THE RIVER 
- by Ronnie MacLeod

The River Clyde, the wonderful Clyde, the name of it thrills me and fills me with pride. How does the song go again?

I can see why someone would write a song about a river, it can be an impressive creature in all its moods, from wild and angry, to a smiling sparkling, almost laughing thing, very seductive, but frightening too.

Never, never boring, and the river in question, the mighty Clyde drawing its lifeblood from the Leadhills, rumbles and shouts its way towards Glasgow then on to the sea. High in its upper reaches Trout and Grayling enjoy being part of this legend. The Clyde Trout, what can you say, a beauty among beauties, with its distinct grainy spots, almost a separate superior breed.

Then the Lady of the stream, the Grayling, surely Nature over-indulged herself in the creation of her. Lateral scales, diamond shaped eyes, delicate square mouth and that ridiculous dorsal fin, but absolutely beautiful with all the colours of the rainbow, what angler can resist opening this mighty flag on capture to look and wonder.

The river roars on now deeper, stronger, it passes down through the Clyde valley passing through ancient estates, nobility who once owned this land, only their bones remain, buried deep in the ground in ramshackle graveyards along the way. Moving at a steadier pace now, a few fish flash by, moving upstream with a purpose, a long-lost ancestor returning to his native land to claim his birthright. "The Salmon is coming home". A shoal of Sea Trout flash and dart in the sparkling water happy in their surroundings. By Carbarns now, onward to Hamilton, herds of Minnows scatter across shallow pools chased by an unseen predator, a big Trout or perhaps a wily old Perch, with its pointed dorsal giving it that 'Man O' War' look.

At Hamilton the Clyde meets the Avon. A lively convergence occurs, a greeting perhaps of two sisters. Now doubled in stature, the river rolls on. We watch and admire. Through Bothwell Bridge and past ancient battle sites, down to Blantyre and its mighty weir. Here all the families of fish meet. The Salmon, Sea Trout, Brown Trout, and Grayling happily mingle with the Dace, Roach, Perch, Pike and the diminutive but friendly Gudgeon in celebration and homage to their river.

From this point downstream it becomes a truly mixed culture. The water widens and slows somehow, as if now it has no need to hurry. It has now achieved greatness and likes the taste.

Carmyle, Cambuslang all go gliding by. Round the loop to Belvedere. Here shoals of Dace sip flies from the surface in their typical ringed rise. Lying slightly deeper, a shoal of red finned Roach sway in the current, searching for food washed their way. The Roach is truly one of the prettiest of fish, bright as a button, red eyed and when bigger, the canniest fish there is. The angler who serves his apprenticeship catching her will fear no other species.

We enter the outskirts of the city now. The river deepens considerably, down to 30 feet in places. Here lies the heartlands of the coarse species. Salmon and Sea Trout travel through without stopping. Some large Trout also live here, finding, in their old age, this stretch, more suitable and easier going. The odd comical Flounder scours the river bed, looking for titbits missed by others.

The Glasgow bridges greet the river's arrival in the city. Dalmarnock then Shawfield. She swings round Glasgow Green, slowing all the time. Now realising she is close to her goal, only now to negotiate the barriers, then mingle her purity with the salt water, to exist no more, her course run.

Many miles away to the south, somewhere high in the Leadhills plump dark clouds shower the land with new lifeblood, and so the story begins again.