A FEW DAYS later come the first heavy rains of the winter, swelling the river and pushing the scent of the Evitt through the estuary into the sea, those few tiny parts in a billion washing past the salmon waiting out in the English Channel. Triggered by the smell, that deep-seated desire to return home urges them forward. After many months and many thousands of miles of travel this siren call impels our salar on the final leg of his journey. Along the coast he comes, into the estuary, under the bridge at Cam’s Point and on to the pool beneath Middle Mill, where he pauses. But the early arrivals don’t pause for long. The rapid change from salt to fresh water seems to cause them no difficulty. Our fish, his strong silver body fresh from the sea, effortlessly pushes up through the fast torrent of the Middle Mill hatch to continue upstream. Night and day he swims, eating up the miles until at Pike Pool, unseen, he halts at the very place of his birth, six years and four thousand miles ago.
As I head along the river the darkness of the late November afternoon closes in, a gust of wind blowing a litter of dead leaves off the alders and onto Pike Pool. A group of ducks fly fast across the sky, seeking sanctuary before night falls. The meadows are strangely silent, the cattle absent now the fields are getting wet underfoot. The bats no longer flit in the dusk, but two owls fill the silence hooting to each other across the length of Gavelwood as the mist rolls in. Ahead of me salar rises up from the river through the mist, leaping from the water, his bright body catching the rays of the early rising moon, a crack resonating across the valley as he crashes back into the water. He jumps just the once. Maybe it is the exuberance of being home. Or maybe he is trying to signal his presence to me. Whichever it may be, it is enough to send me home happy, content that the river year has come full circle.