Scotland 2011 - A Very Strange Day

This is an article recently published in the BSG magazine.

I have to say straight away that Scotland is my Favourite place to be. I first discovered it in 1990 – driving through the heaviness of Glencoe in a November dusk and I have returned time and time again since. I never tire of its Beauty, its diversity or the friendliness of the Scots. I never feel baulked by the long drive – there or back – and I never miss an opportunity to go.

So when Frankie was invited to Aberdeen and Moray to demonstrate and run some workshops, I had been looking forward to it all year.

This piece is not about the wonderfully friendly Sugarcraft ladies from both cities, it is not about the diversity of architecture of Aberdeen and Elgin - it is not even about the fishing. This is about one very odd day when strangeness was in the air, when the fey Scotch mist dissipated and turned one normal day into a day not to be forgotten. It is about Thursday 22^nd September 2011.

It was certainly an odd few hours - although that might be an understatement; a little like saying that the wedding of Kate and William was slightly extravagant.

Of course, it could also easily be an overstatement, my perception on these things is somewhat hazy at times – we’ll just have to see, I suppose.

The day started normally enough – we were on holiday finally, after working for a few days and the three of us (and the dog – mustn’t forget the dog!) decided that a drive to Ballater, a nice walk in some wonderful scenery and a spot of lunch would be in order.

I had found a road on the map that looked interesting; it ended up in the middle of nowhere around the back of the Balmoral Estate at a Loch called Muick in Glen Muick and was at the beginning of the eastern end of the Cairngorms. There was nothing beyond it apart from Country. Miles and miles of Country – mountains, moors, rivers and, hopefully, not too many people.

It’s not that I don’t like people, individually, but when they get together they seem to become an entity rather than just a lot of ‘persons’. It’s like one wasp on its own is sort of ok, but you wouldn’t want an entire swarm anywhere near you.

Anyway, I had found this road and having partaken of a lunch in the delightfully overestimated cuteness of Ballater - there’s a Shopping Mall there for goodness sake! Ok, only three shops in it, but a mall in a tiny village is never the less pushing the definition tourism in the wee place just a little too far – we took a leisurely drive over the bridge into what the road sign called South Deeside.

Now, to me, that just sounds industrial! South Deeside - like South Merseyside or Thameside, which always makes me think of Wapping. The truth was entirely different. We were in very beautiful surroundings of mixed woodland on a single lane road just approaching the foothills of the Cairngorm Mountains. The traffic was light and there were ample passing places along it to allow oncoming traffic to pass.

And that was exactly what I did when I saw the large black Range Rover beetling its way down the lane. The driver gave me a stunning smile, a wave of his hand and mouthed “Thank you” before driving politely past.

It was Prince Charles.

Like two gunslingers in a western shootout, Frankie and her sister Anne pawed for their cell phones, within a split second texts were on their way around the world….

“You’ll never guess who we just saw…”

My only thought, other than to marvel at the speed at which mobile phones had been located, loaded and fired, was to wonder if Prince Charles was saying “Was that Mike Kelly? It was…I’m sure that was Mike Kelly…”

The weirdness had begun.

In a few minutes though, we were really in the Country. Deciduous trees had given way to Coniferous forest which had now yielded to open Scottish Moorland. Breathtaking views around each corner became different each time the sun pierced through the scudding clouds creating rainbows on the autumn sky and coruscating across the distant loch and rivers. The girls were finally quiet which either meant that they were as gobsmacked as I hoped they would be or the mobile signal had been lost.

After a few miles we reached the visitor centre car park, even out this far there were tourist pennies to be taken, but I felt that it was ok out here. An ancient crofting village had been preserved, real people still lived and worked here, but the visitor centre was a very real attempt at education, conservation and maintenance of the area and three pounds wasn’t too much to pay for that.

