING WATCHED.”
By V. R. BALFOUR-BROWNE.]
[Illustration: (Grazing Deer)]
I
THE CHARM OF SPORT AMID THE HIGH HILLS
The fascination of deer-stalking is largely due to the romance of
the hill--the hill as it is known only to those who love it and
understand something of its hidden mysteries. The long day, all too
quickly ended, with the silent but sympathetic stalker--alone with
Nature in its most inspiring and elevating form--the ever-changing
beauty of sky and hill--the joy of watching deer when they have no
suspicion that they are being watched--the opportunities of seeing
rare birds and finding rare plants--all these things apart from the
difficulty and interest--and the greater the difficulty the greater
the interest--of trying to outwit--in other words trying to get
within shot of the particular stag one is after--go to make up the
attractions of what some of us think is the very best of true sport.
I well remember a famous statesman, who had himself owned one of
the best deer forests in the Highlands, saying to me that the
greatest attraction of stalking is that it takes one to places
where otherwise one would never go, and enables one to see the most
wonderful things which otherwise one would never see. Further,
there is probably no form of sport where less pain and suffering
are inflicted, assuming that any one who stalks will take the
trouble to know his rifle well, and will not take a long or risky
shot. The shot itself after all plays only a small part in the
pleasure of a day’s stalking. I have friends, first-class rifle
shots, who delight in stalking, and who, when they have arrived
within shot of the stag they have stalked, will sometimes not shoot
at him at all. This would not always be easily accomplished by
those who have strongly implanted within them the instincts of the
hunter, or perhaps I should say the primitive man.
Again, to pass from stalking, what is the real explanation of
the intense enjoyment of ptarmigan shooting on the high tops
after the close of the stalking season? I have more than once
heard this described as the most enjoyable of all kinds of
shooting. As is well known, on a still clear day the ptarmigan
is the easiest of birds to shoot, but on a wild windy day one
of the most difficult--twisting and turning with extraordinary
rapidity. Neither this latter fact, however, nor the exhilarating
and bracing air at the altitude where these birds are to be found
wholly explains the enthusiasm of those who have had this sport. I
have no doubt that the environment of the high hills and all that
this means are largely the cause of this enthusiasm. The delights
of grouse shooting, whether in the case of driven birds, or over
dogs, are greatly increased by the same cause. Without entering
upon the well-worn controversy as to the respective advantages and
disadvantages of these two forms of sport, is there any one who
has enjoyed both of them amid the hills who has not ineffaceable
memories of the vistas of marvellous beauty which he has revelled
in again and again while waiting in his butt for the first birds
of the drive, and--to change the scene--of the pleasures of many a
glorious twelfth in the company of an old friend with whom he was
in perfect sympathy, watching the dogs at work amidst the purple
heather on the side of the hill or along the heather-clad banks of
a burn?
It is true also of salmon and trout fishing in the Highlands that
the angler’s sense of peace and contentment is largely due to the
influence of the hills. This is especially so in the golden days
at the beginning of August, those glorious days before the serious
fun begins, when the trout in the loch are more of an excuse than
a serious ploy, when one discusses the growing antlers of the big
hart on the Home beat, when one basks in the sunshine of the High
Hills.
[Illustration: GOLDEN DAYS.
By V. R. BALFOUR-BROWNE.]
Whilst writing what I have already said about stalking I
recollected the following verses, which I intend to keep and read
for my encouragement in days to come--days which are, I hope, still
very far off:
NORTHWARD BOUND
(ONCE MORE)
Does your heart still beat with the old excitement
As you wait where the Scotch expresses are?
Does it answer still to the old indictment
Of a fond delight in the sleeping-car,
As it did when the rush through the autumn night meant
The Gate of Desire ajar?
Or has the enchanting task grown tougher,
And has that arrow beyond you flown?
For the hill that was rough enough is rougher,
The steepest climb that was ever known,
And the forest appals a veteran duffer
Sorely beaten and blown?
Oh! the years, the years, they be rusty and mothy;
Oh! the flesh it is weak that once was strong;
But the brown burn under the stone falls frothy
And the music it makes is a siren song;
Then the pony’ll take you as far as the bothy,
And that’ll help you along.
