My type of loch
- Details
- Published on Saturday, 11 April 2009 06:43
- Written by Paul Williams
Sarclet is very much my type of loch. About a kilometre long and only a quarter of that wide, it’s small enough to circumnavigate in under an hour, without a rod in the hand, but big enough to hold a few secrets.
I’d become aware of Sarclet through a few magazine articles I had read over the years. Most of what I had read extolled this water as a holder of big and very beautiful fish. As I was saying, this was my type of loch. And now I was here, standing beside the single track road that runs roughly parallel with Sarclet’s West bank. Looking down the slope, the water waited serenely for my attentions.
This loch lies in a natural hollow. Grassy farmland hemmed in the little road to the west at the top of the rise in that direction. Across the loch, the bank was overlooked by another slope that rose away from the waters edge, but this time heather clad, before the land ended abruptly a couple of stones throws away at the top of cliffs overlooking the North Sea. Eighty miles almost directly east sits the offshore oil platform on which I have worked for the last fifteen years, while often dreaming of fishing places like Sarclet. Now the dream was almost a reality.
The fields that separated me from the loch sloped gently down to their eastern boundary fences before the ground plunged away down a short steep slope to a boggy strip of land below. The slope and flat area below were carpeted in over waist high grasses and other wild vegetation.
Leaving the car beside the road, I soon found a stony tractor trail between the barbed wire fences of two neighbouring fields, but this only led to a five bar farm gate at the top of the steep slope. Beyond this gate, the trail disappeared in a wall of rain soaked vegetation. I back tracked and entered a field to my right, thinking there must be an easier way; a path maybe. Ten to fifteen minutes later, after skirting the barbed wire fence at the bottom of the field, I found that there was no easy access, no style, gate or path. I trudged back to the gate I’d found earlier, my slight irritation at being delayed countered by the always joyous melody of a Sky Lark in full throat, above.
At the gate, I did what I now wished I’d done half an hour ago. I donned the waders from the rucksack I carried, climbed the gate and plunged down the slope. Quickly crossing the rough and boggy flat at the bottom of the slope, I was relieved to finally make it to the waters edge. I headed south from here, heading along the narrow muddy trail, doubtlessly made by the boots of many anglers before me. I knew where I wanted to be as Hugo Ross had advised me in his Wick tackle shop earlier that morning to start at the narrow bottom end of this water. Crossing a small outlet flow then climbing over a style, I rounded the southern point of the loch and started heading up the eastern bank, but only for a short distance as the water here seemed to shout trout to me.
I tackled up, sweating from my exertions in the warm June air. It was still only about nine-thirty AM, but it was warming up nicely despite the high grey cloud cover. The wind was from the North East, but it was just a gentle breath compared to the strong blast that had bounced my boat around Loch Watten two days previously.
My day on Watten had also started promisingly, with only a light wind from the North East, but almost from the moment my boat left the harbour, the strength of air movement had steadily built to the point where late in the day, while heading back down the loch, a rolling wave had cuffed the bow of the boat sending it higher into the air, threatening to flip the little craft. Splashing back down the right way up, it was at that moment that I promised myself never again to go onto a water without a life jacket. I’d forgotten to bring mine to Caithness, and surprisingly there were none provided with the boat. Calm weather at the start and over eagerness to fish at all costs had almost cost all! I mentally kicked myself for stupidity all the way back to the harbour, keeping the boat tucked in to the shoreline, ticking along at half speed for the rest of the journey.
I had caught fish on Watten though, despite the strong wind, low temperatures and bright sun. Smallish, but beautifully formed with silvery white flanks and small black spots, I’d found a spot at the Oldhall end of the loch that for nearly an hour produced if not a fish, then a good tug to the flies every drift.
Two days later it was one of those successful Watten flies that I tied on to my single dropper. A black and red Half Hog, with bright holographic red tinsel cheeks. Eight feet away on the point, I tied on a fly that had worked wonders the previous day on yet another wonderful Caithness water; Loch Stemster.
As I had pulled into the small parking place at Stemster, the sky above had hung black and heavy. Despite the relative shelter given by Stemster hill, the wind was already ripping across the water and buffeting the car.
I started fishing off the rocky north bank and slowly made my way along the shoreline, checking out the points and inlets with my prospecting flies. As I started to move down the grassy eastern bank, things were looking bleak as a fine drizzle started I made my way southwards, with the rain soon becoming heavy and sustained. My hopes were low as I stepped onto a small low lying islet a couple of feet out from the waters edge. Only the size of a snooker table, it was littered in what I believe was otter scat. Casting from the islet, I retrieved Green Tailed Kate and Hot Headed Bach. Suddenly the rod tip pulled over and started to dance to the tune of a lively half pounder that had latched on to the fluorescent orange headed Diawl Bach variant.