As I was putting my money into the machine and marvelling at the dozen or so cars in the car park – what were all these people doing out here? – I looked down. There was a piece of paper lodged between the ticket machine and the longish grass growing tight against it. It was a ten pound note. A Scottish ten pound note, but real money none the less. That was nice, not life changing you understand, but a bit like finding money in a pair of jeans you haven’t worn for a while or discovering that there’s still one last custard cream in the corner of the biscuit tin that you missed earlier. I strolled back to the car thinking that it was turning out to be a very nice day thank you very much and a nice long walk now would be the icing on the cake. Annie asked if she could stay in the car while we took Basil the dog for a walk. She wanted to relax (sleep) and I think that she thought it might rain. Actually, that’s a pretty good mind set to have in Scotland in September – it might rain! A suitable mindset for Scotland in June and July is that there may be midges around, as well as the previously mentioned rain mindset of course. But as Billy Connolly once said – there’s no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong clothes. We had the right clothes and so, leaving Annie in the car with a good book and some Scottish Tablet in case of emergencies, we set off along the track towards the Loch.

A mile or so along I spotted a lone figure walking towards us. Clad in green wellies, olive green jacket and hat she was walking with a good pace and purposeful stride.

“That’s Camilla.” I thought to myself. Frankie was pre-occupied with Basil who had yet to grace us with his daily gift of a perfectly formed poo. “That’s Camilla and I don’t know how to address her. Is that Camilla? It is, oh my God it’s Camilla – what do I say?” my thoughts continued to race as the figure approached.

It made perfect sense to me that Camilla should be out here; I didn’t once stop to think that it was strange to see her. This was where she lived and if I lived here I would be out all day everyday. If this was my back garden I would spend as much time out in it as possible – that didn’t strike me as unusual. Neither did her lack of companions, she was alone and looked hale and hearty, happy to be alive and unconcerned about her solitude, maybe she felt the same about people as I do. No, all I could think about was what to say to her. Frankie was still unaware of the proximity of Royalty right up until I said the only thing that I could think of at that particular moment, which was;

“Ooo hello, we’ve just seen your husband.”

At this point Frankie looked up expecting to see someone we knew or at the very least someone I knew. It had happened before and strangely with the same sister in the same country.

We were staying near Loch Tummel and had spent a wonderful day around Rannoch Moor and Loch Rannoch spotting salmon leaping in the falls, red deer and buzzards in the hills and many species of birds all around us. We had stopped along the roadside to fire up the KellyKettle (The most wonderful invention, ever, Google it if you don’t know what one is!) making a fresh brew of tea whilst drinking in the scenery of the River Tummel, the Queens View and the Hydro Electric Dam (much better to see than to say). Then, in the evening, we had eaten a wonderful meal and had partaken of a dram or two of various single malts and were relaxing in the afterglow verging on stupor when Annie had leapt to her feet exclaiming “I don’t believe it!” and dashed across the restaurant. She had seen a work colleague from Bexhill who was also on holiday in the same Hotel at which we were staying.

It was a touch surreal because the thing one most tries to forget whilst on vacation is work, but it does seem to be the main encroachment into sleep and thought, for the first few days at least, until one is sufficiently unwound enough to completely forget about it. For a colleague to appear in the same Hotel in the same week, to me, is the stuff of nightmares but Annie seemed rather pleased.

I notice I have slipped into using the pronoun “One” since mentioning Royalty, I wonder if I could get away with using the royal “we” on the odd occasion as well.

“What a charming dog, I have one of these too” said Camilla, with a smile. I was considering bowing, but could quite easily have slipped into a curtsey and so decided to remain upright for the time being.

“Thank you,” Frankie said, the epitome of cool “he is rather cute.”

I was trying to choose my next comment, still struggling with ‘Your Grace’ versus ‘Your Highness’ or maybe just plain ‘Ma’am’ to rhyme with jam not farm, of course, when I discovered, to my horror that Basil had chosen this moment to relieve himself of his little package right in front of the future Queen of England. Dumbstruck, I stuttered an apology, “Oh, it’s ok” said Camilla, completely unfazed before wishing us good day and striding on.

