Their arms hit a perfect rhythm – each casting a short line and retrieving it with practised ease through the peat-stained waters, their traditional wet flies cutting through the waves to good effect. Every now and then a feisty Heilan’ troot would slash at a fly and become hooked. With well–accustomed ease, yet perfect respect, the trout would be played on the light fly rod before being brought to the side of the drifting boat and released to fight another day.

The sky was ideal for such fishing. Overcast but dry, the soft light was just what they wanted, the wind strong enough to put a good chop on the loch and to push their boat nicely parallel with the bank in a perfect drift. It was a ‘purple perfect’ day to be afloat on such a splendid Highland loch.

The loch was long and with steep sides, clad in bright purple heather and deep green bracken, with rocky outcrops and the odd gnarled and stunted Rowan. The air they took deep into their lungs when rowing from drift to drift was pure and fresh. The water, despite being late summer, was cool. All was well with the world and the two angling friends sat in quiet and satisfied contemplation. They didn’t need to talk on such a purple perfect day. They just kept on casting and catching, lost in the timeless pleasure that the pursuit of wild brown trout can bring.

Many’s the time both their rods would be bent into fish, each new hook-up greeted with the catchphrase “ah, here’s a better fish,” only for this to be quickly followed up with “ah, no, just another wee one – but don’t they scrap well…I could have sworn that one was close to a pound…”

No other boats troubled the loch, they were kings of all they could survey – they didn’t have a piece of paper to say they owned the land, but as the late Norman McCaig had previously asked – “who owns the land?” They certainly felt they owned the loch. It was theirs for the day and it was being generous, offering up its finned and brightly spotted inhabitants with a wonderful regularity.

They had breakfasted well in the hotel and would soon be lunching on one of the many pretty little islands which dotted the large loch. Each sprouted the last remnants of the old Caledonian forest; all ancient and very noble fir trees. Blaeberry plants carpeted the surface where the pine needles had not shut out all other flora and the occasional stand of bracken offered cover from the wind.

They pulled hard on the oars against the now strengthening wind to make landfall on what they considered to be the most hospitable island. It had a short stretch of sandy beach onto which they drew the clinker built boat before unloading their gear and moving to a small dip in the ground that took them out of the worst of the wind. A purple perfect location for a brew up courtesy of their faithful Kelly Kettle. The ready fuel that the pine cones and heather stalks provided, meant that within minutes their water was boiling and their tea infusing. Their lunch was a good one, with plenty of freshly baked bread, cold meats and strong cheese, washed down with the kind of wonderful tea that can only be brewed using clear Highland water. They discussed the wonderful fishing and the flies that had done the damage. In truth they both knew that on a day like this it didn’t really matter what flies they were using, the trout were up and hungry, feeding and being extremely obliging whatever the colour and pattern of fly presented to them. They both laughed when it became apparent that, having experimented with numerous flies throughout the morning, they were both fishing purple patterns. These unusual creations from their fly-tying vices were certainly doing the job today and they laughed when the coincidence of purple flies having a ‘purple patch’ on a purple perfect day became clear. Ah, yes life was good.

Time wore on, and they had a wonderful afternoon’s fishing to look forward to. They packed up the remnants of their lunch and disposed of all signs of the kettle’s scorch marks on the soil before returning to their beach come temporary harbour. To their horror they saw that their boat was no longer there but drifting serenely off down the loch. They confirmed in their mutual glance that they clearly thought that the other had secured the boat by its anchor rope.

Then it dawned on them – on this otherwise purple perfect day – they were marooned.

Anthony Glasgow

There is a danger with writing articles on angling that some regular readers (if I have any) may think that the author considers he is some sort of angling guru dispensing pearls of angling wisdom. I hope that this isn’t the case, but in this piece I want to dispel any such notion, should there be one. There is a wonderful angling truism that fishing is like sex “ you don’t have to be good to enjoy it. I am not going to comment about the other half of this equation but I certainly believe that you don’t have to be an angler who catches lots of fish to enjoy the experience “ which is just as well given my many years of vast incompetence.

This is where I bear my angling soul and tell you of some of my angling disasters as well as the numerous setbacks all destined to live on in my angling hurt locker. I hope they inspire any other duffers out there.

So where do I start? At the beginning I suppose. My long and spectacularly unsuccessful fly-fishing apprenticeship started with the tip of an old greenheart salmon rod stuck into a piece of dowelling teamed up with an old and very cheap fly reel loaded with light monofilament nylon. Yes, sadly no one had told this mad-keen young angling tyro that you needed fly line in order to be able to fly fish. Let me assure you how unsatisfactory and completely unrewarding trying to cast a piece of limp nylon with a fly rod is. I defy even the best tournament casters to make such a set-up work in the pursuit of wily River Devon trout. And indeed, I caught none on this outfit whatsoever “ and possibly didn’t even manage to cast my fly into the water.

Matters did not improve with any rapidity and my angling incompetence continued for many, many years. Thanks to my non angling (golfing) family, I was all too regularly stuck on the banks of a far too shallow river in the midst of a bright summer afternoon (do you remember when we had those?) and expected to catch a trout on dreadfully inexpensive tackle and frankly, without a clue. At least I can now stand on the bank of a river with nae enough water and fish for salmon with very expensive tackle and catch nothing with far more style (but still the same lack of substance).