See! from the tops the mist is stealing,
Out with the stalking-glass for a spy;
Round Craig an Eran an eagle’s wheeling
Black in the blue September sky.
A fig for the years! Why, youth and healing
At the end of your journey lie.
(Reprinted from _Punch_, Sept. 14, 1921, by kind permission of
the Proprietors.)
[Illustration: (Three Antlered Deer)]
II
STALKING IN ITS MOST ENJOYABLE FORM
By far the most enjoyable form of stalking is to be one’s own
stalker, but this can only be done satisfactorily in a forest with
which one is thoroughly familiar. It is astonishing what tricks the
wind will play in certain corries, and as a result what mistakes
even a good stalker will make in a forest which is new to him.
Moreover, any one stalking by himself, unless he has experience,
may easily make another kind of mistake. He may think that he has
missed a stag when he has in fact killed him. Any one who has had
experience in shooting deer knows that a stag when shot through the
heart will sometimes gallop for forty or fifty yards or even
further and then fall down dead.
[Illustration: “SEE! FROM THE TOPS THE MIST IS STEALING.”
By FINLAY MACKINNON.]
Some years ago, preparatory to a few days’ stalking in a deer
forest in Inverness-shire, I arrived one evening at the Lodge; and
later on about half-past ten there returned from the hill a guest
in a state of great dejection who had never stalked until he went
out in this forest a few days before. I felt very sorry for him,
for he had been keen to secure a good head and said that he had
had a splendid chance of a fine stag standing broadside at about
eighty yards and had missed him. This was his last chance as he
was leaving early next morning. Two days later I was out on the
same beat when the stalker suddenly grasped me by the arm and said,
“There is a stag lying down there to the left of that hill below
us. Are you seeing his horns above the ridge?” We went cautiously
down in the direction of the stag, but had not gone far before we
discovered that the stag was dead. “That,” said the stalker, “must
be the stag Mr. X. shot at two days ago.” We examined the stag
and found that he had been shot apparently through the heart from
the knoll from which X. had taken his shot; it was obviously the
same stag. The stalker then told me that X. wished to stalk the
last hundred yards alone and had asked him to stay behind, that
X. had the shot and came back saying that he had missed the stag.
Neither the stalker nor X. had thought it worth while to look for
the stag. In the case of X., who was a novice at stalking, I was
not surprised, but I was amazed that the stalker had not done so,
although he was young and not very experienced. So X. secured a
good head after all, and no doubt both he and the stalker learnt
a lesson which neither is likely to forget, but at the cost to X.
of much unnecessary misery and humiliation and incidentally to his
host of much good venison.
It is sometimes difficult to be sure what is the result of one’s
shot, and it is a great assistance to have the opinion of an
experienced stalker whether he has his glass on the beast at the
moment the shot is fired or not.
I was coming back one evening after a delightful day’s stalking in
Glen Carron, when the stalker Macdonell said, “One moment, sir,
there is a stag down there just gone out of sight. If you can
shoot off your knee downhill you will have a chance directly.” I
sat down and waited, and in a few minutes the stag appeared. I
believed I was steady and on him in the right place. Directly I
fired he galloped off. “I’m thinking you’d better shoot again,”
said Macdonell. “What’s the use,” I replied, thinking I had shot
the stag through the heart. However, as I spoke, I did shoot again
out of respect to Macdonell, whom I knew to be a very experienced
stalker, and the stag rolled over like a rabbit which has been
shot in the right place. “Now we will see,” I said, “where the
two bullets went.” “I’m thinking,” said Macdonell, “you missed
him the first time.” “You may be right,” I replied, “but I don’t
think so; one thing I know, and that is that if I did and had
known it, I should probably have missed him with my second shot
also.” On examining the stag we could only find one bullet mark,
and on skinning him we found that one bullet only had struck him,
and that was through the heart. Macdonell no doubt thinks to this
day that I missed the stag with my first shot, and killed him with
my second when he was galloping; but I still have my doubts. The
moral is that though one sometimes hears the unmistakable thud of
the bullet striking the stag, there are other occasions when it is
difficult to be certain as to what has happened, and therefore
it is always wise to satisfy one’s self in the matter as far as
possible. Still more is this essential when stalking alone. In
stalking alone, there is this advantage, that one can always secure
the best position in which to shoot, whereas if one is accompanied
by a stalker, he sometimes takes that position himself and it is
not easy to get him to move on, or, as is more often the case,
there is no time for him to do so.
