Stunning island with the perfect trout loch
WHEN the Good Lord decided that His world needed a wash He advised Noah to start sawing cubits, He also instructed Noah to pass the word to Macneil of Barra, warning him of the impending flood and that a place in the Ark had been reserved for Macneil and his family.
A messenger was sent to Macneil telling him that a main deck cabin with all mod cons had been reserved for his use. Macneil responded with Gaelic courtesy, thanking Noah for the invitation, but assuring him that "he had a perfectly good boat of his own".
Kismul Castle, the ancient stronghold of Clan Macneil, dominates Castlebay in Barra; a gaunt, square tower crouched on a tiny island, a few yards from the ferry terminal and the main street of the town. Tradition has it that once The Macneil had finished dinner his piper would ascend to the top of the castle tower and announce, proudly: "Hear Ye, O’ Kings and Princes of the Earth, the Macneil has supped, you may now eat."
I first visited Barra at the end of a journey through the Outer Hebrides, from the Butt of Lewis in the north to Barra in the south while researching my book The Heather Isles. I arrived at Castlebay on the birth of a cold, misty September morning with dawn sunlight just beginning to slant over the grey shoulder of Heaval, which at 1256ft is the highest peak on the island. I instantly fell in love with Barra.
However, unlike Noah, my principal concern was not for Clan Macneil, but for Fred, the 81b salmon I had caught the previous day on East Loch Ollay, while fishing with John Kennedy, then South Uist Estate fishery manager. Fred lay in the ship’s galley, wrapped in a mountain of newspaper and I had to get him to his next resting place, the Castlebay Hotel freezer.
That task completed I set off round the island in search of adventure, and hopefully, a successful encounter with some unsuspecting Barra wild brown trout to keep Fred company on his cold journey back to my home in the far north. It is impossible to get lost on Barra. There is only one road, the A888, which circles the island, with only a few minor tracks leading off to tiny villages, precariously clinging to the seashore.
My first call was on an old friend, Compton Mackenzie, who lies in the graveyard at Cille Bharra. As a child, Compton Mackenzie had been one of my literary heroes and his last resting place is close to his home by Cockle Strand and the Isle of Barra airfield, the only airfield in the world that is covered twice daily by the sea.
Compton Mackenzie’s most famous book, Whisky Galore was made into a film in which Mackenzie played the part of the ferry captain. The subject of the book, the wreck of the SS Politician and the "liberation" of a large part of its cargo of whisky by local people, has an enduring fascination. Recently, a company was formed to liberate anything else still trapped in the wreck. Sadly, to date, this has only included about a dozen drinkable bottles. Still, better than none at all.
Barra is stunningly beautiful, surrounded by emerald green seas, flecked with white-fringed, three-thousand-mile-old blue Atlantic waves. The view from the summit of Heaval is breathtaking. Northwards, across the Sound of Barra and Eriskay, tower the mountains of South Uist, Beinn Mhor, Corodale and graceful Hecla. To the east, a distant prospect of the Cullin on Skye and the Torridon peaks of mainland Scotland. South, a dream-like carpet of small isles, Vatersay, Sandray, Pabbay and Mingulay.
Thoroughly pleased with my day and all that I had seen, I returned to Castlebay and after dinner had the good fortune to fall in with one of the members of the Barra Angling Club.
"How many members do you have?" I enquired, politely. He paused, mentally counting, and, after a moment said, "About seven, I think, but then, of course, not all of them are as keen an angler as I am."
According to the Ordnance Survey sheet (No 31), Barra appears to have few game fishing opportunities and, I suppose, that is why so few people bother to visit Barra for an angling holiday. But the island has some quite outstanding trout fishing that would be difficult to better anywhere in Scotland. Also, it is the perfect location for a family holiday, where the bucket-and-spade brigade will find amazingly white, empty beaches, washed by the warm waters of the Gulf Stream.
Loch an Duin, in the north of Barra, is the local water supply and it contains hardfighting, wild brown trout which average eight ounces in weight with the odd much larger fish as well as the occasional sea-trout. Ruleos, Loch nam Faoileann and Loch nic Ruaidhe, to the east, can all be fished in a day, making a wonderful walk combined with great sport with bright little trout.
But the real gem of Barra is Loch Tangusdale, also known as Loch St Clair, an easy walk down the hill from the road at Kinloch. If I were ever asked to design the perfect a trout loch, then it would probably look very much like Tangusdale; not too big, shallows and deeps, easy wading, shelter and great feeding for fish.
Tangusdale has all this and more, being dominated by the ruins of a small castle, perched on a tiny island by the south shore. I had been told that Tangusdale trout averaged 21b in weight, but had greeted this news with a certain degree of scepticism and after half-an-hour with neither sight nor sound of a fish I was beginning to wonder if I was wasting my time.
I inched down the east shore, sometimes from the bank, sometimes edging a few yards out, concentrating furiously. A golden eagle circled overhead and as I stared heavenward a trout grabbed with such force that it almost pulled the rod from my hand. I hung on grimly as the reel screamed in anger. The fish leapt spectacularly, a golden bar in afternoon sunlight. Cautiously, I played him ever closer to the shore, and then, triumphantly, beached him.
The fish was dark and golden, with clearly defined, bright-red spots; deep-bodied, small head, in perfect condition and weighing 2lb 12 oz. It had given me some of the best angling moments of my life and few trout I have caught ever fought so hard. The burn from Tangusdale enters the sea at Halaman, and this stream also collects in the waters from Loch na Doirlinn. This is a weedy loch, with barely enough weed-free spaces for half-a-dozen casts. It can produce trout of over 51b in weight, but not for me.
The following morning, with Fred and his new-found friend safely in the ferry freezer, whipped by the tail-end of a hurricane, we bucketed across the Minch to Oban. Pausing only to collect Fred and friend, I hurried home.
"Look, Ann," I declared proudly. "See what your clever husband has brought you all the way from the Outer Hebrides, an 8lb salmon." Ann examined the package suspiciously. "Then why has it a label on it marked Mr Jones, 5lb?" she enquired. With a sinking feeling I examined the torpedo-like shape. In my haste to abandon ship I had failed to notice that the steward had given me the wrong fish. So if you are out there somewhere Mr Jones, you owe me an explanation and 3lb of salmon. I only hope that you enjoyed Fred as much as we enjoyed his smaller cousin.