Reading books helped but it wasn’t until my mother introduced me to Paddy Bulloch “ a most wonderful man, sadly dead for many years” that I started to get to grips with fly fishing. This did not mean I was an overnight success. I still smile as I remember just how patient Paddy was with his young disciple. I wasn’t so much Grasshopper as Spider, such was the way I could form nylon into strange web-like tangles (you have to be a certain age to understand the Grasshopper reference).

Overtime I became highly proficient at breaking rods “ a skill I still practice on a regular basis, in particular with my Hardy Smuggler. How my friend Stuart laughed as I shut my car door on my new fly rod in the car park of Craigluscar reservoir many moons ago now. He laughed simply because he knew of the Victor Meldrewesque reaction he was shortly to witness. I did not disappoint him and he calls me Victor to this day.

Nor has my breaking things been limited to rods. I have had landing nets, reels and tackle bags fall to pieces in my service “often whilst playing fish” and I have almost broken limbs as I have fallen out of trees, climbed in the pursuit of watching fish. Trees feature highly in many of my unsuccessful struggles with fish. I well remember hooking a pike on a fly in a Hampshire chalkstream and realising it was moving in a direction that I couldn’t go unless I followed it downstream past a line of bankside trees. This I accomplished by passing the rod around each tree in turn (whilst at this point still attached to my angry pike). I remember being very smug about achieving this feat until I tripped over the roots of the last tree and in the process lost my fish (and incidentally almost broke yet another rod).

But of course you don’t have to break things to be inconvenienced. Walking half way across the Isle of Coll before realising I didn’t have my reel wasn’t my smartest day on the planet. Thankfully Sean and Rob rose above any childish reaction to my predicament. Aye, right.

I have also proved that you can still snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Even after having a good day’s fishing, you can find yourself surpassing yourself with Frank Spencer-like incompetence. Leaving a trout in the boot of your seldom-used second car during the summer doesn’t increase its second-hand value, believe me. Good source of maggots though.

Even today, when I think I have this competence thing in the bag, I can regularly bring myself back down to earth. After a rather too liquid lunch in the Kinkell fishing hut on the Earn, I recall standing rather shakily on the bank and, having decided to spin in the afternoon following an unsuccessful morning with the fly, casting my devon minnow comfortably a field beyond the far bank. Too much effort is oft likely to have the opposite result.

I will end this first trip into my hurt-locker by telling a tale of a  visit to the back lochs of Ardnamurchan a few years ago with a salutary reminder to others of the perils of forgetting how time changes everything “ from your own fitness to how much trees can grow in 15 years.

Loch Mudle from the road to Portuiark (with Rhum and Eigg in the background).JPG Loch Mudle from the road to Portuiark (with Rhum and Eigg in the background)

There are two ways of fishing the back lochs “ the easy way and the other way. The easy way is no doubt to ask the Estate for the keys to the gates on the forest path and to take your car as far as you can before doing relatively short walks through the pine plantations to the lochs. In fact the easy way is still not easy at all, for traversing through the plantations from loch to loch is not straightforward and you are well advised to be able to use map, compass and GPS before you try. The other way is to park your car by Loch Mudle and travel a circuit by foot, taking in as many lochs as you can manage. This other way was relatively straightforward 15 years previous to my trip when the plantation was younger, as were my own legs.

The reason I chose the other way on this trip was that relatively rare event in these parts “ a south easterly wind. In order to go with the wind and use it to fish down the lochs as I went about my circular expedition, it made sense to fish anti-clockwise “ so the die was cast, shank’s pony it would be.

The first loch encountered on this route was Lochan a Mhadaidh Riabhaich. This is the loch I had fished on a regular basis, being less popular than Mudle but close enough for a quick walk from the road where you can be fishing within half an hour.

The view west from the area of the lochs

On this occasion however, I would only be passing the loch on my way to Lochan na Carraige. I had decided to make use of what I had surmised was a firebreak in the north-east of the surrounding plantation when I had last fished Mhadaidh Riabhaich to make easier progress to this loch I had only fished once before. The distance was only 1.5km on the map “ surely not too difficult for an ex-Army man?

How wrong I was. 15 years of growth, and more importantly of trees blowing down in the frequent storms of these parts, rendered the route “ after the first deceptively clear element that I had seen from the shore of Mhadaidh Riabhaich “ almost impassable. There was no fire break, there was no continuous tree plantation furrow to follow, there was just 1.5km of fallen trees and treacherous bog to negotiate. Thankful that I was travelling light, with my Hardy Smuggler #5 not yet set up (it would have ended up in far more than its normal 7 sections if it had been), I literally battled, crawled, climbed and slithered my way through the primary jungle of fallen trees following what were roe deer tracks through the tangle of timber until, at last, I appeared sweating profusely and caked in mud at the small lochan that was the satellite of Lochan na Carraige.

Having taken some time to cool off and to then put on my waders (a bit late given how wet I was), at last I got the chance to explore this enchanting lochan. At only 500m long and perhaps 100m wide, this was no large loch, but that’s the way I like it – an intimate experience for the lone angler to cast and step their way round a loch barely troubled by anglers throughout the year. Having taken note of the abundance of flying ants falling onto the loch, I armed myself with a cast comprising an Alexandra on the point, a russet palmer in the middle and a Bibio on the top dropper. This is almost my go-to-first cast in all wild lochs. The Alexandra is, I am sure, taken as a beetle imitation, the russet palmer is taken for a host of terrestrial insects (in this case I hoped a flying ant) and the Bibio is taken as a Heather Fly. In order to best exploit it as an ant imitation, my russet palmer was size 14 where the other flies stayed the usual size 12. Success was immediate and repeated “ all on the wee russet palmer. All terrier-like and quick as lightning, these were not large fish but how they scrapped on my 5-weight rod.