This fish was quickly followed by another from the same spot, to the same fly. Moving on again, I waded out to another small islet in the south east corner. Immediately the Hot Headed Bach proved irresistible to hungry trout here. Five fish came rapidly from the same spot, frantically dancing across the wind and rain lashed surface of the water.
And now despite the torrential downpour, fish started rising. I’ll never know to what, as I returned each of the angry eyed fish as soon as I slipped the hook, and there was no evidence of insects on the water surface. Whatever it was they were rising to, as I started to make my way along the south shore, a fish or two rose to snatch down a Black Claret DHS that I had changed the GT Kate for.
But now the weather was taking its toll on me. The buffeting wind continued to strengthen, making wading over the rock strewn loch bed a little awkward. Also, cold rain water had ingressed passed the storm cuffs of my waxed jacket due to spending most of their time with the open ends pointed up to the heavens while I cast my line. I could feel the saturation in the layers below the waterproof sleeves creeping past my elbows and heading towards my shoulders. The chilling effect of the streams of water running off my body was also starting to creep through my layers of clothing. I decided to call it a day. Reluctantly, I crouched down behind a large boulder to get out of the almost horizontal airborne wetness, and broke my rod down. Flies back in box and reel in bag, I set off back towards the car, continuing around the loch on this heather clad southern shore.
As I rounded a large inlet, a fish slashed at something on the surface. I couldn't’t just walk past, could I? Five minutes later, after finding another boulder to crouch behind, my rod was strung up again and I was casting out my still wet duo of flies into the wide entrance of the inlet. Two or three casts later and the latest in the stream of half pound fish to come to my rod taking the DHS with gusto. And then I really did call it a day, but kept the rod strung up till I reached the car, just in case.
My first cast sent my flies out into Sarclet’s ripple. It was a new day to fish and things were looking good. Half an hour later I found a pretty three quarter pound brownie whose outlook on the day had probably rapidly become the opposite from my optimism. The Hot Headed Bach had worked again.
The air was starting to fill with insect activity. The occasional fish rose to take a meal. By mid morning the surface of the water was glassy smooth, with only the slightest of breezes kissing the loch to produce transient patches of tiny ripple. It was into these areas of slight disturbance that I concentrated on sending my flies into, and it was one of these areas that rewarded me with a typically savage take of a wild fish.
The trout exploded out of the water, revealing its size to be beyond anything I had experienced from a wild loch fish. Surging through the clear water, it repeatedly leaped, putting heart and soul into escaping the steady pressure exerted by my 5 weight rod. The pressure from the rod may have been steady, but my nerves weren’t. Adrenalin flowed freely, as I tried to put aside the thought that I was attached to the fish of a lifetime. I backed out of the water and took hold of my landing net. The trout continued to strain against the pressure, racing up and down the shoreline. Gradually I shortened the line, then with a scoop of the net, it was mine.
The colouration and proportion of this fish was perfect. Its flanks were an incredible blaze of golden orange studded with black and scarlet spots. I felt I could have sat there and looked upon its beauty in awe for hours, but I had a duty to perform. Quickly slipping the little peacock bodied nymph out of the fish’s mouth, I lifted it out of the water, measured and weighed it, took a few shots with my camera, then gently reintroduced my captured quarry to its home element.
I nursed this fish, moving it with my hand through the water to push a revitalising flow through its gills. Two or three minutes later it swam off into deeper water. My joy at its capture was heightened by its safe return.
As I fished on into the morning, my mind constantly went back to the capture of the fourteen and a half inches of butter fat perfection that was my first ever wild fish of two pounds. I have caught stocked Rainbows into double figures, but the experience of taking that Sarclet fish left all of my other captures in the shade.
Maybe it was my meditation on my conquest that caused me not to notice a pretty sudden change in conditions. I suddenly became aware that it had gone quiet. No bird sang and the insect life activity disappeared. I turned to my right to look up the loch and found that half the loch had disappeared. A wall of sea fog was slowly rolling down the water. Soon it engulfed me, it wasn’t heavy fog, more of a mist, but it was enough to leech the warmth out of the air. It also brought with it a slightly stronger breeze that gave a constant ripple on the water.
To be honest the weather didn’t matter to me at this point. This was the last day of my four day fishing sojourn in Caithness, and that last fish alone meant I would return to Fife a very happy man. That said, I wouldn’t say no to a few more trout, so I fished on into the early afternoon.
I became aware at some point of a shape looming slowly out of the mists to the North. At first I thought it was some kind of boat, but that seemed strange as it was blue and orange, and not quite the right shape. Eventually, as it neared, I made it out to be a float tube. As the tuber drew level with me, a courteous distance from my position, we exchanged greetings and chatted the chat of fellow anglers. I happened to mention my two pound fish, nonchalantly dropping it into my report on the day’s activity as if I caught it’s like every day of the week.
