No not those 2 fuckwits. A lamentable attempt to make a punny title but we are where we are, the scenery was bonnie and we we were on the Clyde…. Last month myself, Stu and a man we shall call…
No not those 2 fuckwits. A lamentable attempt to make a punny title but we are where we are, the scenery was bonnie and we we were on the Clyde….
Last month myself, Stu and a man we shall call Smithers (for that is his name, sort of) had a weekend in Glencoe planned. We were going to stay at Red Squirrel campsite and fish the Rannoch Moor Lochs, with a possible wild camp at Ba thrown in for good measure. However, by Thursday it was becoming clear that the weather was going to royally butt fuck us, and not in a good way. Yeah yeah, no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing, blah blah fucking blah but let’s face it, why drive 6 hours to spend 48 hours camping and fishing in double/triple rain then drive 6 hours home again when options closer to home had better weather? So instead we decided to drive up on Friday to fish the Clyde then stay in Moffat and fish/wild camp a favourite hill loch of ours on the Saturday. Simple setup, 2 day operation – catch some fish and bounce back across the border before anybody knows we were there to paraphrase the greatest movie ever made.
The beat we were on was just down from Abington and located very close to the M74 but if you could put that to the back of your mind it’s a really nice bit of river with some inspirational pools and runs. I think we did well to be wetting a line before midday bearing in mind we’d driven up from Leeds. Stu got Smithers set up with a nymphing outfit and began teaching him the basics of that method whilst I headed downstream and put up a Klink and Dink.
However, it soon became clear the outrageous downstream wind was going put me in a bastard nuthouse as they say, with tangle after tangle ruining my fishing. So down and across it was to be then!
Within 15 minutes I’d caught my first beautifully spotted Clyde brownie on the ubiquitous GGRHE and could breathe a sigh of relief having got the blank monkey off my back.
I continued to work my way downstream with those 2 leapfrogging me. It didn’t seem to cause me too many issues though as I still managed to pick up fish as I went along. I tried to finesse my down and across, instead of simply chucking it out and passively letting it swing around I constantly mended the line to work with the current and impart life. I love the thumps you get when fishing downstream!
I finished the day with 5 fish to the net and a few more lost and really enjoyed myself exploring a new river despite the relentless wind!
The traffic noise…and the trains…is a bit relentless but I’d still be tempted to go back
After taking our lives into our hands walking along the road we got back to the car and headed on to Moffat to check into the Buccleuch Arms. It’s been refurbed since we last stayed there and they’ve done a good job, our room was decent. We headed over to the Coachman for a few drinks, myself on the zero alcohol drinks as I’ve packed in boozing for now and those drinking God knows what but by the time we piled into Moffat’s only curry house they were roaring drunk. The curries were not brilliant if I’m honest but it filled a hole.
Saturday
We breakfast at the hotel. It’s good, really good, I’d happily stay there again just for the breakfast and the coffee was ok as well which is a dealbreaker for me these days.
We then proceed to spend about 2 hours doing I know not what other than buying lunch and firewood for our ‘hanging valley loch’ mission. It is a staggering abuse of time. Then we discover all the taxis are booked up so we have another half an hour wait. Then, half way to the drop off point the taxi driver tells us the latest he can pick us up is about 10 in the morning.
That would give us no time at all up on our favourite place and after he reassures us that no one is going to nick our motor if we leave it down in the valley over night we ask him to take us back to Moffat and we debus from taxi to Disco. We then have another 30 minute delay as I try to ascertain over the phone if my elderly father has had another stroke before deciding he’s ok and we can get going again
The walk up to the loch is short, fierce and glorious. Glorious because of the scenery with it’s crashing waterfalls, peat tinged pools and emerging dabs of purple heather but also glorious because every step of that climb is a well worn journey back through 28 years of my past.
I once wrote of a dread filled afternoon on a lochan in Assynt where I ventured from an idyll to a nightmare. Well every time I make this pilgrimage and get the view of views at the walk’s zenith I feel like I’m stepping into a favourite painting.
I first fished this place in 97 and it has seen many different versions of me. Fat, thin, smoking, non smoking, blonde highlights, grey highlights……
After the usual precarious stream crossing weighted down by overnight packs, followed by a Tunnocks break, we plod down the side of the loch and plot up at the far end which has a lovely beach and tends to be more sheltered from the vicious winds that can batter this place. It feels good to be home.
After some scran and a drink I put up the trusty Wychwood Quest and a couple of flies that I’d tied for this mission – I think maybe one was a snatcher. I initially work the feeder burn at the back then began fishing along the Western shore which was where I started picking up fish.
This loch is not known for big fish, or indeed medium fish. So yes they’re usually pretty small but they’re hard fighting, beautifully marked and I wouldn’t want them any other way*
I caught a few and then headed back to camp for the main event – a disposable BBQ, burgers and kebabs followed by a very carefully controlled fire on a pebble beach surrounded by soaking wet terrain before you start wagging a finger at us. The food was done to perfection and the fire was just enough to make the night. We had a big bag of kindling and a fire log, plus some driftwood we found up there which gave us about 2 hours of burn time – just enough to shoot the shit and recycle our favourite old stories for the hundredth time….
Sunday
I awake fairly early and know damn well I won’t be getting back to sleep now what with my 50 year old circadian rhythms and aching back so I drag myself out of bed and roll straight into some fishing. It’s a chilly grey morning but I am rewarded by my biggest ever fish from this loch. I know I said I wouldn’t want them any other way but…this was rather special!
I have a bit more action then it tails off so I RTB and fire up my stove to brew up some coffee and make some porridge. Then I’m back out fishing that Western shore and the sun comes out this time. I have some great fun missing plenty of fish and landing a few.
By the time the other 2 emerge from their tents the fish have switched off again and they did struggle a bit to get any action.
We have a leisurely day on the loch but all good things must come to an end and just before 3 we are pretty much packed up and ready to go when I spot a sheep in bother. I take a walk over, thinking it might just be riggwelted but it’s just plain f*cked, rasping and panting and unable to move. It’s not a nice sight, I try calm it down and get Stu and Smithers over to help. We try give it some water and then make several attempts to get it on its feet but every time it flops back down so in the end we have to walk away.
The walk back is tinged with sadness but the mind is refreshed from a night spent lochside and I am eagerly planning new missions and ideas – perhaps next time I can repeat the walk back from the loch to Moffat and rope the others into doing it?! Down at the bottom we let the ranger know about the dying sheep and then begin the 3 and a half hour drive home after a thoroughly enjoyable weekend of scenery, fishing and banter of the highest order.