Small but beautifully formed

So with success and a feeling that the struggle had been worthwhile, I moved on to Lochan nan Sioman “ a thankfully short 200m walk over rock and heather rather than through dense forest. My previous immediate success was not repeated, despite a similar fall of ants. A light rain started to fall and I took out my lightweight waterproof “ no sense in getting wet and cold when at a remote loch “ when I suddenly experienced shooting pain on my neck. The pain seemed to spread and grow worse and I knew I had been bitten/stung by something, but of course could not see exactly where and by what, given the location of my discomfort. Thankfully I carry an after-bite pen (as well as so many other things) in my fishing waistcoat and so I found myself applying the soothing solution all over my neck whilst considering the unlikely but not altogether ridiculous notion that were I to have any kind of anaphylactic reaction whilst at this remote spot I was, frankly, a goner. The likely culprit was of course a flying ant attack but my mind went through a range of possibilities such as an adder (there are plenty in these parts) in the hood of my jacket. No melodrama here then!

The best of the trip

Having soothed the affected area, I continued to fish (well, if there was to be an anaphylactic reaction, I might as well keel over whilst playing a trout). By some twist of happy fate, I was shortly to connect with my best fish of the trip, a hard-pulling brown of comfortably over the pound which put a wonderful arc into my 8ft rod. Safely released to fight another day, I fished on to the north-west tip of the loch before setting my sights on another cross-country hike of a kilometre and a half to cast into Lochan Creag nan Dearcag. Had my initial walk been less arduous I would have also taken in Lochan Creag nan Con, but now time was against me. I had promised my kids to take the boat out into Sanna Bay later that day to check our creels for lobster and crab, and now I sensed that I was pushing my luck with the family.

While not as demanding as the initial walk, the traverse proved demanding enough (in particular having decided to keep on my waders and felt boots). Felt boots and grass certainly don’t mix and I had a couple of interesting tumbles which could easily have resulted in a badly damaged knee (again this would have been interesting in terms of extracting myself from within dense forest). But time was pressing on and I didn’t want to waste precious fishing time getting in and out of waders.

Sadly, my investment in time was a poor one, as both Lochan nan Dearcag and Lochan na Tuaidh proved dour with only a few fish showing any interest. Perhaps it was the lightening of the wind, or the ending of the flying ants that caused the trout to go down, but perhaps it was just that I wasn’t fishing as hard, conscious that I had to keep moving even faster than I normally did when covering these wild lochs. Whatever the reason, my fishing came to a natural end as I headed from Lochan na Tuaidh to hit the end of the forest track whence I began a rapid walk back to the car.

Arriving some 3hours late and having missed the tide to get the boat afloat to check our creels, Judith did enquire as to why I hadn’t turned back when she heard of the tough going. My reply was simply that I had set out to go fishing, and that’s what I was going to do, no matter what.

Well, there’s no fool like an old angling fool.

Here’s to a successful 2013!

Anthony Glasgow

I am one of these miserable people who hate the commercialism of Christmas. I would delight at the whole of December being cancelled and I think everyone should only get a lump of coal in their stocking. A decorated float dared to drive past my house last week complete with Father Christmas and some dressed up Elves.  Jingle Bells played loudly in time to the flashing lights.   I actually willed the tractor pulling the float to get a puncture in all four of its wheels and lose its electricity supply.

You will be pleased to hear that Action Man loves Christmas, it is his favourite time of the year.  His happiness, enthusiasm and goodwill to all men is absolutely unbearable. You have never seen such goodness in a single human being. We had a twenty minute discussion about the unimportance/importance of sending Christmas cards. I won but Action Man would just not admit it and spent about £30 on stamps at the post office. I dread to think how many Satsumas I could have bought with that money.

This Christmas I have crossed the Scottish border into England.  It is not easy for me leaving my lovely mountains behind but I have arrived in a place where there are dramatic clifftops, palm trees, crashing waves and very welcoming inlaws, one of whom is a trained cordon bleu cook who does not buy frozen roast potatoes and makes bread sauce from scratch. The other one is Scottish.  He can on the whole understand what I am saying; as long as I speak slowly and have not had more than two glasses of sherry.

The 8 hour journey down to Cornwall went far too smoothly with minimal signs of the reported floods. I can confirm that the Daily Mail online exaggerates.  We did not, as I predicted drown by driving in the darkness into a very deep Ford. There were no arguments during the car packing. This was mainly due to the fact he could not find me. I was hiding in the garden. I knew Action Man would get mad when he saw the amount of plastic bags I had included in the items to be packed at the front door. He has a plastic bag phobia you see. Tesco bags seem to have the worst effect, especially ones full of toiletries with the lids not on properly.

Within two hours of our arrival my 7 year old English nephew began asking anxiously if I was going to ‘boil his heid’.  Children have good memories and Action Man has been under threat with his head many a time.  My nephew also made me giggle uncontrollably at the carol concert we went to last night.  I nearly had to be taken outside.  The whole pew was shaking with my sniggering. The collection money got dropped, lost, refound and then lost again about 5 times during the singing of Away in a Manger.  Hymn sheets were rustling, paper flew around everywhere.  My children pretended they had no idea who I was.