Charles J. Murray of Loch Carron, to whose kindness I am indebted
for many delightful days’ stalking, is particularly devoted to this
form of sport. A few seasons ago I was obliged to come south before
the end of the stalking season, and received from him a letter
which describes, far better than I can, the pleasure of being out
alone on the hill.
“You are missing the West Coast,” he wrote, “at its (_weather_)
best! for we have a spell of gloriously fine weather when the stag
can hear a footstep half a mile off, and the wind is so gentle that
it cannot make up its mind which way to go, but strays gently to
and fro and round in little circles, stimulating evil words among
the stalkers.
“Yesterday I was out alone and worked up to a Pasha and his
Harem--the ladies between him and me--he just out of shot on a
hillock behind them--approach from the front impossible, but just
a chance--almost a certainty with a fair breeze--from a rock to
one side, _if_ he should come down to his ladies before they got
a puff. I risked it and got a comfy corner in the sun and waited
to see which would win--the affectionate impulses of the stag or
the more wavering evolutions of the scarcely perceptible puffs of
wind, the old lady sixty yards away looking serenely at the top
of my head. Needless to say that after two hours, just when the
stag stretched one fore foot and began to hum a love ditty, I felt
a well-known cool feeling at the back of my neck, and the party
adjourned the meeting. Luckily I am not bloodthirsty, but enjoy
being among deer, and on these occasions driving snow and rain, or
sunshine and a dry tussock to curl up on, make all the difference.”
[Illustration: (The River Wye)]
III
A GREAT FISH AND A GREATER FISHERMAN
The river Wye goes out to sea
By stealth, in silent secrecy:
Among the hills she winds and wends
And wanders by the sombre woods,
And cleaves her way in circling bends
Through mountain solitudes.[1]
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.
[Illustration: “THE SALMON LEAPED TWICE STRAIGHT UP INTO THE AIR.”
By V. R. BALFOUR-BROWNE.]
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]
[Illustration: (Fast Enough for Me!)]
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.”
[Illustration: THE PEREGRINE FALCON.
By V. R. BALFOUR-BROWNE.]
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.”
Again in reference to the difference of opinion as to whether the
teal is faster than the mallard, may it not be possible that both
views may be correct? in other words, that it depends upon the
length of flight which the writer is considering. It may be noticed
that Major Radclyffe in the passage which I have quoted above (p.
28) seems to consider it may be possible that for a short distance
the teal may be faster than the mallard, though he has no doubt
that the latter bird will very soon overtake the former.
The falconer has certainly more and better opportunities of seeing
birds flying at their maximum rate of speed than any one else.
“He also has,” to use Captain Portal’s words, “the advantage of
possessing in his trained hawk a known quantity with which to
compare the performances of other birds.”
Captain Portal has flown hawks at many different kinds of birds
during the last fifteen years, and has made certain estimates which
have been arrived at after a great deal of comparison and analysis
of data obtained while hawking, shooting, flying in aeroplanes,
travelling in cars and trains, and walking in the country. He
says:[10] “My figures cannot be correct for every member of each
species, as I have seen one partridge in an October covey fly quite
15 per cent faster than any of its companions when all were at full
speed. All I have tried to do is to strike an average for the
species, the speed given being the maximum pace at which the bird
can cover the ground in level flight through still air.”
The speeds given for the peregrine and merlin are those of good
trained birds; the wild ones are faster. Here are the figures:
Golden Plover 70 miles per hour.
Teal and Blackcock 68 ” ”
Peregrine 62 ” ”
Pheasant and Grouse 60 ” ”
Mallard 58 ” ”
Merlin and Blue Rock 55 ” ”
Partridge 53 ” ”
Green Plover }
Jackdaw } 48 ” ”
Wood Pigeon 45 ” ”
Starling 44 ” ”
Kestrel 43 ” ”
Rook 40 ” ”
Landrail 35 ” ”
The speed attained by golden plover when pressed has been estimated
by airmen at over 60 miles per hour.[11]
Colonel R. Meinertzhagen, from whom I have also quoted above,
states that he finds, “after eliminating abnormal conditions
and observations based on meagre evidence, that the normal and
migratory flight in miles per hour (ground speed) is as follows:
Ducks 44-59
Geese 42-55
Waders 34-51
(but mostly from 40 to 51)
Starlings 38-49
Falcons 40-48
Corvidae 31-45
Tame Pigeons 30-36
The smaller Passeres 20-37”
Amongst the birds which are claimed by different high authorities
to be the fastest British birds are the swift, the peregrine, the
golden plover, the teal, the wild duck, and the curlew.
