There is a charming tradition in Scotland at the commencement at the salmon fishing when the boys and girls assemble on the riverbank to toast the forthcoming season and to offer a libation to the river gods. This is done by sploshing a good deal of malt into the river and a good deal more down themselves, and some more for good measure.
I think it is pretty much a truth universally acknowledged that slopping perfectly good whisky, or as it might be whiskey, into a river is going to do little enough towards anyone catching anything. Not least because most folk won't be in a position to fish until tomorrow or next week or later or when they have sobered up, so that any alluring effect the Scotch, or as it might be the whiskey, has on the fish will be at best diluted and at worst where reality meets theory and hope and expectation mingle; which is to say somewhere in mid-Atlantic.
Nonetheless no one who fishes will be inclined to deny the gods their fair share of anything that is going. Nor for that matter the fairies, the little people, the trout goblins, the Mayfly maidens, the dancing sedgettes or indeed the tanglies.
It all depends where you are, who you are and the sort of mood that takes you. There is a gillie know who swears blind That there is no point even approaching the unless you have deposited the requisite Smarties under the holy stone, and you might as well pack up and go home anyway if they haven't been removed by lunchtime. I'm never really sure whether he is serious about this or whether he is yanking the proverbial. What I do know is there is a water bailiff in the Home Counties who will write you off as dedicated no-hoper unless you start the morning by broadcasting wine gums about the bank.
I suspect there are elements of truth, or if not truth then at least rationally, about these somewhat bizarre habits. A gillie, for example, has only a little time to size up his guest who may be his responsibility, and to all intents and purposes his employer, for the next day, week, whatever. Now it wouldn't really be on, would it, to ask for guests references to be sent in advance? But there is nothing that says he can't set a little test on arrival. Test the mettle, so to speak? How badly do you want to catch a fish? Badly, Badly. Would you get up early and work the river hard? Yes. Certainly. Would you use the fly I recommend and the pools I choose? Of course. Of course. Will you do as you are told, where and when, rain or shine? I will. I will. Will you put six orange smarties under the wee rock yonder? If I have to. Will you dance naked in the moonlight wearing only a pair of waders and freshly cut thistle? E'r I'm not sure that I would go as far as all that, actually. Well, no Sir, that won't be necessary at all, Sir .Just my little joke.
But you can see how you are already neatly characterised for the duration of you stay. Moderately desperate. Basic manageability. Slavishly obedient, but not completely without scruples. If only most job interviews were so perceptive.
The point is, though, that we are none of us without our rituals. Most of which are founded on fact. I am of the opinion that in the absence of any kind of fishy activity at the pond, the best thing to do is to stick the rod under one arm and light a ciggy. This usually gets the fish moving. Obviously it does; because they can see that I'm not concentrating and know therefore that there can be no point of connection between me and the lovely juicy, luminescent lure lying just in front of their collective nose. Hence they take and I am back in action. That's my theory, anyway.
The truth is actually that in my frustration and excitement I have been thrashing faster and more furiously with every cast. This means my presentation of the fly has been shorter, splashier and generally less attractive even than my usual brick-like-efforts. As a consequence of which I have hoicked it back in a fury with little or no ceremony whatever in order to hurl it back out with more energy and lee effect each time.
When I stop for a ciggy, though, I don't cast very hard or very far, because I know that I am going to stop for a ciggy. So the line shoots out for miles and drops gossamer gently on the surface; just as it should.
Then while I search the many, many pockets of the fishing waistcoat for the fags and the matches, and footle about setting fire to my hand, my lapel, my hat and the cigarette in roughly that order, my distant nymph is drifting down though the water to where the fish are, and have been all morning, in the cool depths, And as for this cast, at least, my ferocious stripping will not whip it away just as the poor trot are getting interested. Hence they get the chance to take; as indeed do I. Which relaxes me, so I don't trash to anything like the same extent, which means the fish take more, which means that I catch more, which means that I catch them, which makes me happy and proves my point that there is nothing like a cigarette to get the fish going.