Horses on Caerhays Beach

We spent this afternoon on the beach watching a brave surfer in the very rough sea. The minute I saw the waves I was convinced the children would get dragged into the sea and end up clinging to the cliffs. I worried about how cold it would be if I had to go in and save them. Then two horses galloped past us. I am quite scared of horses.  It is their massive teeth. I always wonder if they will suddenly go mad at the sight of me, start kicking me and just generally freak out sensing my fear. Funnily enough, as Action Man, who is a horse lover has reassured me time and time again, this will never happen. I did go and sit in the car, just to be on the safe side.

Mevagissey Harbour

So plans for the rest of our Cornish stay included a jump into Mevagissey harbour on Boxing Day.  Wetsuits at the ready.  I didn’t really like the thought of fishy smells in my hair and seagulls flying into me. My worry was that they would be full of leftover fish and chips. I decided it would be safer to take photos and settle for a cheese and onion pasty sitting on the harbour wall.

After Christmas it was back up to the hills for Hogmanay and plenty of dancing…

Moira Douglas

I’m not ashamed to admit I am a fan of John Denver. His lyrics to ‘Annie’s Song’ could so easily have been penned for a wild trout or salmon fisher. If being in the wilds of this wonderful land of ours, on the bank of river or loch doesn’t fill up your senses, then shame on you. Being a countryman at heart (I call Bridge of Earn ‘the big smoke’) time spent outside experiencing fresh air and the vagrancies of our ‘interesting’ weather is time seldom wasted. Time spent fishing is particularly precious but so much of the pleasure is just being outside and letting my senses take over.

This was reinforced for me this September when I was fortunate enough to have two days on the River Lyon immediately followed by a day on the Spey. I was immensely fortunate to have marvellous and interesting company on all three days plus experiencing wonderful September weather in which these two parts of Scotland (which are beautiful at the worst of times) looked stunning.

Early morning mist and Frost, Glen Lyon September 2012.

I can report that over the three days, as befits my lack of skill, I caught no salmon – although I was to be very briefly connected on three occasions – but I enjoyed myself immensely savouring the wonderful tonic of beautiful scenery, stunning rivers and good company.

The Lyon was certainly sleeping for the two days I was there. Having never fished it before and with no positive fishing ‘intelligence’ to go on, a prior search on Google unfortunately did nothing to improve my optimism. Almost top of the list was an article by the Fisheries Scientist Dr David Summers ‘What’s gone wrong with the River Lyon?’ This piece chronicles the reduction in the catches of migratory fish on the river and certainly isn’t a piece you want to read just prior to being treated to two days on it. However, ever the optimist, I decided that a bad day’s fishing still beats a good day at work, so off to the Lyon I would go and maybe I would get lucky.

Tackling up in a light Autumnal rain, the wood smoke of the Bothy hanging in the air…

Too still for salmon fishing, but if a view like this doesn’t fill up the senses, take up another pastime.

Luck, of course, can be measured in many different ways. I was lucky that my Cambridgeshire-based best friend Sean Elliott could make the trip north to the Inverinian Lodge and provide wonderful camaraderie. I was lucky that our hosts Bill Tibbits and Tom Taylor proved to be fine company as well, with many a dram and bawdy story being told in front of the roaring log fire that night. We were all lucky that the September weather was benign and treated us to the soft light so wonderful in Scotland as well as a brief morning frost to remind us all this was to be one of the last opportunities of the year to fish for our silver tourists. Perhaps not all the luck was ours, for the river – whilst at a lovely height – was not full of fish…but who wants it all their own way? I will certainly return to the Lyon, if not with Salmon rod in hand, certainly a small trout rod, for we caught some wonderful wild browns of up to 2lb in weight and there’s nothing not to like about that.

Lost in the pleasure of casting a line.

I drove two days later up to the Spey, a happy and refreshed man, through stunning scenery to continue my quest for a September salmon. If the Perthshire I left was picturesque, then the Speyside I arrived at was equally charming. Passing the numerous distilleries of whose product I regularly enjoy was a delight. Stopping to sample their wares would have been even better, but I had a date to keep with my hosts for the following day’s fishing on the Craigellachie beat. I met up with my fellow anglers Stewart Cobb, Tom Allan, David Herring and Jamie Christie at The Archiestoun Hotel where we spent a pleasant evening getting acquainted and being treated to a splendid meal. If I was somewhat quieter than normal then I only had Sean’s heavy hand on the whisky bottle the previous evening to blame.

Sean Elliott soaking up the Highland Experience, River Lyon.

The next day dawned cold and clear and the river looked in fine fettle. In contrast to the Lyon, it was certainly full of fish. The beat was immaculate and my only complaint was that we would be required to throw our lines in a single Spey cast. Apparently in common with many duffers I find a double Spey easier, however counter-intuitive that might sound, and so my number was up – I would be shown up for the salmon angling charlatan that I am. I therefore secretly hoped I would be consigned to the furthest pool on the beat where I could practise my single Spey without the embarrassment of onlookers.

Luck once more helped me out. Whilst I was given a mid-beat pool to lash into a froth, it was thankfully hidden from too many prying (and pitying eyes) which allowed me to enjoy the Zen of salmon casting and for the next few hours I lost myself as I watched the countless times my fly swung round in the rushing waters of the river always hoping, but not expecting, the take of a fish.

The Zen was good. I gazed up at the ancient woodlands that fringed the river, I listened to the birds and the tumbling water, I felt the sun shine on my face and with my senses full I cared not (well, not too much) that I never felt the pull of a fish. I did have a ‘moment’ that brought me back to full alert when with my second cast of a Collie Dog style fly (self tied with a lock of hair from my good friend’s dog Alfie) a fish rattled into it, but alas, this did not convert into the steady pull that all salmon anglers (even duffers like me) know means a fish has stuck on.

