Laughter among the lochs
Posted: Mon Jul 15, 2013 6:12 pm
I am not even sure that this is a ghost story. The events described here happened over 20 years ago and have played on my mind ever since. It isn’t the traditional ghost story, but whenever I think of what I experienced all those years ago I feel a deep sense of unease.
A work colleague owned a croft overlooking Little Loch Broom in Wester Ross and was happy to rent it out to anyone prepared to tackle the 600 mile drive up from the Thames Valley. We decided to take our young family up for the May half term and, as with all family holidays, the possibility of wetting a line was carefully researched as the holiday approached. The ordnance survey map showed a landscape scattered with blue flecks, each representing a hill loch of unknown potential. A light fly outfit was prepared and teams of traditional flies assembled. I plotted a route into the hills above the Loch – a stiff climb should see me beside a promising looking lochan within an hour. The weather was very un-Scottish and the hills were bathed in sunlight when we arrived and for days after. The decision was made to go for an early start and at 4.30 a.m. I slipped quietly out of the back door leaving the family sleeping. With no footpaths I decided to follow the course of a small stream that tumbled down from the hill loch above. The ground was rough and treacherous. The thought went through my mind that I would have to wait a very long time for help if I slipped and twisted an ankle or broke a leg.
After about an hour the ground levelled out and the loch stretched out before me. A light breeze roughed up the water's surface and the only sounds were of small waves lapping on the shore and the call of a distant buzzard. The landscape and vista out to sea were heavenly and it was a pleasure to be in such an isolated and beautiful location. A team of 3 traditional wet flies were soon drifting round in a satisfying arc and a succession of naïve and spirited brownies surrendered to the charms of the bloody butcher. The fish were all around 6oz and if larger trout hid in the depths, I did not see them. It mattered not. The unspoiled and virgin waters were a joy to fish and the time passed quickly. Cast and move was the successful tactic and I soon found myself opposite my original starting point. The sun had risen and now the loch and hillside were bathed in a light of clarity and purity and the whole landscape seemed to be in high definition. I had stopped casting for a moment to reflect on the beauty of my surroundings and then out of nowhere, for no reason, I was afraid. Sometimes the loneliness and desolation of a remote location can be unnerving but this was different. I started to sweat even though the morning was still cool. I scanned the hills and banks of the loch – I did’t know what I was looking for but something made me uncomfortable. I would not have been surprised to see that I was being watched. A deer perhaps or someone tending the sheep that were scattered across the hillside? The ability to sense when we are being watched must be buried deep within our psyche, an echo from our distant past when our lives might have depended on this ‘sixth sense’. There was nothing to see, but I thought I could hear something. The wind had picked up, the lochside reeds hissed in the breeze and I thought I could make out the sweet sing-song of children’s voices, like a sound from a distant school playground. Surely I was imagining things, I was miles from the nearest road and goodness knows how far I was from another human being. My initial uneasiness grew and I was now feeling a deep, visceral, pounding dread. Something was not right, the feeling of being watched was now overwhelming and I looked around me with increasing anxiety and fear. This seemed totally irrational but there was no disguising the fact that I would rather have been anywhere else except alone beside this loch in the hills of Wester Ross. With an increasing feeling of panic I hastily packed up and made my way back to the croft. I hurried down the hill following the winding stream and doing my best to avoid tangling with the boulders that followed its course. I didn’t look behind me although the temptation to do so was overwhelming.
Sitting beside the stove in the kitchen I told myself that I had been totally irrational and that the only thing that had frightened me was my own imagination. 20 years later I can still remember the fear and dread that gripped me like a vice on that beautiful sunny morning in May and my skin still prickles when I think of that day. I am at a loss to explain the events that made this particular fishing trip so terrifying. Did I experience the echo of something dreadful that was now lost to history? I never had the courage to ask my colleague about the loch; my story would have sounded ridiculous and I did not want to admit to being scared out of my wits. I have since fished alone and at night in some very dark and lonely places but I have never experienced anything remotely like that sunlit day in Wester Ross and I'm not ashamed to admit that I never, ever wish to go back.
