PLENTY MORE FISH IN THE LOCH

When all else fails, loch fishing is the answer

Ihad two tasty fishing invites lately. First was on the Lower Beauly. Anticipation was building when a text pinged-in from my host saying the river was on its bare bones, or stones. No-one had caught anything for days. Maybe it was not worth the trip over.

Next I got cancelled on the Spey. Castle Water is very nice in mid-summer, and being near the sea means you get first crack at anything big arriving. This time there was no text, just a photograph. It looked like Amazonia, with brown water halfway up trees and a curling wave crest. Fishing huts had been swept to sea. Anglers had fallen in, been rescued, then one drowned. I thought I had better console myself with a visit to the trout loch.

The loch is in Sutherland and called Ascaig, nearly a mile long. There was an east wind, strong-ish, but on the north bank a snug bay is tucked behind a promontory and I fished round towards it using my three-fly assemblage and casting square across the wind. I knew fish could see the rig because if I lifted the point, and let the flies paraglide, mouths came up snapping. Off the promontory the waves were just breaking white so there was no need to twitch the flies, a slow retrieve would do, allowing the mind to drift on its own trajectories, which is half the appeal of the trout experience.

My meditative state recalled a picture from a tattered fishing book. The photograph is a desolate loch and featureless shore line. Hunched against what is clearly a nasty wind, in a mackintosh, is a lone figure standing up to his knees and casting. The whole thing is brown sepia. It is entitled ‘The Loch Mind’.

I know what that means, and savour it. It is a sort of reverie. You stand there watching the flies, if you can see them, between gusts. You are togged up for the game, snug with collar buttoned down. After drawing in the line, maybe getting a wild nip as the flies skate shorewards, you step sideways, negotiating the rocks gingerly with your foot. Out goes the line again, bellying a little from the wind, the flies dancing nicely.

I have realised over time that the bushy flies which are right for these conditions cannot be inert, like dead bluebottles. They have to suggest life. Years ago I had some things similar to Loch Ordies tied with whitetail deer hair from America. These are now grizzled, stiff, and lifeless. Trout are predators not carrion eaters. I changed the tail to what I call an Irish fly. Sprouting from my fly box in many colour combinations, the essence is hairyness and roughness.

Reeling in the reward I caught and despatched several modest trout. Loch Acscaig has numberless small trout so we kill what we catch and over the years weights have doubled. Then the rod-tip dipped and there was a zing as a heavier trout, hooked in the scissors, drove deep and arrowed around. I waded backwards tentatively bringing him ashore. The mouth was big and the spots shiny black. He was yellow-bellied and brilliantly-coloured. I tapped him on the head making his body quiver and his tail arc back.

There was one further issue. What colour was this trout? He was good eatable size, but was he white or pink? There are freshwater shrimp beds in the loch. Some trout feed on these crustaceans and their flesh is pink and utterly delicious. You can neatly ascertain the colour when they are in the pan and cooking. As the trout-skins lifts I insert a knife-edge beneath. Pink. Perfection. In my view, nothing is superior to a freshly-caught, pink-fleshed brown trout.

That is the thing with loch fishing – it is always there. Come rain or come shine, you can fish. The shrimp gourmand is out there, all you need to do is find him.

‘The thing with loch fishing – it is always there. Come rain or come shine you can fish’