Experiencing the Zen, River Spey.

At the end of the day I was relieved to find that my competent companions had fared equally badly in the ‘catch a fish stakes’. I just hope they fared as well as I had in filling up their senses.

And no, I didn’t play any John Denver on my way home in the car.

It was Abba.

Anthony Glasgow

After the most glorious Autumn with bright sunny days, vibrant orange and yellow coloured leaves, Winter has now arrived in Scotland and I am not in a very good mood with the inventor of low energy lightbulbs.  They do not work and I want the old ones back.  I cannot see a single thing in the dark mornings and trying to dress in clothes that colour coordinate is an issue that will probably last until the Spring. Navy and black look very similar when you are in semi darkness and it is only a matter of time before I leave the house with non matching shoes on.

It is dark by 4pm and I am convinced everyone is driving around with their high beam lights on. I am practically blinded every time I go out in the car.  On top of this, the rain has become a little bit excessive.  My wellies are a permanent feature in my car. We still have the snow and black ice to look forward to. I really will need to get up 10 minutes earlier to watch Action Man scrape the ice from my windscreen.

Of course no matter what weather is thrown at me, one look at the hills and all is forgiven. The tops are covered with snow like icing and as I drive in the mornings to work I have Stirling Castle on my right and the Wallace monument on my left.  Being in Scotland makes me feel at times that my life is perfect. I am home.

There may be short days and more darkness than I would like but there is nothing but light and liberation in my life at the moment.  This Winter has brought with it a new and long overdue stage in my life.  I am now working full time after 12 years of motherhood and either not working at all or working part time.  I practically skip out the door in the mornings after carefully applying my lipstick.  I have an hour at lunchtime to go shopping all by myself like a grown up and today I went for a run. I smiled all the way.  If I need to stay late in the office, I can, I am no longer tied to the 3.30pm school run and after school clubs.

No more temping. No more job hunting. No more rejection. I am finally somewhere where I am of value and people are investing time and money in me.  The last 9 months of soul destroying job hunting has taught me just how important this is.

The key to my success of course is the one and only Action Man. Up until now he has never been in a position to help me with childcare due to his own very demanding work commitments.  A gradual role reversal has developed in our house and I really think the change is suiting me.  Working from home 3 days a week, Action Man happily walks the children to school in the mornings and picks them up in the afternoon.  They have been happily making paper maché masks and Christmas decorations.  Television and the Playstation have been severely  rationed.

I am slightly bewildered. This is the same man who this time last year phoned me once a week from Afghanistan while he was away for 7 months and the year before that while in America for a month on exercise managed one brief phonecall, claiming the connection was bad. This morning he phoned me from Sainbury’s to tell me he was having a coffee. Lovely.  In hindsight, military demands and the nature of his job seemed to take over everything for such a long time. I just accepted it and now I cannot believe I ever managed it.

So I am feeling lovely, completely liberated and today I had matching shoes on, but just one slight thing, he is missing the Army……

Moira Douglas

The regular reader of my articles will find it no surprise that I like to read about fishing. I have a particular fondness for old fishing books from the late nineteenth to mid 20^th Century period. A gentler time perhaps (certainly for the class of individual free to indulge a love of fishing on the many private estates of the time!) and certainly a slower paced one, where man seemed to work more in tune with nature than we do now. It is interesting, of course, to note that these ancient writers also chronicled a similar view of their previous generations. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose …

I am an infrequent but frustrated collector of such books, and I was very recently and very kindly given a lovely 1943 volume of ‘How to Catch Trout’ by a friend and colleague. I don’t think Paul realised that I have such a love of books from this time, but he certainly picked the right genre if only by generous accident. My long suffering wife tells me that I write with a very old fashioned style and vocabulary; some other commentators too have noted my use of rather archaic language – I was commended by Paul for using such an expression as ‘sallied forth…’ in a previous article about fishing Pitcarmick Loch. Not quite a contemporary phrase apparently.

In truth, whether or not my writing is intentionally out of touch or not, I do love the way angling writers of the early 20^th Century used language to describe their love of this common passion. I noted in my appreciation for the way in which Edward Charlton wrote about Ferox fishing in 1873 that, no matter the date when he penned his words, he was still expressing the same enjoyment that I, many years later, get from the same pursuit. For me, the main selling point of any work on angling, be it ancient or modern, is that it conveys an enthusiasm for both fishing and the places we fish.

One of my favourite works is ‘Loch Trout’ by Colonel H A Oatts published in 1958. Not only is it a superb and engaging read, it has the added attraction of some lovely black and white photographs of the Colonel boat fishing various highland lochs. I must add now that my better half is not so enamoured as each plate shows the Colonel enjoying his leisurely sport whilst his poor wife sits at the oars! In this regard, plate IX is superb and my words can not do justice to the dated ‘relationship’ it encapsulates. I do not recommend that you show such photos to your good lady whilst suggesting that they demonstrate how a loving wife should still behave these days…relations may become frosty.