In a daze I glanced around looking for a stick to remove said package from the path swearing at the ignobility of the hound as I did so. Frankie naturally had drawn her cell phone once more only to discover the continued unavailability of any network and so our encounter went unbroadcasted for the time being.

Our own walk continued for a way further but the weirdness was not yet at an end. As we approached the Loch a piece of crumpled paper rolled along the heather pushed by the breeze. Muttering something about litter miles from nowhere, I considered picking it up whilst noticing a familiarity about its colour. It was a twenty pound note – an English one – wrapped around a two pence piece that must have fallen from someone’s pocket at some stage fairly recently as it was only a little damp.

I’m still not sure what was going on; we considered the possibility of Camilla spreading the coin of the realm to ease the suffering of us poor middle classes, but really it was an extreme case of happenstance and anyway I gave the twenty to Frankie who used three pounds of it to buy us a lottery scratch card each. The girls won nothing.

I won a tenner!

A rather poor photo of Camilla taken after the dog poo was cleared away!

Scottish Magic

Some of my fondest fishing memories are inspired by various sorties into Scotland, and in particular, the Scottish Highlands. I have seen so many wonderful sights there in the past, so many pleasurable little events that seem to occur on a daily basis. The wildlife is more predominant and much more accessible than in Kent, the roads more sparsely filled with cars, rivers and lochs less fished and much wilder, but catching anything large is much more unlikely.

This trip proved to be just as enjoyable, with just as many sightings and breathtaking moments, some wonderful walks and hikes, but certainly the fish proved harder to come by.

My fishing in Scotland is predominated by catching trout in the summer and pike in the winter months, although, in the future, I may wander into the mysteries of salmon fishing and the expense involved with trying to catch the fish that I’ve seen on many occasions in my times by Scotland’s myriad rivers.

Staying in Abernethy, it seemed churlish not to fish the River Nethy, unfortunately, both my trips resulted in two blanks with only one lost fish and a wasp sting to show for my efforts. Incidentally, I have only ever been stung by a wasp once before in my life, and that was on the beach in Deal when I was twelve; this week I was stung three times on three different occasions, reacting quite badly each time with two swollen arms and a lumpy thigh. Including the bee sting last year, I have now been stung four times in 12 months. Perhaps global warming is effecting even the smallest of insects, turning them into grumpy, malcontent beasties with a grudge against us all.

Which reminds me – we took the Mother in Law along this time too.

I managed to winkle out a small trout on the river Beuly for my nine year old nephew Harvey to inspect while we were having an alfresco lunch on the bank in bright, warm sunshine without a breeze or a ripple on the water. That was another wonderful part of this holiday – the weather! The rest of the country was languishing in days and days of unceasing rain, but we had warm, dry and settled weather for the most part, and the few showers we had occurred over night.

I had another smallish trout in a remote stream in the middle of Sutherland, about twenty miles south of Tongue, again whilst having a picnic lunch and a brew from the Kelly Kettle. I just had to show the Mother in Law and Franc the beautiful colours and markings of a true wild trout. A few minutes later we were awed by the spectacle of a Golden Eagle soaring over our heads just a few miles further on. What a wonderfully wild sight that was. The King of British birds just a few hundred feet away from us, wings spread riding the mountain thermals in search of hares, rabbits and other small mammals. Just about the only time the use of the word ‘awesome’ is eminently justified.

One, misty, autumnal morning during the fortnight, I fished the Spey near Broomhill and managed a more respectable fish that provided supper for my wife later on that day, after a boat trip on a local loch provided a couple more for the Mother in Law. It was whilst fishing the Spey and the Beuly that I caught sight of the Salmon heading up river and showing themselves tantalisingly to me on their way. The best glimpse I had was of a fish porpoising out of the water in silhouette just 10 yards from me as I looked upstream into the sun.

