On the way down we spotted a large herd of deer, perhaps already getting psyched for autumn’s shennanigans. Trying to get close enough for a photo we dropped behind a bluff, then poking our heads above the ridge line the deer were nowhere to be seen. It’s amazing how they melt away.

Down at the river and things weren’t looking too promising. We came up to it at a series of impassable rapids, and opted to walk upstream. Some bushwacking later and we came across an ancient ruined dwelling perched on the steep hillside just above the river. Almost completely hidden by bracken and hill grass, it was enough to make one pause and consider the remoteness of a life lived in such a spot. It really was just about as properly remote as things get in the UK. Getting through winter must have been an interesting challenge. The mind boggles.

Further bushwacking and we came to a wide, shallow pool. Off with the boots and we were soon across and getting a bit of lunch on the go. It was such an enticing pool that I decided it was worth the faff of setting up a rod, and within seconds trout were rising to the little deer hair sedge.

Half a dozen pretty little trout later and we packed up and struck off towards our goal. The first job was to find the path we’d seen from high on the ridge. It had looked promisingly clear and solid from far, but we soon discovered it to be exceptionally bog-like and disliking of leaky footwear. Much bog-trotting followed.

After that we did more bog-trotting. I think there was a dry section of path at one point, but I might be making that up. Things were damp.

After a bit more boggy wading we found ourselves at the head of the big loch and ready to turn and head up to the hidden lochan that was our final destination. Unsurprisingly the off-road section required for this goal was boggy and very wet, so the bog trotting didn’t stop. I’m not sure if I forgot to mention, but it was very damp.

At long last we came up and over the final rise, and there before us lay a rather magical scene. A Lost Loch snaking away between the steep sides of a remote glen. And sure enough, the spreading rings of rising trout pepperd over the surface close to the near shore.

It was 4.30pm. It had taken a bit longer to get here than planned (ahem). I quickly scouted around for a suitable tent pitching spot, but was rewarded with nothing but extremely boggy ground anywhere close to the loch shore. Even the attractive sandy beach that should have allowed for some extreme Scottish sunbathing was completely under water.

Beginning to feel just a touch uncomfotable at the prospect of the night to come I climbed part way back up the hillside and searched hard for a flattish spot. There were one or two, and you’ll never guess, they were boggy as hell. So a decision had to be made between pitching on lovely dry, bare rock at angles ranging from 30-90 degrees to the horizontal, or on profoundly boggy ground. Time to test that ground sheet waterproofing.

So at last to the fishing. There were some issues. The aforementioned flooded beach was the main culpret. It created a barrier of 6″ deep water about 10 metres wide between the solid(ish) shore and the slightly deeper water where fish were rising. I tried casting over it and succeeded in spooking all fish within a 30m radius. I had to get closer, and the only way was to strip off and wet wade up to the thighs. Swimming in highland lochs is one thing, can be very fun in fact, but standing still and casting for a couple of hours in the same water is somewhat more invigorating on the legs.

Luckily the fish liked the look of the little dry shipman’s buzzer I offered them. One after another they supped it down for the next couple of hours. Quite a wonderful thing to catch trout in such a wild place, truly surrounded by mountains and up to the knackers in baltic water. So much fun in fact that we got rather carried away and neglected to take any photos. You’ll have to trust me when I say that the trout were very pretty and all that, but they really were. The only thing which rivalled their shining forms was the incredible sunset which accompanied our dinner shortly afterwards. As pots of noodles simmered gently the western sky blazed the most intense pink I’ve ever seen, sending rays bouncing off the loch below.

It was soon quite profoundly dark, enhanced by the thick cloud that rolled over, blocking out all star and moonlight. Sleep was fitfull, dampened by the pounding rain that hammered off the tent canvas for most of the night.

I’ll spare details of the following day’s walk out, except to say that it was long, involved ticks in all sorts of places, and provided endless views of spectacular mountain scenery. Despite the grumbling over bogginess, we were actually remarkably lucky with the weather as it only properly rained during the nights. It was a really wonderful chance to spend a slightly more extended period of time away in the hills than I usually manage. Having the Lost Loch as a destination was in some ways unimportant. What mattered was that it was a long way away and required a bit of graft to reach. It’s just a shame it wasn’t boggier.

Read Part I of ‘The Lost Loch’ here.

After a Friday evening stopover in Glen Etive on the way north, we found ourselves in Fort William wasting time in outdoor shops, wondering what items might have been forgotten. My propensitiy to be drawn into outdoor gear shops, even when I know I wish to buy nothing, is something I really must address. Terrible consumerism and an unholy waste of time.