The Colonel relaxing on the loch – from ‘Loch Trout’

No such worries with ‘Wade the River, Drift the Loch’ compiled in 1948 by Mr R Macdonald Robertson which as the inner sleeve states combines the merits of two different types of books; the instructional and the reminiscent. From the Editor’s preface, which quotes Sir Herbert Maxwell “The charm of scenery is the chief  accessory to the angler’s enjoyment” this dated tomb still manages to serve up a wonderful menu of angling anecdotes from yesteryear plus some more wonderful black and white plates. My particular favourite shows an intrepid, earnest-faced  soul in tweed and kilt ensemble (perhaps Mr Macdonald Robertson himself) perched high on a rock surveying a distant loch through a telescope with the caption ‘Detecting a rise on a Highland Loch’ – they don’t make ’em like that anymore! Having experienced the midges of the Highlands for many years, I have immense respect for anyone willing to endure their attentions dressed in a kilt. Perhaps I miss-read his earnest expression and it was more one of torment…

The book provides a sad reminder however of how much of our fishing is but a shadow of its former glory, in particular that of the West-Coast. The Chapter on Loch Maree in Wester Ross –  ‘the finest loch fishing in Scotland’ according to the sign that used to sit in the Loch Maree Hotel – could no longer be seen as anything other than ironic despite its continued scenic splendour.

My love of old angling books goes all the way back to school where I have to confess I was put in a moral quandary. There was a certain ancient tomb ‘Battles with Giant Fish’ which was clearly a niche interest as I was the only pupil to ever sign it out. It told the story of  a certain Mr Mitchell-Hedges’ expedition on his rather grand yacht from Jamaica to Panama, where as well as doing dubious amounts of collecting of specimens ‘for scientific purposes’ he and his friends spent many hours fishing for big sharks, tarpon, giant saw-fish and all manner of exotic species. He was accompanied by Lady M. Richmond Brown who seemed to enjoy the blood-thirsty pursuits and chronicled their exploits in the many photographs of Mitchell-Hedges’ captured leviathans. Great stuff for a 15-year old who loved fishing and adventure!

My moral quandary was that I often thought about simply keeping it as I was clearly the only reader – but I am proud to say that good prevailed over evil and I returned it. However, sad was the day when I found out it had been thrown out by the librarian doubtless because of its lack of general popularity! I’m not sure what moral this story has, but I don’t feel better for not having it on my bookcase to enjoy of a winter’s evening in front of a log fire with a dram to hand.

If you have never taken the time to read and hear the wisdom of our angling forebears (flawed as some of it most definitely was – take the chapter on the benefits of fish-farming in highland lochs in ‘Wade the River, Drift the Loch’!), then I can only recommend that you do. If you pick the right books they will not only amuse and inform you, but they might also inspire you to value our native fishing all the more as you will see the dangers in allowing a steady decline of the value of game fishing to our Country.

Nostalgia, they say, is not what it used to be.

Anthony Glasgow

Following Anthony’s recent article ‘A Woman’s Touch’ I thought I deserved the right of reply. I shall refer to Anthony from now on as the hunter-gatherer because I am sure this is the way he sees himself. In common with so many of his fishing friends, I am sure my dear hunter-gatherer (can I just call him H-G?) is simply retracing his roots back many millennia to a time when we little ladies sat back in our hide tent and awaited our triumphant hunters to return with their trophies in blind adoration.

Not that he often brings back trophies these days. He claims, of course, to have reached a higher plain in his angling journey and now returns most of his fish to fight another day…very convenient H-G, as this ruse is apt to mask those days when creatures with brains the size of a pea defeat him.

To be fair, I was with him on that recent escapade where I had to put up with his ‘short spot of fishing’ to allegedly allow me to ‘catch my breath’ (the cheek of it!), where he did actually catch a number of trout including a big one – he says it was a big one, but I’ve only his word for it – which he did indeed put back. I suppose it was rather beautiful, but I note he lavished more time and loving care reviving it than I have seen in a month of Sundays…

Still, I think I am pretty accommodating of H-G’s desire to fish. It does seem to make him a happier, more contented soul – and so much more pliable to my whims as he works hard to earn another trip. I’m sure this is something that we fishing widows  know only too well. A man wanting to fish is a man keen to earn ‘brownie points’. I don’t think I’m unreasonable in what I expect him to do. He did buy me a very nice pair of shoes when we were last in Cambridge – nothing to do whatsoever with wanting to go fishing shortly after with his best friend Sean…

That’s another thing. This fishing malarkey does seem to bring him close with other H-Gs. Sean in particular, but there are now many others. It really is quite sweet. The long phone calls and emails planning some new mad jaunt into the wilds of the Highlands; the grin as he packs his rucksack for the 4^th time; the poring over maps, cleaning tackle, tying flies and so it goes on. I suppose it keeps him busy and out of the pub.

There are worse things to be obsessed by.

(PS these are the words I hope Judith would write if actually replying to me, what a good girl she is!)

Anthony Glasgow

The title of this piece is not a prelude to a series of fisherman’s tall tales (these are likely to come in an April article), but rather to consider the love of watching fish.

My fascination with fish is almost certainly the reason I got into fishing. I love nature in all its forms, but fish have always been the creatures that have held my interest the most. Typical of most fishermen, I simply can’t cross a bridge without looking over the parapet to search the water below for signs of a finned resident or two. If there is indeed a fish, I can stand transfixed for long minutes, often forgetting my hurry and certainly loosing myself in its underwater world. Perhaps it is this ‘otherworldliness’ that makes fish so special above the other fauna that breathes air and moves in the same medium as we homo sapiens do.

Not only do I love to watch fish, I also love to hunt and catch them particularly when able to see their reaction to whatever lure or bait it is that I am tempting them with. As I have opined in a previous article, an afternoon fishing on a clear stream, be it a chalkstream or highland burn, can teach you more of the ways of fish than months of fishing in more turbid waters and I would heartily recommend both these kinds of venue to any angler.

