The editor’s cast
Andrew Flitcroft heads to the hills after a milestone birthday
I TURNED 60 in June. To celebrate, I headed to the Scottish Highlands for a ten-day salmon and trout safari. Given the occasion, there was little remonstration, although there rarely is from my wife who enjoys her own space as much as I do. I did, however, take Freddie with me. He helps with The Take and, at half my age, is at the start of an exciting journey in fly-fishing. Our overriding mission was simple: catch Freddie his first Atlantic salmon, then fish the trout lochs that I had only read about and imagined.
Our adventure began with an epic eleven-hour drive from home, made even longer by frequent stops to peer into famous rivers and lochs along the way. Freddie was on birdwatching duty while I negotiated the single-track roads, with regular stops — many of them false alarms — whenever birds from our wish list appeared. Our itinerary was ambitious: see a golden eagle, fish three salmon rivers and as many wild trout lochs as possible, all dotted around the North Coast 500 — Scotland’s answer to Route 66.
We'll share stories of the fishing and the fascinating people we met in future issues, but one overriding takeaway was that truly wild fish and truly wild places still exist on this tiny, and mostly overcrowded, island.
One river we fished involved a one-and-a-half-hour hike up a steep mountain trail, followed by a descent into a treacherous ravine of boulder-strewn rapids, cliffs and pools, only accessible by rope and ankle-breaking riparian paths. Water poured from the cliffs, feeding a pristine ecosystem where vivid ferns, stunning orchids and sweet wild strawberries flourished. Here, rain outnumbers blue-sky days and temperatures are half those we experience down south.
These places could well represent the last true strongholds of Atlantic salmon in the UK. You might assume they have escaped the pressures of overpopulation and intensive farming that affect so much of southern Britain, but look closer and the threats are plain to see. Rising temperatures, salmon aquaculture and renewable energy are all leaving their mark on these remarkable landscapes.
A yomp over heather and bog and before the descent into the gorge.
A three-hour yomp across the uplands of Sutherland is enough to remind any 60-year-old that his swagger has long since departed
Then there were the hill lochs, where acrobatic three-quarter-pound trout competed eagerly for your Muddler, and quieter, moodier waters far from the beaten track hinted at bigger rewards. This is wild trout fishing at its best, where the window of opportunity is fleeting and easily missed if you are not tuned into the slightest hatch of insects, a subtle shift in the wind, or that magical softness in the air that suddenly brings everything to life.
To me, this is fishing in its purest form, where our quarry are true survivors, living entirely at the mercy of the harsh environs they inhabit. As an angler, it is a privilege simply to share their world — even more so to see them lying in the bottom of the net, dark-flanked, halo-spotted, gold-bellied and momentarily stunned into stillness. Beautiful and humbling. One loch we fished had seen just one angler three weeks prior to our visit — there are precious few places in the UK where you can say that.
These locations are not for the faint-hearted. A three-hour yomp across the uplands of Sutherland is enough to remind any 60-year-old that his swagger has long since departed. Yet as each step sank into the sphagnum moss, and with every delightful and surprising wildflower, frog, lizard and carnivorous plant I encountered, I couldn’t help but notice the encroachment of man on the horizon. Wind farms now stand where stags once roamed freely across mountain and heather. Today they still roam here, but between the turbines and service tracks — another reminder that even our wildest and most beautiful places are no longer beyond the reach of industry.
I won’t name these lochs because others believe doing so would only encourage exploitation. I understand their view, although I remain conflicted. On the one hand, we should be encouraging affordable, accessible fishing; on the other, we must recognise that unwanted attention could hasten the decline of already threatened wild fish and wild places.
Suffice to say, I’m now back to the reality of everyday life: World Cup fever and my daughter’s wedding have passed. I’m left reliving every stunning view, every dry-fly take and every spongy step across a Sutherland bog. It was magical.
