No fish in Scotland

Sunday

After much planning and endless anticipation I finally set off for Scotland in the new, but used and recently purchased camper. I hadn't bothered to give it a name as I'm not particularly fond of it and so didn't want to personify her, I mean "it".

If it broke down, which had happened to me plenty previously, then our relationship estrangement would be rendered simpler for the fact we were never on first name terms to begin with. This was purely a functional arrangement and I'd managed the van's expectations thus prior to embarkation.

I'd originally thought of completing the North Coast 500, though due to time constraints but mainly apathy once I researched how far it was, I decided on a bit of a fudge.

I was to stop at Loch Lomond, Loch Ness, Wick, Orkney, then the two same lochs again on the way back home.

I'd done a reasonable amount of wild lake fly fishing at home and, having tried other forms of the sport as well as stocked fisheries, came to the conclusion there was no superior satisfaction than fooling a wee beastie into thinking my randomly selected faux fly was its supper.

After around a three and a half hour drive I arrived at my first site, bang on the shores of Loch Lomond. Checked in with haste and unpacked hap hazard in my excitement to get out there. I do get proper anxious in getting underway. A bit like Christmas morning with substituting love and presents for standing pointlessly in freezing water. Can't beat it.

Conditions were surprisingly favourable. No heatwave here. Quite overcast, warm enough with a mist and a breeze. The planets had aligned to give me a great chance, I thought. Still, I searched reasons why not and my excuses in advance. After all, I didn't know the lake and hadn't researched at all the type of fly which may bring success.

It was late afternoon and I kicked off with my usual go to approach of a gold head olive fritz with red flash. Never, ahem, fails. I have little real idea of approaches and patterns, preferring to get out there and have a bash. I've read the magazines and spoken to fellow anglers. "Yeah, the water was peat coloured and there was a hatch of mayfly in a North Easterly wind speed of 8 miles per hour, so that's why I chose to tie on a size 14 blue and white Shipman's buzzer". Oh, fuck off!

 I stayed around the shore of the site, walking both ways along the banks and keeping on the move. Not a touch on the line nor signs of fish moving or feeding. Despite my seriously amateur abilities I still felt I should be in having been dealt what looked like a winning hand, though it wasn't to be.  A poker player who lost the pot with a handful of aces. I passed a chap with a rod on my way back who gleefully informed me he'd caught half a dozen roach with some old bread.

I pretended to be delighted for him and his stale loaf but secretly wanted to melt my fly rod by candle.

My neighbours were on the loud side. Friendly enough with a fortune in caravan, van and associated accessories parked up, they struck me as having potentially fortuitously landed on some money. Love Island then post Love Island show was blasting out at full volume from their gaffe. Previously I'd only known Danny Dyer's daughter was in it, but after a couple of home brews and Caroline Flack shouting at me from next door, I almost felt compelled to vote for my favourite couple.

Perhaps I was a little sour at my lack of hunting ability and my inability to get a television  signal myself. They regularly kept disappearing for short periods of time in their van, wheel spinning the hard-standing like some kind of camping Dukes of Hazard. I couldn't understand where they were going until I realised they were repeatedly driving the 50 yards or so to reception and back on various errands. Whilst I thought "you lazy, lottery winning bastards" I nodded and smiled each time like we were besties.

Next morning, fortified with Tetley One Cup (two of) and organic porridge oats and golden syrup, I felt I could take the vicar's wife off Robson Green. Conditions hadn't changed much at all in the night apart from there was some rain in the air now, but I needed new tactics.

I'd watched a You Tube video where they were loch catching perch with worms on a slow retrieve, so I attached a red  wiggly worm with orange hot head. Sounds like I know what I'm doing, doesn't it?

I found a different area to start and after just a few casts, there was a snatch at the line and there it was - my first ever wild Scottish fish. Yes!! I audibly exclaimed as I rapidly pulled the fly line in as if I was saving my dad from the ocean. I couldn't lose it!

I welcomed that lovely perch as if it were Agent Million. I didn't care an inch what it was. A bit like your first shag, it didn't matter about size, looks or ability in landing it. Cherry. Gone.

Ecstatic I'd kind of worked this one out, the scenery and loch splendour was enhanced even further. The waters had broken and now they were all after my wee worm. A further three suicidal perch followed in relatively quick succession in the same are and all on a tardy draw, static in places. Tactics and a fly I hadn't used to effect in years.

Because of the rain I didn't take the 'phone for pictures, so another loch picture will have to suffice. I headed back to my berth to prepare for Nessie later that day. "Go on, ask me how many. Go on..." I thought to myself as I passed my neighbours, but they never did. Busy with their scratch cards, I reckoned.