I’d spent much of Saturday drying out in our small cottage. Sunday, it was time to get wet again.
Clambering over the rough hills of North Morar in July delivered a new sense of dampness. The air was as thick and soggy as the boggy basins I was negotiating between rocky hummocks while trying to follow a compass bearing.
And then it rained… I watched wraith-like storms charge up Loch Morar and Nevis. Distant hills were cloaked by another smear of rain. I counted till heavy raindrops drummed on the shoulders of my jacket: Less than a minute; conditions changeable.
Standing atop Eun-Tium, a mere pimple by Scottish hill standards and yet an engaging climb in this wild land, I took a simple westerly bearing and followed it.
I headed to familiar ground by an unfamiliar route… A straight line. It wasn’t straight, of course, and I diverted around streams, rocky obstacles and contoured terraces in a bid to find the best line. Map distances are stretched here and I doff my flatcap to experienced navigators who can pace with precision.
Cresting yet another summit, I disturbed a deer and a calf. They disappeared over a small bealach, underlining my inadequate, heavy-booted progress.
I then found my objective: Loch a Braghaid, a sizeable lozenge of water tucked away in the hills. I had a five-weight fly rod strapped to my pack and a small box of flies: Anglinglight.com
I made tea with loch water and rolled out a short cast. The trout obliged and I spent a contented hour or so messing about by the water. As my cast deteriorated, I knew it was time to head back, to dry out again for next time.