My initial purpose was perfectly reasonable. I wanted a lightweight trowel with which to bury the natural waste of eating and walking long distances. Alas the lightest trowel I could find weighed almost as much as the (heavy) trangia I was already carrying. I finally decided that with all the rain the ground was sure to be pliable enough that the camp spoon could be put to a new and interesting use.

To further digress, dare I say to rant, I must recount my conversation with an assistant (that’s a funny word) at one particular camping shop on the high street. After asking him if the shop had any trowels, he looked at me as if I’d just shat on the carpet right there and then, and stated, “We don’t sell things like that here.” I suppose I must have missed the secret method his regular customers no doubt adopt for turding in the wild, perhaps involving standing side on to the breeze and grimacing intently.

A couple of pies later, the venison version of which would go on to help provide a memorable night and bring the camp spoon into earlier use than expected, and we were driving ever north and west through sheets of rain. Every five miles or so the clouds parted as the rain subsided, only for another shower to be met around the next corner. Spirits didn’t flag though, as the always reliable highland weather forecast suggested that Sunday would be better.

We arrived at the parking spot and kitted up. Normally this is a brief affair, but with me around it tends to get somewhat slowed down as camera equipment is strapped on. This time it was further retarded by the fact that somehow 3 days of camping and fishing and walking gear didn’t want to fit into my 45L rucksac. Some emergency discarding helped a bit, but only in combination with wearing all clothes and offloading (ahem) the fishing bag to my kind companion would the lid shut. In my defence I was carrying the tent…

Thus we were on our way. For about 10 minutes. At which point it became immediately obvious that the first river wasn’t going to be crossed without swimming. Much hard staring at the map and an alternative start point was proposed. Back to the car.

Along the way to the revised start point an interesting looking bridge, which is maybe stretching the use of the word, was almost tempting enough to draw us across. But given the state of my balance, and the 80-year old knees located at my leg hinges, we kept going for the last mile up to the top of the road and thus avoided the river altogether.

All this arsing about had cost us another hour of light, which together with the Great Fort William Turd Scoop Debacle (GFWTSD) meant that we were not going to eat into very many miles before sunset. We thus took a more direct route towards our destination, which involved climbing quite steeply up to gain a long ridge, but which saved a couple of miles of low level trudging. Arriving on the ridge we were greeted with one hell of a nice view, including the sight of a sinking sun and beautiful splashes of colour on the surrounding mountains. The tent was quickly errected on the flattest raised spot we could find, which was nonetheless waterlogged.

Meanwhile SP went off to get some cooking water and I whipped out the camera and started photo-spamming. I spend so much of my regular time imagining being in places like that ridge at the right time of day, that to actually be there was really quite wonderful. Clouds danced around the higher summits and occasional patches of whispy mist passed under our feet. It seemed quite unreal that simply by plodding one foot in front of the other you could attain such a location and view. It gave the understanding that there really is no great trickery in the beautiful photos of folk like Colin Prior and Richard Childs, just a lot of trudging and patience (to go along with a healthy dose of skill and technique of course).

With dinner duties finished (it’s always worth taking that block of cheese and French sausage..) we watched the sky deepen through all imaginable shades of blue, until at last a few stars revealed themselves. I took a few long exposure photographs with the camera propped on rocks (the tripod was one of those emergency discarded objects), managing to simulataneously photograph Ursa Major and scratch the hell out of the LCD screen.

Squeezing through the tent door I produced the first suggestion of what the night would hold, but pretended it was just gas released from the bog under the groundsheet. The brother wasn’t buying it, but did decide to join in. Fun fun times in a cramped space. A few generous sips of whisky and off to sleep. I’ll spare the rest of the details.

Read Part II of ‘The Lost Loch’ here.

Didn’t catch anything except a little sunshine and a tinge of happiness. I’m not complaining.

Grabbed a quick evening last weekend while up in Assynt. God’s country if ever there was. Easterly breeze, cold, and 3 hours without a sign of a fish. Going through the motions, enjoying the light and land more than the casting. Last cast (actually a genuine last cast) at the end of the loch and suddenly the line is pulling away, deep into the pale peaty water. A fly of improvised tying, butcher-like with some extra tassles. Probably didn’t matter anyway, but what did matter was that it sat on the edge of the mouth of a beautiful brown trout.

We arrived at the boat to find sticky conditions. Once I’d managed to remove the peppermint cream from its wrapper, however, we got round to checking out the weather. Overcast, dull, humid and a slight breeze. Can one ask for better loch fishing conditions?