It is curious that in the various controversies on the subject no
one appears to have contended that the golden eagle may possibly
be the fastest flier amongst British birds. This may be because,
except in certain parts of the country, the eagle is never seen,
and there is necessarily very little opportunity of comparing
his speed with that of other birds. In particular the falconer,
whose opportunities of comparing the speed of birds are, as I have
already stated, greater than those of any other class of men, has
no opportunities in the case of the eagle. Moreover, the flight
of the eagle, like that of some of the fastest flying birds,
for instance, the blackcock, is very deceptive. He is in fact
flying much faster than he appears to be--“The eagle’s flight,
when passing from one point to another, is peculiarly expressive
of strength and vigour. He wends his way with deliberate strong
strokes of his powerful wing, every stroke apparently drawing him
on a considerable distance, and in this manner advancing through
the air as rapidly as the pigeon or any other bird which may appear
to fly much more quickly.”[12]
[Illustration: WINTER SUNSHINE--WILD GEESE AT THE FOOT OF THE
APPLECROSS HILLS.
From a Photograph by THE LADY ANNE MURRAY of Loch Carron.]
The answer to the question, Which of the two birds, the eagle or
the peregrine, is the faster flier, must even on a horizontal
flight be a matter of pure conjecture. On the one hand, the
peregrine has the advantage of pointed wings which make for
increased wing power and speed, whilst the eagle’s wings are
rounded. On the other hand, there is a great similarity between
the general build and structure of the two birds, and there is the
fact emphasised by Major Radclyffe in the letters from which I have
quoted above, that, as between two birds of different size but of
similar shape and make, the larger and heavier bird will almost
invariably fly faster than the smaller and lighter one once the
former really gets going. It is, of course, true that the peregrine
is much quicker in its movements and more agile than the eagle. It
is constantly under the necessity of flying at its fastest (which
the eagle is not) in order to secure its food; in other words, to
use the language of a stalker in discussing this question with
me: “The peregrine requires a warm diet, and lives on its prey.
The eagle, on the other hand, will eat carrion.” The peregrine is
probably quicker off the mark than the eagle, but this does not
necessarily mean that he flies more quickly than the eagle once the
latter gets going. Stalkers have unusual opportunities of seeing
these two birds in flight, and almost all those with whom I have
discussed this question believe that on a horizontal flight the
peregrine is faster than the eagle. This in my opinion is probably
the correct view.
It must not be forgotten that the Northern falcons, or, as they are
generally called, the gyrfalcons, are entitled to rank as British
birds, although they are rare visitors to these Isles. They are
(1) the gyrfalcon or Norwegian variety (_Falco gyrfalco_), (2) the
Iceland falcon (_Falco islandus_), (3) the Greenland falcon (_Falco
candicans_). The gyrfalcon is a very rare visitor here, two
recorded specimens only having been obtained here and one of these
is doubtful. The Iceland falcon is a rare visitor also, although
identified examples have been obtained here from time to time.
The Greenland falcon is an irregular winter and spring visitor,
but there are more recorded instances of this species than in the
case of the Iceland falcon. The former bird, the prevailing ground
colour of which is white, is the most beautiful of all birds of
prey. By some authorities it is considered merely a race of the
Iceland falcon, which it resembles in size and habits. The eggs
of the two birds resemble one another. All these Northern falcons
are about the same size and larger than, though very similar
in structure to, the peregrine falcon. Speaking generally, the
difference in length is about 5 inches, in wing 2 inches. They
have been very highly valued in Europe for hawking, and, as would
be expected from their superior size and similar structure, are
undoubtedly faster than peregrines.
Writing in the _Field_ for March 15, 1923, Major Radclyffe
says:[13]