Signed by the Laird

A business trip obliged me to travel to the far northwest for a few days, so the rod, rucksack, boots and all the usual paraphernalia were first into the car. For once the carefully selected “music to drive to” cassettes were left in the glove compartment and the radio turned up high, not for the music or news but for the weather reports in the hope that the bleak outlook would change in my favour.

Each forecast was worse than the last and my mood darkened to match the sky.

I arrived at the first farm and collected the required samples as the wind howled about me. The farmer turned his face to the storm and with the wisdom of his many years announced that he could “smell snow on the way”. This was September.

In the hotel bar that night I pestered the locals for fishing information the quality and quantity of which improved when I bought a round. My new best friends agreed a plan for me, a little lochan in a sheltered corrie a mile or so from the road, and only  “a couple of hundred feet up”. A quick check on the map showed that metrication had changed two hundred feet into two hundred and fifty metres, but there was a stalkers’ path to follow. Decision made. Permits could be had from the local shop, which doubled as the Post Office which I had to visit anyway.

The next day involved collecting samples from another two farms, completed just in time to get to the Post Office before it closed. Posted the samples to Edinburgh and bought my permit for the coming days along with the required supplies. The receipt was not itemised so this trip would be “on expenses”. The permit was a complicated affair, name, address, dates, car registration number and lots of boxes to tick. How many days would I be fishing? A day, a week, a fortnight, a month, the season? My day and a half option was not there but the lady decided that “a day” would cover it  - £3.50.

The red sky hinted at a better day on the morrow and it was early to bed and first down to breakfast. By 8.30am I was approaching the spot where I would leave the car only to find the six Land Rovers of a large stalking party parked up. As I had no “Plan B”, I approached two young lads who were hiding behind one of the vehicles smoking an illicit cigarette. I asked where they were headed and would I still be able to fish and camp at my chosen spot. The elder one said he’d go and ask his Dad. He returned and asked to see my permit, then grudgingly announced that I could go, but must stick to the path.

Off I set, but sticking to the path proved difficult as six Land Rovers raced past, not one offered me a lift. A little over an hour brought me to my goal. Tent pitched and a contemplative coffee whilst considering tactics for the mirror in front of me. Dries on my finest tippet. My first cast crashed the surface like a pile of rocks, spooking every stupid fish in this stupid pond. Though my casting improved to my usual inept standard I was the only creature making any disturbance on the surface. Lunch was spent revising tactics and watching the stalkers ascend the ridge to the west.

Around 2pm and still no sign of a fish but a little breeze set up a ripple to pull some wets through. The next four hours found four fish of around the ten ounce mark brought to the net, more than four encouraging tugs and four rifle shots from beyond the ridge. Finally a respectable one pound fish was silly enough to take a nymph and become my supper. The stalkers were making their way back to the Land Rovers when one of the party left the path and struck out purposefully down the hill directly towards me. Here we go I thought, “get off my land” is coming next.

Not so. He admired the fish and announced that he had seen me having some luck. He had fished this lochan as a boy with his father but had not done so for many years- “not since Dad died”.  He fell silent after that remark, then stood up and (without asking) picked up my rod and had a few casts. He returned and apologised for not asking permission and pulled a hip flask from his pocket. He shook the flask and cursed. Empty. No problem, I had a little something in the rucksack. He asked to see my permit whilst I went into the tent and struggled to find my flask. He returned my permit and we shared a dram and some more memories of fishing with our fathers before another ruddy Land Rover appeared, and off he went.

My weather window closed during the night and there was to be no fishing on my second day. The Land Rovers were hurtling about again as I trudged down in the rain, this time one was kind enough to take me back to the car.

It was a requirement of the permit that you make a return of any fish caught, either by returning it to the shop or posting it through the ‘Keeper’s letter box.

I had to get cigarettes for the journey home so it was back to the shop where I handed in my permit with the details of my five fish. As I left the shop the assistant called me back and handed me the permit.

“You’ll need to keep this. You have a ticket for all of next season. Signed by the Laird.”

Ken Brown drinks and fishes responsibly in Glen Garry, but having squandered his retirement fund on fishing tackle, is forced to eke out a meagre pension by selling Scottish Highland Art Prints.