As we were getting ready to push out, I took a few moments to ask one of the regulars for some advice. I count myself as an all-around ‘improver’ with this fly fishing lark, but that category drops a couple of notches to ‘waste of space’ when it comes to fishing on big lochs. Buzzers I was told, small black ones with some red flashes at the head, fished slowly and carefully would (and I quote directly) “definitely catch fish tonight”. A true zealot, I lapped it up and prepared myself for baskets of golden trout. I could already sense the gentle draw on the line as a fish turned on the point buzzer, so delicious was the anticipation.

The first drift produced nothing except an increasingly hostile easterly blow. Likewise the second drift, and the third. By the time I’d finally got the motor going for the 4th time (it wasn’t easy…) I realised it was time to move on to a new bay. Ten minutes of motoring and out went the buzzers again, this time into water of barely 3-4′ deep which throbbed with weed. As I said, “waste of space”.

Nothing came of the weedy bay. By now the stiffening easterly had carried fresh rain clouds from the North Sea overhead and the brief interlude of scotch mist quickly gave way to proper rain and then something more like a tropical storm. I briefly rummaged through the boat box before accepting that I knew damn well that I hadn’t bothered to bring waterproofs, and that wishing for them at this point was probably only increasing the joy of Thor.

So there we sat, father and son, in a boat, gradually becoming waterlogged and casting aimlessly at the horizon for rumored trout. The spirit flagged.

In another of the evening’s vaguely comic scenes I decided to motor the boat off towards the only bright spot of sky on the loch. I was fully aware that the bright spot was actually located somewhere between Heaven and Crieff but it still seemed like the right thing to do, if only for the mild sense of purpose it gave to proceedings.

In the far corner of the loch we sat, the wind now dead and the rain steady. I noted with some interest the rising level of water at the bottom of my fine boat box – of course I hadn’t brought the lid – and wondered how the sausage rolls were doing. Those clever devils at Border’s knew to package the all-important biscuits in a plastic sheath, but the Morrison’s gang fell at the first hurdle with the paper-bag joke that was their 4-sausage-rolls-for-50p loon. Together they rise but only the strong last out.

A mutual decision was made to head back to the pier and end the misery. By this time I was fishing 2 dry flies having decided that humour was the better part of valour. But as we rounded the point and admired the glowing sunset I spotted a small trout leap clear of the water. A few moments later I saw a distinct rise, and seconds later another. In the gloaming light I could just make out the dorsal fin of a buzzer-sucking trout hoovering up the remnants of the intermittent evening hatch.

As manically as my frost-bitten hands would let me I stretched out a line and cast where I guessed was ‘in front’ of the fish. Seconds passed, and I had just enough time to convince myself that I had finally started seeing things when a frothy rise grabbed my attention back and I found myself attached to an extremely unhappy trout. For only the second time this season I heard that wonderful ‘ziiiinnnggg’ as my cheapo reel threatened to melt in its casing. What a feeling, what a glorious sodden-arsed feeling that was.

Making as much of a meal of it as possible I finally netted the monster, only to find a relative tiddler at 3/4lb or so. In my short and often-exaggerated fisherman’s memory that must have been the most impressive 3/4lb of fight I’ve encountered. My 5 weight Sage really did buckle over in a quite beautiful arc.

Hero shot in the can we moved on to a final drift. By this time there was definitely some kind of ‘rise’ on the go. Not a proper rise by any account, but given the completely fishless and uneventful preceding hours it felt exciting. Suddenly the #14 Shipman’s buzzer seemed a sensible rather than ironic choice and casts carried hope through the thickening air.

My wandering attention was suddenly brought back to focus as another fish nailed the dry. This time there was no denying it, he was a big fish. My plastic reel hummed a rather uncomfortably high-pitched whine as all my slack line was ripped back through the rings in short order. I don’t honestly think a fish has taken so much line from me since about 2004/5. It was great.

More experienced boatmen than I would probably have dealt with this kind of fish in a more elegant manner, but I found the process of having to dance 360 degrees around the boat a total thrill. In the deepening gloom I pulled him over the net and immediately twisted out the scales; a very respectable 3lb.

Apologies for the grotesque use of beard in this photograph.

Thoughts of lemon-crust barbequed trout briefly flashed across my mind, but in my fishing heart I heard the quiet voice which told me that the joy the fish brought to my evening was more than I needed to take from the loch. Sitting in the cold light of a foggy evening I’m glad I listened.

