Land of Hope & Glory

JOHN HUMPHREYS tries his hand at dapping for Highland sea-trout

Trout and Salmon - November 2001

THIS TIME NEXT year, my first salmon, caught after 20 years of trying, and about which I wrote in last month's T&S, will weigh more than Miss Ballantine's. I daren't calculate how much my fish cost but, believe me, it was worth every penny.

Back at the hotel there was much rejoicing and the night in the gillies' bar remains only a hazy memory. I had not known it at the time but all that day, my last at the Altnaharra Hotel, to a man the gillies had been praying for my success. It is typical of them, for they are lovely folk.

You may fish from the hotel in numerous lochs, including Naver, where trolling is favourite as well as traditional wet-fly and they would expect to take 50 salmon up to 18 lb in a short season as well as brown trout and countless sea-trout.

Loch Shin also has fine fishing for brownies as well as salmon. Wonderful brown trout fishing may be had on Plantation, Meadie, Loyal, Hakel, Staink and Craggie lochs as well as in a host of lochs that need quite a hike to find. The prices are surprisingly reasonable and compare favourably with most lowland stocked fisheries.

However, the jewel is Loch Hope, a wee drive up the road, which lies like a pool of hammered pewter in a fold in the hills in the lowering shadow of Ben Hope.

To reach it, you pass a wonderful Pictish broch made at the time of Christ, and a stark roofless cottage. I asked if it was a relic from the dreaded Clearances, but it was nothing so historic. It is an estate cottage and they took the slates off the roof to avoid paying tax on it.

The loch is over five miles long and curiously shaped. It is divided into beats and you take turns to fish them. On my first day I went out with hotel regular Arthur Pratt, from Harrogate, with his experienced gillie, Jimmy Baines. They are an old and established team, for Arthur has been going to the hotel for 15 years, during which he has sat at the same table in the dining-room. "It's decent here, and quiet. I'll never tire of it," he says. "I know most of the people and they have become good friends over the years."

We shared the boat with Whiskey, his West Highland terrier, who had to be tethered to a thwart for he gets so excited when a fish takes that he is at risk of jumping into the water.

Jimmy took us to Middle Bay and motored gently over to the far side, crossing an ancient man-made promontory called "The Castle" that now lies some feet underwater. I wonder what ancient people made it, and for what purpose? On the way I scanned the heavens for birds and the water for rising fish.

There were no fish for they come up only when the spirit moves them, and, while scarce, the birds were all good 'uns. A pair of ravens was kronking away until the eagle that nests on the far end of Ben Hope wheeled over, at which they dived into the heather and sat quietly until the danger was past. There were no duck on the water but lots of wagtails and a black-throated diver slid like butter down the throat of the little bay.

The motor died and silence fell like cotton wool: not a plane, no electronic bleeping, just the sighing of the wind, the gentle kiss of ripples and Jimmy's soft accent recounting great days of old. "It was by yon rock that a shentelman landed a 17-pounder; it was a wee while ago, mind ye".

The fishing on the loch is almost all dapping, but some prefer to fish a team of wet-flies. I was slightly nervous of dapping, never having done it before. But Jim Hunter, one of the gillies, told me not to worry. "Ye'll be an expert in five minutes," he promised.

Arthur gave me one of his special dapping flies, a thing he has not done to many who have known him for years, and I felt quite privileged with the present. With it he has caught scores of salmon and only recently he lost a fish estimated at 10 lb at the net. This year, he caught the first sea-trout of the season, a 21z2-pounder in May, which is considered early. Soon we had the telescopic rods up with the floss blowing in the wind and Arthur's magic fly dancing and skittering on the water, lifting and falling so like a real insect I could have swotted it. How could any fish resist it?

The origins of dapping are interesting. In the old days, the boatman or gillie dapped with a hookless fly to tease the fish up. When he caused one to rise, the gentry in the boat would cover it with conventional flies.

Later, it was the province of ladies who could not cast a fly all day. To sit at ease in the boat wafting your dapping rod was a lovely way to spend the day. At last the men, being slow on the uptake, gradually realised that the women were catching more fish than they were so they, too, took up the gentle art and abandoned their fly rods.

Michael Dawnay had told me that dapping allowed you to fish a fly as you have always wished you could fish your top dropper. Jim was right, and I soon got the hang of it, taking pride in making the big fly sweep back and forth, trickling it with the wind, furrowing the water, pausing, lifting lightly off and dancing down again. You have to concentrate: turn to say something to a neighbour and that is the precise moment a trout will take. Arthur turned to speak to Jimmy and - bang! - a 2 lb sea-trout had taken his fly and spat it out. Typical! After that I watched mine so closely that any rising fish to catch my eye would have fallen into a hypnotic trance. Having digested all the advice about how to strike sea-trout I opted for the Canadian bear-shooter's philosophy. Wait until the last possible minute then give it everything you've got.

We raised a great many fish that morning and curiously not one of them stayed on long enough save for a string of finnock, which were all returned, for there is a strict size-limit. You get days like that, and the following one you never lose a fish.

My first moment of excitement came when I raised a lovely sea-trout, which leapt three feet in the air, did it again and again, throwing the hook on the third eruption. There's not much you can do about that. Then I had another that powered away into the deeps with much head-shaking and again the fly just came out, although I kept on the pressure. Arthur had even worse luck, raising a number of nice fish that either came short, slashed at the fly or didn't take it properly. Jimmy remarked that this had been the pattern all week.

Being too clever by half I replied wittily, "I suppose we should have been here last week." Quick as a flash he retorted that "No, it was no good then, either."

We took the super packed lunch provided by the hotel on to a rocky shore where heather bloomed. I plucked a sprig for my hat for luck. On the far side the craggy old head of Ben Hope was wreathed in mist like a volcano. It is a wild and lonely land, for sure.

Later in the day I changed boats to join Michael Dawnay. I still had Arthur's deadly fly and, having dried and re-oiled it, we tried a little drift not far from the landing cove. There were one or two half-hearted boils, we lost the wind, but then it returned and as I stared at my fly it just vanished in a swirl of water. One minute it was there and the next it had gone.

The reel screamed and the fish made some good runs, but dapping tackle is stout gear and a fish can hardly break you. I was sure he would get off, in keeping with the pattern for the day, but he stuck on and an honest three-pounder was drawn over the net. By then the light was fading, so it was time to go back to the hotel for a tidy-up and a couple of pints in the gillies' bar before an excellent dinner.

One thing about Altnaharra: I never had trouble getting to sleep. The moment my head hit the pillow it was next morning and the alarm clock was pinging. It had been a truly wonderful week in stunning scenery with a great many lovely fish. The hotel had been comfortable, welcoming and friendly, the gillies - Jim, Jimmy, Ian, Walter and the rest - a smashing set of blokes, and my friend Michael Dawnay who organised my trip had been a perfect host. Add my first salmon to the list of pluses and it will be clear that I have become a big fan of Altnaharra. I might even join the happy band of those who return year after year and regard it, as someone said, as "going home".