Loch Lomond to Loch Ness

Monday

It was a pre-lunch getaway for a journey up the A82 for around three and a half hours to my next stop from Loch Lomond. The drive towards Fort Augustus and then Fort William takes in simply stunning scenery. Amongst the best Lakeland views I'd ever seen, right up in the Gods and glancing downwards to dotted prior positions which themselves already seemed elevated on passing through.

This is even before the North Coast 500 route truly begins at Inverness! There are many tarns (corrie lochs?) dotted by the roadside along the route. My overwhelming urge to park up and have a dabble had to be suppressed. I already had a plan. My other thought was if the lump of tin I was driving coughed its final breath whilst up there I'd end up in the Slaughtered Lamb. "Don't go on the moors...."

Tootling up at Loch Ness Shore site on schedule I was checked in with the friendliest of welcomes, still without a Scottish accent within wiggling distance, until I was told to see Donald outside to guide me through the pitch selection process. His name gave me an inkling of his potential for Scottishness. (Not a real word.)

I decided to shake his hand and introduce myself.

"Hello, I'm David."
"Davey?"
"David."
"Aye, Davey."
"Yes, that's right. Davey."

I gave in. At least he didn't put "wee" in front of "Davey" as I'd experienced in the past, as if I were a toddler.

So, I kitted up again with my light 6 weight 9 foot fly rod, usual sure-fire, cannot fail, every one a winner, "fish for tea the night" fly on. The site was busy and though I was only a couple of minutes from The Bonnie Banks, it took me the best part of an hour to get there for stopping to discuss "how many you caught?" It's a bit like being in fancy dress when you're in your waders with a big bendy stick with people who wouldn't normally speak now stopping to chat away like long-standing neighbours.

A very nice retired chap from Renfrew who'd caught three broonies that morning directed me to a bay to the left of the site. He added in the flies I should find glory with, but as I didn't understand the fly tie jargon I just grinned and nodded sagely as I were the editor of Fly Weekly, deciding to bluster on regardless with my own feckless plan.

The loch was a lot choppier than it looks (see, excuses forward already) and casting into the wind was difficult. As you see, there was sporadic cloud coverage with bouts of sunshine. Who needs Carol "showers" Kirkwood? So, assuming the validity of the earlier shared fish locator, I knew the little darlings were around. Lots of large boulder navigation, slippage and dodgy casting later, the pot was empty and a dinner from the on site Airstream Diner beckoned.

Seeing as though I was north of Hadrian's Wall, I thought I'd enter the spirit and order a Highland Stovie, with little regard for what culinary experience would follow. I described it in a text to My Beloved as like mashed sphincter, which is somewhat unkind as it was perfectly edible and filling though bordering on bland.

First ever Scottish wild brown

Next morning was less windy and I took a turn to the right of the site at the pier away from the bay this time, olive red flash fritz on duty and able to wade quite far over due to the lower water levels. After a couple of casts there was a grab at the leader. Then I saw quite a few smaller fish feeding in the mild waves converging on the not normally exposed shore, so I cast towards them. That was it. Smash and grab and a perfectly formed brown trout was in my net.

Oh how we laughed together. She's taken the bait the moment it hit the water and I kidded myself I was J R Hartley. I told her if she could keep a secret she was free to leave and I continued now knowing I had the upper hand at last.

A few casts and rapid retrieves as the sky darkened and boom, a much stronger jerk this time and I had a clearly more robust beauty this time. Trying to seem calm but inwardly panicking like Cliff Richard seeing a helicopter over his house, I pulled this elusive majesty into my scoop net. Now I was the man.

Around about a pound and gorgeously speckled with an almost lemon underbelly, she was way too good for me. Out of my league and we both knew it. We caught each others' glance and both understood she'd erred in judgement and I should return her without fuss and we'd never talk of this again. Thing is I'd had a right result and I was going to tell EVERYONE about it.

I missed around half a dozen until again the net was bulging. Well, alright not bulging. Still, another delightfully dappled brown wonder for my endeavours. All on the same fly. I love it when a plan comes together. As I packed up I could see the next day's Daily Record.

Wee English Boy Conquers Ness
What Monster? New Beast Discovered.
Sporting Feat to Finally Rival Gemmill.
Sturgeon Changes Name to Trout.

I rearranged the camper and set off on my next leg to Wick feeling like Yul Brynner riding out of that little Mexican town with grateful villagers tolling the still standing town bell. I was to meet up in Wick with My Beloved and perhaps a head to head with the River Wick.