I’ve been looking for a good wild loch to concentrate on which is within an easy(ish) day trip distance of Old Smokey, and after some considerable deliberation I opted for a long strip of water somewhat out of the way and somewhat further than close. We discovered the loch was quiet and relatively un-soiled, and it would certainly be nice for it to stay that way. So The Loch of Trees it is.

Despite arriving at the back of 4pm, we still passed a wonderful few hours by tree-lined shores, in the company of naught but a good handful of trout, a stiffish westerly and about 20 rain showers. The only hitch was my leaky waders. The fresh sealant I’d smeared down the inside leg in the morning was not entirely dry when we arrived so I opted to spend half an hour tying flies with my ultra-minimalist portable fly-tying kit, hoping the scotch-mist and humid atmosphere might help. Eventually I decided to hot-foot it down to the loch anyway, and indeed it turned out that my leaky waders remained that way.

This fine example of the rare roddus leafus was one of many found in abundance by Loch Tree

The steel gray clouds which marched overhead, together with the favourable temperature, left me sure that we were in with a good chance of some action. Upon arriving I put up a standard starting cast of size 12 deer hair segde (tied extra bushy..) on the dropper with a black pennel/blae’n'black on the point. I had opted to fish with the 8.5′ 4 weight, which is a lovely light rod to use for several hours of continuous casting, but does leave a little to be desired in the cast-for-glory stakes needed with a 3 fly cast.

Arriving at the water’s edge we were greeted by a lovely ripple, and I quickly headed off upwind with the intention of fishing back down the bay, making casts out across the breeze.

It wasn’t long before the first offer, a quick slash at the DHS as it settled on the water. Missed it of course. A few minutes later another offer, this time to the wet fly on the point. Missed again, but it still seemed like a good omen. I steadily fished the flies down the bay, making slow retrieves and sometimes leaving the flies static to drift in the drift.

There followed a frustratingly long period with not a sign of anything, except a good soaking from the now continuous drizzle. I eventually decided for a switch in tactics, and opted for a butcher on the point and my favourite black zulu on the dropper.

Not too long in, and now fishing in a more traditional haul’n'hope style, a nice trout impaled itself on the zulu and put up a merry scrap. I tried to get a photo, but alas he did escape. First one always gets his freedom anyway, but a better photo of what was a gloriously marked, yellow-bellied brownie would have been nice.

Within the next short while another couple of fish opted for the zulu, though both were considerably smaller and of totally different marking; much darker and peatier. The first fish had been taken close to the far drop-off of a sandy-bottomed ledge, so I guess that accounted for his lovely condition.

Further down, into the next bay and another nice trout, probably just over the half-pound mark, and this time taken for the following day’s lunch. Interestingly the fish appeared to have been feeding on a mixture of unidentifiable black grubs and bits of loch-weed. I thought trout were carnivores..? The last time I saw weed in a trout’s stomach was from an escapee stocky on Loch Awe. Strange.. or perhaps normal and I don’t know my arse from my elbow.

As the evening wore on and the rain grew more permanent we decided to head for curry. Walking back through the forest we were once again confronted by a beautiful array of trees, quite a number of which I couldn’t identify. Work to do there. I had foolishly forgotten my wondrous wee guidebook, but I took some mental notes. Ash I now believe, interspersed with old oaks and the odd silver birch. What a fantastic place.

The North is really about the lochs. There are thousands of them, scattered all across the land and each one with a particular character. It’s probably a good analogy to imagine the landscape as a giant bowl of curry. There are endless chunks of onion (the ‘typical’ lochs), punctuated by the occasional tomato (the ‘better’ lochs), and the odd rare and prized piece of tender lamb (the ‘special’ lochs). As with curry, it’s no use having just one ingredient: variety is truly the spice of life and the huge variety of Scottish lochs provides hope for a lifetime of interesting fishing. Lochs brim-full with pretty wee brownies desperate to eat a fly are sometimes exactly what is called for after a day fruitlessly chasing after the tenderest lamb. But on the days when the butcher is kind, a lifelong memory can be found in the glistening bronze flank of a 2lb belter. It’s all in the mix.

For much of the season my brother and I spend our time fishing rivers. Our choice of tactics is usually pretty simple: a dry fly. The fly doesn’t really change much. During the day a biggish DHE or sedge, later on perhaps an F-fly, and towards evening small spinners can be useful. We keep it pretty straight forward, preferring to concentrate on covering good water with careful presentation. I think our loch fishing style has developed over the last couple of years to broadly reflect this kind of approach. There has been so much written about the fine art of presenting a fly to a brownie in a loch that in the past we have tended to find ourselves rather overwhelmed. In the early days this led to endless confusion and debate about the correct methods to use on a given day, and in the end we simply didn’t catch very many fish.

