Facing up to the elements brings rather special reward

“When the wind is in the north, the wise angler goes not forth” predicts the old saying, but I did. It howled as I walked out of the door of the house we were renting on North Uist. “You are completely mad,” said my wife.

As I walked down the lane, fishing rod over my shoulder, I began to suspect that she was correct. I could see the loch amid the green of the machair in which it lies. The wind was directly from the north; local advice informed me that the big fish inhabited the southern end of the loch.

Waves erupted onto the shore transforming the crystal clear water into yellow soup. I slowed my pace; there was still time to beat an honourable retreat back to the sturdy stone house on the ridge behind me. I slowed to a snail’s pace, on the brink of defeat. “No” I told myself, lengthened my stride and soon perched, back to the wind, on a large boulder a few yards from the water’s edge.

I reached in my pocket for the fly box, knowing exactly what I needed; a Peter Ross quickly adorned the end of my leader. A dropper, eight feet away would carry the Clan Chief, a bold bright fly that would attract attention.

Turning to face the relentless wind and with my neck buried deeply within my collar; I waded slowly into the shallow water. Ten yards from the shore, I left the mucky water of the margins behind me. Another 10 and, despite the disturbance, I could discern every grain of sand at the bottom of the knee-deep loch.

I turned to face west, my right ear now taking the brunt of the battering. I began making casts parallel to the shore, and as I retrieved the flies, I scrutinised the surface in an attempt to identify any interest from below. Moving with short slow steps, heading ever westwards, the intrusion of wind and rain began to recede as I concentrated on the job in hand.

As I skirted a small bay, near the middle of the southern shore, I thought I saw the suggestion of a swirl near the Clan Chief. The water was so choppy that I could not be sure. I slowed my retrieve in the hope that if there was a fish nearby, it would see the Peter Ross and snap it up for supper. Moments later, I felt a very slight tug between my fingers. I lifted the rod, expecting to feel the vibration of a modest fish. Disappointment descended as I felt the dead weight of a weed bed. Then the weed bed moved off determinedly in a north-westerly direction.

The rod arched and line disappeared from my reel at an alarming rate. With relentless pressure, I eventually turned the fish and began the tortuous process of landing it. After several lunges and lightening runs, I started to gain the upper hand and eventually saw my adversary swirl at the surface.

In that moment I knew that I was attached to a very large wild brown trout. With a struggle, I managed to envelop him in the net and made my way to the shore with my prize.

I laid him gently on the wet grass, quickly measured and photographed him before watching in awe as he swam back home. Four pounds two ounces in old money. The best wild brown trout I have ever caught. As I headed home with a spring in my step, the rain stopped, the sky in the west lightened very slightly and I reflected upon the concept of wisdom.

Flies dressed by Stephen Cheetham. 0113 250 7244. www.fishingwithstyle.co.uk