Loch Lubnaig 1957

As I remember it the discussion between Alexs’ mother and father was as follows

‘You’re no gaun tae let oor wee laddie go away oot inty the wilds wi thae fower heid cases.   Whit if a loony turns up?’

‘In the furst place thur’s no likely tae be ony loonys wanderin’ aboot Lubnaig.  In the second ony loony wi hauf a brain wid be aff the ither wye as soon as he met that lot.  Wee laddies!  Huv ye hud a luk at the size o’ thum recently?’

So it was agreed, we four, myself, Alex, Big Jim and Wee Tam could go off for a few days fishing, by bike, to Loch Lubnaig.  Wee Tam was so called because he had been stuck at five foot nine for what seemed years; the rest of us were stretched out to six foot and bigger.  That was the year we had left school; two were destined for Uni and the other two, me included, were due to start professional apprenticeships in August.  A few days fishing on our own would be good for us before we went our separate ways.

Wee Tam had a part time job delivering messages for the local licensed grocer who agreed the Tam could borrow the delivery bike.   You may remember them, big wheel at the back, wee wheel at the front and a big metal basket to carry the goods.  Alex, rotten snob that he was, had a new lightweight Dawes while the other two had bikes cobbled together from odds and sods we had rescued and otherwise acquired.  Two tents were borrowed from the local scouts, blankets and sheets borrowed (using the word loosely) from home, two old Primus stoves and a gallon of paraffin and other camping sundries cadged from wherever  we could find them.  We contributed £1.10s each to buy food supplies, and had a spare 10s each for emergencies.

The short straw went to Tam, well he had the basket, which nicely accommodated the tents and sleeping equipment.  The rest was fairly evenly distributed although Alex could not cope with too big a load in case it damaged his nice new bike in which case his Dad would not be too well pleased.    So with equipment hanging from handlebars, seats, strapped along frames, tied to shoulders and bodies we set off on a Friday morning.

The first puncture came after six miles as we struggled up the road after the Avon Gorge – Alex of course.  The second was freewheeling down the Salmon Inn Brae – Big Jim.  The third in the middle of Falkirk – me.  Wee Tam, despite his load suffered not at all.   I mean he did not suffer from punctures, his pains came more from a bike with no gears that was not designed with minimum weight in mind.  Never mind, we carried on.  In Stirling we were lost twice.  The most serious was in the Raploch which was under construction at the time where we found ourselves travelling back along the road home.  Two hours that cost us.  We finally found a signpost for Callander and were soon off in the correct direction.    

It was after eight in the evening before we reached Callander which was closed.  Not even a chip shop open.  No choice but to carry on with aching legs and grumbling stomachs to the loch.  Number one priority when we arrived was food.  But someone, we didn't know who, had forgotten meths to prime the stoves.  Wood was collected and a fire started.  A real fire, no one could sit within six feet of it and it kept the midges, that arrived in their billions, away.  The others feasted on sausages but I hate the things and had to be content with toast and jam, probably half a loaf and half a pot of strawberry jam.  By the time we had finished it was too late for fishing so we raised the tents and turned in, being careful to cover all bare skin from the midges that had called for reinforcements.

Saturday dawned but none of us saw it.  In fact we saw nothing until about ten o'clock; teenagers can sleep soundly anywhere.  Breakfasts was sausages, sausages and, for me, toast and jam.  Big Jim was given ten shillings and sent off to town to buy more sausages, bread and jam and, if he could find it, meths for the stoves.  The rest of us set up our tackle and went after the fish.  He was away for about three hours and in that time we had maybe twenty fish between us.  Starvation was out of the question with fresh trout on the menu.   But how many trout can four big boys eat?  We soon realised that if we carried on at the catching rate we had managed we would have to consume something like three fish per hour just to keep pace.  We agreed not to take anything under a pound.

There was no sophistication about our fishing methods.  Stick a worm on a hook and heave it out as far as we could.  The trout found it very quickly.  By the end of day one we had had enough of fishing – too easy – and wandered around the loch, swam (down to our pants) and generally terrified the local wildlife.  On Sunday we biked up to Loch Voil and Loch Doine just to pass some time.   On Sunday evening we ran out of sausages and finished the last of the bread and jam and had an early night in a cloud of midges.  We were the only fishers on the loch that weekend.

We had planned to stay until Wednesday but boredom drove us homeward on Monday.  The trip was uneventful but at least we saw Callander with some shops open.  We tried to have a drink at a pub in Stirling but were turned away.  Big Jim knocked down a stupid pedestrian in Falkirk but we didn't stop.  The Salmon Inn Brae was torture.  We had to walk up the hill in Armadale.  And the first question we were asked when we got home was, ‘where are the fish’.  The answer was, ‘too heavy to carry them all, where’s wur tea’.

It was a great weekend.  And not a loony in sight.

 Bob Graham is an occasionally lucky gentleman who claims he does not do very much these days other than try to catch trout five or six days a week. Bob is a regular at Hillend Reservoir and lives in Whitburn West Lothian.