These days we keep things really simple. If there’s a snowball’s chance in the Sahara we fish dry flies. I usually opt for a biggish sedge on the top dropper, with something like a Shipman’s buzzer on the point. If the fish aren’t really up for it, I’ll exchange the Shipman’s for a traditional wet fly or snatcher and pull the flies to give them some action. This is then like fishing in the classic ‘short lining’ style, quick and (sometimes) exciting. I love this kind of setup because it’s really versatile and easy to switch around.

On this year’s migration we occasionally tried something slightly different. I mentioned to my brother the ‘washing line’ technique of fishing midge pupae, and he rather liked the sound of it. We tried a slightly simplified version with a midge pupa on the top dropper and a big sedge on the point. The cast was fished near static, with periodic retrieves. The idea is that during the ‘static’ phases the top dropper sinks slowly towards the bottom, gently pulling the dry fly back towards the fly line and covering a nice variety of water depths. During the brief ‘retrieve’ phase the cast is either figure-of-eighted or gently drawn back. The dry fly acts like a surface anchor on the point allowing the pupa to rise enticingly up through the water column. It seems to provide a really nice way to imitate the up-and-down motion of natural midge pupae.

The washing line method turned out to be a great way to fish, with a succession of trout from several lochs coming to both dry fly and pupa. It perhaps lacks the raw energy of stripping wet flies back through a wave, but it certainly helps to provide a nice change of fishing style during quieter moments. It feels like a rather subtler technique, requiring more skill and concentration from the angler. I suppose this makes catching fish a little more psychologically rewarding. Going from an impromptu idea in the back of the caravan to a useful new method was really nice to see.

And for Part II, next time… the fish.

In the far North there are plenty of lochs that fit this description. What makes things really happen though is some of the geology. It’s limey. As in the limescale on my kettle. Which is good, at least for bugs like freshwater shrimp:

Trout that eat lots of shrimp tend to be more sophisticated, discerning creatures, appreciating a nice bottle of Rioja with their supper. It’s the wine that makes their flesh pink and tasty. We don’t kill a lot of fish to be honest, but just had to try these famous Northern beauties, and we weren’t dissapointed. The fish below was actually returned, but gives a good impression of the superb condition of many of the trout. Prettier and healthier fish you will be hard pressed to find.

Buzzers apparently feature a lot on some of the Northern lochs, and on some evenings they certainly made a big showing, managing to get all over your face and in places you never imagined possible..

We fished a whole bunch of lochs on our trip, catching in almost every one. There was occasionally the tantalising prospect of some daddy longlegs action, but they never really got going properly whilst we were up. Nonetheless there was one lovely afternoon when I caught a nice handful to a daddy pattern I ‘invented’ the night before. It maybe wasn’t as pretty as some I’ve seen but it was effective. Let’s just say it involved a lot of polypropylene yarn and half a hare’s mask.

The fish in this loch were a good bit darker than some of the others we’d been catching, but were fantastic as well. I’d never caught on daddy’s before, and it was an amazing sight as fish confindently gulped down the fly. I found a nice bay and carefully wading down into it, casting across the wind and letting the flies drift downwind, like fishing traditional wet flies on a river. At one stage I saw a daddy fly past the line and clumsily hit the water. As it tried to get airborne again I made a bet with myself that it would get eaten, and sure enough, a few seconds later there was a big swirl and the Big Daddy was a gonner.

There was one particularly engaging loch we fished a couple of times. This loch was right near the sea, providing an extra thrill to the whole experience. The first day we were down we ran smack bang into the middle of a nice olive hatch. The old DHE did some nice work for us as usual, cast to rising trout. We found a few larger fish but couldn’t get near without spooking, as it was very calm and the wading was fun. In the evening the big rise we were hoping for didn’t really come, but it was a great place to watch the sun and sky and catch the odd brownie.

Fishing for two weeks is a bit strange for folks normally doing so only once or twice a week. At first you find yourself thinking it’s great, but you know it’s only for a wee while so make the most of it. But then I found I just stopped thinking about it, and just fished and fished, like it’s what I was designed to do. You get up, schmooze on some brekkie and decide which loch to head for. And the next day. And the next. A great feeling.

Not surprisingly you also find yourself getting noticably better at the whole shubang. Not just the casting, but reading the conditions, choosing the presentation. It feels like the more you fish the more you manage to unblock the sink that’s keeping your fishing a drip-drap instead of a gurgling rush! By the end of the trip I think we both felt like we’d reached a better level in this kind of fishing, which is great.

Need to go for longer next time..