I have recently returned from a trip to Cambridge. During my short time there I managed to have a few all too short hours lure fishing for perch and pike with my host. The Cam was running reasonably clear and at its summer level, and this allowed me to witness two solid pike hit my lure, in one case almost at my feet. The fact that neither deigned to hold on until I landed them was almost incidental. The fact that I had been lucky enough to witness their strike and ensuing fury more than compensated for my loss. Even the third pike that followed my lure to my feet without striking was not considered a loss, but rather a victory for my wish to see wild fish rather than just catching them. Happy days on the Cam indeed.

My recent trip to Lewis in the company of Richard Bath and Jon Gibb saw us fishing in both the Gorge Pool and Bridge Pool of the River Fhorsa – and the highlight of this was being able to watch the reaction of the salmon to our various offerings. Whilst the vast majority of our flies were studiously or contemptuously ignored, it was mesmerizing to watch.

Many’s the time I have climbed a tree in order to watch fish in a river. Being high above them and moving slowly means you remain unseen and have the pleasure and privilege of watching nature in the raw. Often I have managed to dangle my line down from the tree to allow my weighted nymph to jig in front of a trout – not the most sporting of methods if you are a dry fly purist (but I’m not) – but certainly one of the most captivating because you get to watch the fish’s reaction. Success is not guaranteed but when you do hook the fish you certainly earn your catch due to the resulting agility test as you try and play the fish as you climb down said tree. Sadly, this is mostly undignified now that I’m old and stiff of limb.

A fish you are lucky enough to watch does tend to stick in the angling memory. I will never forget a trout taken from the River Dever chalkstream in Hampshire which I was lucky enough to catch many, many years ago. What made its capture more memorable than the other trout I was to extract from that same river was that I was sitting only six feet away from it and able to watch it’s every move.

It was holding station in the current in a very narrow channel between the overgrown bank from which I was fishing and a clump of ranunculus weed. An ill-placed bush and an awkward cross wind made a straight upstream cast impossible and so I was forced into a stealth approach.

I knew I would have only a few attempts at putting my fly in the right place before the fish would be spooked given the clarity of the water. My approach was to cast along the bank itself so that my flyline landed on terra firma but my cast would be blown by the crosswind to put my fly the short distance required onto the water. This approach meant that my fly had to land perfectly, as it would only travel a matter of inches before being dragged in an arc towards the bank due to the anchoring effect of the line stuck in the bankside vegetation.

All the time this would be happening I was in a position to watch whether my finned friend would find my offering of interest. Well, through entire fluke my first cast was exactly as I wanted it to be…but my Piscean pal didn’t see it that way and lazily came up to inspect my dry fly before turning his nose up. Why I don’t know, but he gave me a second chance and by repeating my casting fluke, the fly landed like gossamer (I think that’s the expression used in all the fly fishing books) in the right place and he didn’t need a third invitation. The whole thing remains etched in my mind and I can almost close my eyes, smell the rich meadow grass, feel the warm wind and remember the sight of his white mouth closing over my fly before everything went tight and mayhem broke loose. Ah, the stuff to warm the cockles…!

A whole world better than watching Robson Green…

Anthony Glasgow

Oh life has been very busy these last few weeks.  You will be glad to hear that further to my last blog things are drastically looking up on the job front.  I am quite exhausted. Last weekend I had the pleasure of spending the weekend at Gleneagles. You know, that little hotel up the road with the golf course.  It was my first time staying there. I would recommend it. Rather grand and glossy.  It was in celebration of the fact that Action Man and I have been married for 13 years.  His romantic words as he shook his head in wonder were ‘who would have thought we would have lasted this long’.  I completely agreed with him, it is nothing short of a miracle. Quite seriously, we have not threatened each other with divorce since as far back as April. He did mumble something about having enough paperwork to get through as it is.

At check in they offered to park our car.  I had just admired a red Ferrari as we approached the main entrance and we had parked next to a Bentley. The children were warned not to bash any doors or create any scratches.  I counted at least eight shiny black Range Rovers with personalised number plates.  Do they not come in other colours?  Needless to say the thought of subjecting somebody else with the job of parking our 9 year old banger which is putrid, stinks of wet dog and needs some serious bleaching was more than I could bear. We politely declined the kind offer.

Then they offered to carry our bags.  I looked at Action Man’s Army issue black hold all with his name written in white tippex.  I smiled sweetly and made a mental note that we really need to buy some smart luggage and in general get our act together if we are going to go out anywhere in public.  Action Man carried the bags.

Our suite was spacious with soft lighting, two televisions and a four poster bed. A radio was playing. We could not work out how to switch it off. Dressing gowns and  slippers were laid out.  I excitedly checked out the little bottles of shampoo, soap and shower gel along with stationery, postcards, a sewing kit and shoe shine. I struggled to find some Tetley teabags amongst the complimentary range of teas and coffees on offer. Lapsang souchong, cannot do it. It tastes of smokey bacon and ash.  We enjoyed the delicious complimentary fruit cake washed down with Scottish mineral water.

Then it was off to the swimming pool and outdoor hot tub. The sun was shining. Oh so very pleasant. There are lovely dimmed lights in the ladies changing room that make you look ten times better than in real life. The main pool was like a bath. The changing rooms had under floor heating and you did not need to rake around to find £1 for the locker.

Breakfast in Gleneagles is a treat. The children were warned to be on their best behaviour. They were not to eat with their fingers, lick their knives, swing on the chairs or kick the table.  You can have caviar with your organic scrambled egg at breakfast for a supplement of £150.  I think this also involves champagne. I am fascinated by this; do people actually eat fish eggs and drink champagne in the mornings?   This would not be my first choice of hangover cure.