Our talk also covered the previous few days fishing I had experienced. He was very interested in Stemster, inquiring as to how easy it would be to get a float tube in there. It turned out that he needed easy access because he’d recently had a heart by-pass operation. I don’t know if you would catch me paddling around a foggy loch just having had a heart by-pass. It’s amazing the type of people you meet while out fishing!
My tuber friend was struggling with weed beds, so he bade farewell and started heading North again, nearer the East bank. I noticed him taking a few fish later, but I decided to continue to fish up and down this southern end rather than prospect further a field. Even though it had been quiet for a couple of hours, I still felt that there were fish in front of me.
After a hurried sandwich lunch, I resumed casting. The mist was getting lighter now and the odd fish started rising again. I changed flies to see if I could provoke further interest. A DHE ala Bob Wyatt went on the point, with a Black Claret DHS on the dropper, both greased up.
I started casting over the weed beds the float tubing angler had had problems with, then in a swirl the DHE disappeared and I instinctively lift into a fish. Instantly the fish took to the air and I almost went into shock as I realised that I was once again into the fish of a life time. My last fish of a lifetime had only lasted a few hours. Did I mention that this was my type of loch?
Powerful run followed powerful run, interspersed with violent aerial acrobatics. I maintained as much pressure as I dared. Gradually that pressure told as the fish’s runs got shorter. In what seemed like an age, I managed to slip my net under the trout. It was anther stunning example of its kind, but not as perfect as the last capture. Sixteen and a half inches long, it was in great condition, but much slimmer than the last occupant of the net. The reason was obvious; a major scar, well healed, extended from half way down one flank, under its belly to halfway up the other flank. A cormorant wound I guessed. Scar or not it was still a beautiful fish, with its golden orange colouration and noticeable splash of jade green on the gill plate. Even the scar seemed to be a thing of beauty, as it had become well flecked with the brightest deep orange pigment.
I weighed the fish at a touch over two pounds, photographed it and carefully released it, taking five minutes or so to nurse it back to strength. It swam off slowly, but stopped for a while, sitting on the bottom a few feet away. Approaching it, I slipped my hand under it to help continue its recovery, gently moving it through the water until a minute or two later it propelled itself strongly away, heading for the weed beds.
Splashing the fish slime off the DHE in the margins, I re-ginked the wing and flicked the fly out into the increasing ripple. The mist was rapidly lifting now as a bright sun burned through the cloud cover. Surely it couldn't’t get any better than this? I felt totally part of this place, standing waist deep in the coolness of the loch; rod repeatedly pushing out a length of line in a relaxed calmness.
As I started to retrieve my line for another of these casts, the DHE, that can have been no more than twitched an inch, was hit by a large fish. It was the sheer water displacement of the take that instantly told me that this was a large fish. Then the heavy weight of the pull confirmed that thought. It wasn’t to be though. Only for an instant were we connected, and then I was left with loose line being retrieved. There was no damage to the hook, it had simply come adrift. I was sure I had lost the fish of a lifetime, but hey, you can’t win them all, even on your type of loch.
I decided to change flies as I felt the fish might be more inclined to take something with a bit of movement. This thought was based on that first little twitch I had given to the DHE. A twitch that it seemed had induced a savage response from the lost fish. I stuck to the same colour scheme though, putting on a Hares Ear DHS to compliment its Black Claret cousin residing on the dropper. Within minutes I was rewarded with a lively three quarter pound fish taking the drab little fly.
Now about three o’clock, I felt it was time for a move. I could see fish rising every now and then close to the opposite bank. I started to head back around the south tip of the loch, stopping briefly to watch a water vole scootering across the surface. It obviously spotted me as it started doing circles. I stood still and eventually Mr Vole decided I was harmless and headed to the bank, disappearing into a clump of yellow flowered waterside plants rooted at the waters edge only a few feet from me.
As I arrived at the area of the west bank where I had spotted fish rising, I found they were still doing so. The ever strengthening wind was surprisingly strong on this more exposed side of the loch and was being channelled in and across my face from the North East still. The sun was also gaining strength as the cloud cover had all but evaporated away.
For half an hour I plied my DHS duo along this shore line. Quite a few fish, seemingly small, came short to the flies. One stayed on. The water here was littered in large, orange coloured buzzer shucks. And then it was over: the loch just switched off and it was time to leave. I made my way back the same route as I had approached this wonderful water. The only sound above the wind was the sound of hammering coming from a large house being built overlooking the North end of the loch.
Now that is my type of house!
Paul "Gander" Williams born and bred in South Wales, Paul took up flyfishing for trout in the mid 1990s, after moving to Scotland. Married with three young children, Paul manages to squeeze a bit of fishing into his leave periods from the North Sea platform on which he works.
Almost exclusively fishing loch and stillwater, Paul has migrated over the years from stocked Rainbow to Wild Brown fishing. With a love for fly-tying, he is particularly fond of using deer hair patterns.
Paul can be easily identified on the loch by his repeated fervoured fly changes, and his habit of consistently missing takes while watching the local wildlife instead of his flies.