My loch trip provided a mixed bag of weather conditions; sunshine and flat calm, a wind change, stormy overcast skies, but, fortunately, no rain. If anything, I could have done with a more consistent breeze and without the change of wind direction. Even so, I caught 8 lovely trout, two of which I took home for supper as I previously mentioned. These fish are mainly 4 or 6 to the pound, but with the occasional half or three quarter pounder showing. There are monsters in here, there are always monsters; that’s one of the reasons we fish – the dream of a leviathan – yet it doesn’t matter if the fish are all small. Fishing is not just about the catching, it’s about the space, the nature, the dream. Fishing, for me is a multi faceted enterprise – I hesitate to use the word ‘hobby’, it seems an inadequate concept – and I love its complexity, its simplicity, its frustration and its joy. But best of all, the most enjoyable, the most fulfilling, the simplest and the most satisfying part of all my fishing is when I’m fishing in Scotland.

First of the Year

I don’t know why I didn’t go Pike fishing today. I suppose I believed it to be warmer than it was, or perhaps I was over optimistic about how far the year has advanced. Or maybe it’s because I’ve not been fishing for so long, I’m out of touch with everything!

Anyway, it was a disaster!

Literally!

Last night Britain had its biggest ever earthquake; 5.3 on the Richter scale and about three chimney pots fell down and one cat was awfully anxious!

It was on the news all day…

It took me forever to get all the gear ready – it hasn’t been used for a while – but eventually it was all in the car and I was on my way. I fancied a spot of feeder fishing and I thought Harry did too, but he turned up at the lakes with his pike gear! We started on the small lake and tried there all morning, but I didn’t have a touch on maggot or worm, not even a nibble on float fished maggot either.


So after lunch Harry and I moved to the front lake to pike fish with the drifter floats as there was a nice westerly breeze. But although we managed some nice drifts we caught nothing. The water was exceptionally clear even though we had rain earlier in the week and Harry spotted a low double in the margins which he managed to scare off before he had a chance to tempt it with the tiny smelt he had brought along.

And so the day ended with neither of us coming close to catching anything but it was good to spend time on the bank and to chat with Harry again.

A Touch of Autumn

It was a chilly morning...

Another overnighter, with a few different approaches in an attempt to tune some of the rigs that I’ve been using. I’m afraid that the fishing this year has taken a back seat, with work being so busy – both mine and Franc’s. And if we’re not working, then we’re decorating the flats or trying to keep on top of the garden with all the rain we’ve been having. Later on in the year we have a trip to Holland and the States, so it’s not going to get better for a while.

I always get the rods out first, especially here, as three can be fished, but I usually only cast two, leaving the third to do some plumbing around. Then when the rods are out I’ll set up the Shelter and everything else, then when all is shipshape, I’ll make a brew. The weather was definitely heading towards autumn, with this being a Friday and the only day for about the last 10 that hasn’t seen rain, there was a distinct chill to the air.

My daughter, Laura-Anne turned up around mid-morning, bringing some ginger cake, shortbread, sausage rolls and scones – all home made of course. Harry turned up too, no doubt homing in on the smell of cake. We all had a nice long chat though, Harry staying longer than LA, and he seemed to be yearning to get beside some water himself – he’s been busy too.

And so the day passed, with nothing happening on the fishy front. I cast the rods out ready for the night: pineapple boilies, fake corn and special luncheon meat being the baits for the purpose of attracting the bream or tench. I am, of course after the female bream, but have so far only caught the males, identifiable by the tubercles that cover them and make them look so tatty. Tonight was to be no different, and, unfortunately, the tench failed to show again.

Kelly Kettle

At around 2.30 am, with the mist swirling and my breath a huge plume of vapour in the suffused moonlight, the first bream of six and a half pounds was brought into the net. I was shocked at how low the temperature had dropped. I was sleeping in a tee shirt and shorts and gasped as the cold wrapped around my naked legs as I weighed the fish.

At 5.30 am another bream of 6.10 was on the bank, this one having taken the meat, the first fish the boilies. It was still very misty, but gradually, the sun pushed it’s way through and the morning began to warm up as I packed away the gear, stowing it in the car, and leaving the rods until last.