Life is really quite a joy at the moment with Action Man no longer weekly commuting and the unpredictability of Army life being a thing of the past.  After an Army networking meeting last week, Action Man has found himself with an unexpected job rather quicker than he expected.  He was quizzing me first thing this morning about what tie went with what shirt before rushing off to get the train.  Life was easier when he wore a uniform.

Moira Douglas

I consider myself to be a fortunate soul. I have a good life, good friends and plenty of interests to keep me looking forward to times spent away from work. Any regular readers of my articles will know that my most enduring passion is angling and that I love passing on my love of fishing to others.

In this regard, I am also fortunate. As I work in a school, the running of an angling club is relatively easy and it allows me to put something back into angling. Encouraging and helping the future generation of anglers into this great sport gives me satisfaction beyond measure. I still remember my long and difficult apprenticeship and if I can help in any way to guide young people along this path then that’s just great.

The School I work for has a pond. When I arrived at the School some eight years ago now, I resolved that its neglected, somewhat overgrown and silted-up water feature would be regenerated and stocked with trout. Nothing works better in getting youngsters hooked on fishing than to give them a beautiful loch where they have a good chance of becoming attached to one of its finned residents.

One half of the School pond

I can happily report that thanks to the very generous help of two parents, plus the enthusiastic help of Ted Carr and Patrick Bowden-Smith, we now have a pond that is back to its former glory and filled with hard-fighting brown trout.

The re-establishment of the pond as a successful fishery has been a fascinating journey which has taught me much. Long ago, I had embarked on a fisheries management course but this was usurped by the more pressing demands of an 11-month deployment to Bosnia and following that a two-year MSc course and the sitting of my Chartered Engineering Review. I still remain interested in fisheries management and the process of regenerating the pond has therefore been absorbing. If truth be told, I am sure that I would have found it easier to pass a qualification in fisheries management than I did my Masters and Professional Review such is the power of enthusiasm!

With the necessary funds offered by a very generous parent, the first step we had to undertake was the partial draining of the pond to allow the removal of many tons of silt and organic debris that was choking the life out of it. This we did in halves, keeping the water level up in one half of the pond at a time, to allow us to move any existing fish into this half whilst we drained the other – the pond, being somewhat dumbbell-shaped, made this easy to accomplish. This preliminary operation was in itself a fascinating procedure as we really had no idea what we would find. The resultant mix of abandoned goldfish (a quite extraordinary number!), small roach, minnows and large eels were moved with the minimum of distress and the dredging was conducted successfully. The enthusiasm and interest of Ted and Patrick throughout was infectious and made even the messiest or mundane tasks enjoyable – it’s easy to learn when you are enjoying yourself.

The next stage was a waiting game for we decided that we needed the best part of a year and a half to allow the pond to ‘settle’ and regenerate itself with a good level of biodiversity before we introduced any apex predators. This ended up being a less inactive period than we would have liked, as we spent our time tracing and dealing with a number of leaks brought about by the disruption of our dredging operations. Being a natural structure, we knew our works were likely to have an impact we could not predict completely and so it proved to be. Some of the field drainage in the area of the pond dated from Napoleonic times – so working out where water was going proved to be interesting and far from straightforward. Happily though, our leak-repairing was successful and we could then sit back and let nature do its stuff.

It certainly did. It was truly amazing to see the speed with which nature re-established itself when given a helping hand. Before long, the pond was sustaining a huge number of snails, damsel flies, hog-louse and various other flies – all good trout food!

The stocking was done thanks to the generosity of another of our parents – who just happens to run a trout hatchery. It was great to learn so much about stocking theory and trout husbandry from Craig. His knowledge and undisputed empirical experience allied to his wonderfully gentle yet authoritative manner meant it was very easy to treat our every meeting as a ‘school day’. We stocked a range of fingerlings, one-year and two-year fish which means that we have that most precious of things – a stocked water that feels like a natural one. You are never sure just what size of fish is likely to rise to your fly which makes a pleasant change from our ubiquitous rainbow-trout waters where you know that most fish will be at the 2lb mark…

One of the pond’s bigger residents – tempted by a weighted nymph

Towards the end of the summer we engaged in weed cutting in order to ensure that both our young anglers and canoeists continued to be able to enjoy the pond at its best (yes – they can coexist happily together). The removal of excess weed, given the relative shallowness of the pond (and therefore limited volume of water) will prove essential on an ongoing basis to ensure that the pond does not suffer as it did in the past from low dissolved oxygen (DO) levels which makes keeping a healthy head of fish untenable. It was certainly noticeable that the trout took far longer to recover from being hooked in the high summer months where the water was warmer and therefore held a lower DO level than they did when the water was cooler. Too many weeds and the resulting demand for DO in the hours of darkness when plant life respires rather than photosynthesises is the single most challenging issue for a pond such as ours.

As we get towards October and the end of the pond’s first season in its new form, I am happy to report that the fishing has been challenging (there is such a huge supply of natural feeding why would they chase something that doesn’t look just right?) but that a good number of our young anglers have exercised its finned residents. A number of the larger fish have also been caught and released so interest remains high from the members of the Club which is just what we want.

However, no-one has yet caught the monster fish I just happen to know we slipped into the pond’s depths when young eyes were busy reading text books – but I can’t wait to hear the story from the pupil who does!

Anthony Glasgow