Steve
A work colleague owned a croft overlooking Little Loch Broom in Wester Ross and was happy to rent it out to anyone prepared to tackle the 600 mile drive up from the Thames Valley. We decided to take our young family up for the May half term and, as with all family holidays, the possibility of wetting a line was carefully researched as the holiday approached. The ordnance survey map showed a landscape scattered with blue flecks, each representing a hill loch of unknown potential. A light fly outfit was prepared and teams of traditional flies assembled. I plotted a route into the hills above the Loch – a stiff climb should see me beside a promising looking lochan within an hour. The weather was very un-Scottish and the hills were bathed in sunlight when we arrived and for days after. The decision was made to go for an early start and at 4.30 a.m. I slipped quietly out of the back door leaving the family sleeping. With no footpaths I decided to follow the course of a small stream that tumbled down from the hill loch above. The ground was rough and treacherous. The thought went through my mind that I would have to wait a very long time for help if I slipped and twisted an ankle or broke a leg.
After about an hour the ground levelled out and the loch stretched out before me. A light breeze roughed up the water's surface and the only sounds were of small waves lapping on the shore and the call of a distant buzzard. The landscape and vista out to sea were heavenly and it was a pleasure to be in such an isolated and beautiful location. A team of 3 traditional wet flies were soon drifting round in a satisfying arc and a succession of naïve and spirited brownies surrendered to the charms of the bloody butcher. The fish were all around 6oz and if larger trout hid in the depths, I did not see them. It mattered not. The unspoiled and virgin waters were a joy to fish and the time passed quickly. Cast and move was the successful tactic and I soon found myself opposite my original starting point. The sun had risen and now the loch and hillside were bathed in a light of clarity and purity and the whole landscape seemed to be in high definition. I had stopped casting for a moment to reflect on the beauty of my surroundings and then out of nowhere, for no reason, I was afraid. Sometimes the loneliness and desolation of a remote location can be unnerving but this was different. I started to sweat even though the morning was still cool. I scanned the hills and banks of the loch – I did’t know what I was looking for but something made me uncomfortable. I would not have been surprised to see that I was being watched. A deer perhaps or someone tending the sheep that were scattered across the hillside? The ability to sense when we are being watched must be buried deep within our psyche, an echo from our distant past when our lives might have depended on this ‘sixth sense’. There was nothing to see, but I thought I could hear something. The wind had picked up, the lochside reeds hissed in the breeze and I thought I could make out the sweet sing-song of children’s voices, like a sound from a distant school playground. Surely I was imagining things, I was miles from the nearest road and goodness knows how far I was from another human being. My initial uneasiness grew and I was now feeling a deep, visceral, pounding dread. Something was not right, the feeling of being watched was now overwhelming and I looked around me with increasing anxiety and fear. This seemed totally irrational but there was no disguising the fact that I would rather have been anywhere else except alone beside this loch in the hills of Wester Ross. With an increasing feeling of panic I hastily packed up and made my way back to the croft. I hurried down the hill following the winding stream and doing my best to avoid tangling with the boulders that followed its course. I didn’t look behind me although the temptation to do so was overwhelming.
Sitting beside the stove in the kitchen I told myself that I had been totally irrational and that the only thing that had frightened me was my own imagination. 20 years later I can still remember the fear and dread that gripped me like a vice on that beautiful sunny morning in May and my skin still prickles when I think of that day. I am at a loss to explain the events that made this particular fishing trip so terrifying. Did I experience the echo of something dreadful that was now lost to history? I never had the courage to ask my colleague about the loch; my story would have sounded ridiculous and I did not want to admit to being scared out of my wits. I have since fished alone and at night in some very dark and lonely places but I have never experienced anything remotely like that sunlit day in Wester Ross and I'm not ashamed to admit that I never, ever wish to go back.
Steve
