Tasmania on Steroids, Part 2

It didn't take long for me to agree to a return trip to Assynt (Scottish Highlands, see earlier blog post Tasmania on Steriods, Part 1) in August this year. The 9-hour car journey from Manchester was the only disincentive I could think of, and it wasn't too hard to take considering the scenery on offer along the way.

Along with my boss Adam and fellow angling researcher Natalie, I spent a week in an A-frame chalet at Inverkirkaig, a small cluster of houses approximately ten kilometres  south of Lochinver, see http://www.kirkaigchalets.co.uk/index.html. The photo above shows Adam looking across Inverkirkaig's picturesque bay. It is quite an idyllic location; when you grow tired of dodging red deer or spotting otters cruising the inlet, you can wander down to the river Kirkaig and see salmon and sea trout leap from the olive-tinted water. For the piddly sum of £100 a day you can try and hook one of those slippery suckers. No prizes for guessing that I politely declined that bargain-basement rate opportunity.

However, well all did go fishing - it would have been a crime not to - but for the much more reasonable price of £5 a day, and for brown trout rather than salmon. My fly-casting definitely improved over the week (it could hardly have got worse), culminating in one memorable late-afternoon cast that presented the fly in such an irresistable fashion a small orange-spotted brown trout just had to swallow it.

The fly I used is rather grandly titled a "Silver Invicta Muddler" - a name which, in any other context, could easily pass for a latin cocktail or new season ride-on lawnmower. In fact, the flies used for fly-fishing have some very intriguing but ultimately rather silly names, ranging from the prosaic and practical (Black Ant) to the bizarre and fanciful (Parmachelle Belle) and the hopelessly stupid (Okey Dokey).  I've included a picture of my own trout-magnet, a delightful melange of duck feather, deer fuzz and metal, for your eternal viewing pleasure.

Whilst staying in the area I discovered the Achiltibuie (Ackh-ill-ta-boo-ee; best pronounced as though you are vigorously clearing your throat) Smokehouse (http://www.summerislesfoods.com/). This was something of a catastrophic development for the fatness of my wallet but a real treat for the tastebuds. Indeed, in the eyes of my lovely wife, the many packets of smoked seafood I purchased there are possibly the greatest contribution I've made to our married life (I promise you, I am not exaggerating). Scoffing down a sample of smoked cheddar on the Smokehouse verandah, I watched with envy as a group of sea-kayakers slid past the craggy offshore lumps that constitute the Summer Isles. This place really is so beautiful, I mused, before the whiff of peat-smoked salmon lured me back indoors...