We are up on our annual pilgrimage to the north coast, between Kyle of Tongue and Torrisdale Sands. I have not booked any stalking yet this year, waiting first to see how the weather fell before setting the best days aside for sea fishing, the boat is the boys’ great priority, and exploring the beaches: Coldbackie, Skinnet Head, Strathy and Melvich. Still, I hope to get out amongst the beasts before the week is done, even if it is a long shot now.
This morning we walked the full mile of golden sands at Torrisdale, the beach deserted but for us. The day before we were swimming in the freezing water, rain pelting our wind-whipped skin as huge white waves crashed around us. Today, I planned to keep the boys out of the water and dry enough to allow for fifteen minutes’ ‘impromptu’ spinning off the old harbour wall at Skerray. The tide was falling, the water shallow, yet in the glassy green sea they caught two juvenile coalies and a young pollock. My eight-year-old, beaming, cradled his first “spun” fish with delight. Only last week on the south coast, they had been hauling in conger eels, then excited and frustrated by the bream. The fish today were tiddlers, but to watch them strike the lure in the clear water was joy enough.
This evening, from the kitchen window, we saw a roe doe with last year’s follower grazing on the edge of the croft. The two eldest wanted to faux-stalk in with me. At seventy yards we were flat to the ground, crawling downwind, moving with the folds of the land. Suddenly she sprang away onto the purple-tinted crest. For a moment she looked back, ears high, then skipped over the skyline. The follower melted into the bracken bank and was gone. I wondered how we had spooked her. Turning, I saw my youngest, six years old, scampering after us, having belatedly decided against staying behind. I said nothing of it, taking turns on my Hawke binoculars the four of us watched the place where she had stood holding out until the midges sent us scampering off too.
This morning we walked the full mile of golden sands at Torrisdale, the beach deserted but for us. The day before we were swimming in the freezing water, rain pelting our wind-whipped skin as huge white waves crashed around us. Today, I planned to keep the boys out of the water and dry enough to allow for fifteen minutes’ ‘impromptu’ spinning off the old harbour wall at Skerray. The tide was falling, the water shallow, yet in the glassy green sea they caught two juvenile coalies and a young pollock. My eight-year-old, beaming, cradled his first “spun” fish with delight. Only last week on the south coast, they had been hauling in conger eels, then excited and frustrated by the bream. The fish today were tiddlers, but to watch them strike the lure in the clear water was joy enough.
This evening, from the kitchen window, we saw a roe doe with last year’s follower grazing on the edge of the croft. The two eldest wanted to faux-stalk in with me. At seventy yards we were flat to the ground, crawling downwind, moving with the folds of the land. Suddenly she sprang away onto the purple-tinted crest. For a moment she looked back, ears high, then skipped over the skyline. The follower melted into the bracken bank and was gone. I wondered how we had spooked her. Turning, I saw my youngest, six years old, scampering after us, having belatedly decided against staying behind. I said nothing of it, taking turns on my Hawke binoculars the four of us watched the place where she had stood holding out until the midges sent us scampering off too.
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