Fly fishing: Purple majesty on annual road trip

After last year’s buffeting by wind and rain, any sensible person would not purposely seek to repeat the experience. There’s the rub; it’s that sensible bit that precipitates the problem. The heart rules the head, so once again, in early July we began the journey north towards the Outer Hebrides, or the Western Isles as they are more properly known.

It is a long journey, so we now take two days to complete it. We love the drive, which passes through some of the most evocative of Scottish landscapes.

I hope that I will be forgiven for suggesting that the use of an interpreter would be an asset in some areas around the Clyde.

Perhaps that is a bit rich coming from a person once described as unintelligible by someone from a southern county.

I have lost count of the number of times that I have traversed Glen Coe; the atmosphere of the place never fails to move me and I can distinctly remember the occasion when the sun shone.

This year, the head and shoulders of Aonach Eagach and Buachaille Etive Mor were enfolded in the gentle arms of purple cloud and a grey mist that constantly moved along the flanks of these massive igneous monsters.

I have to say that the majesty of the Glen was, on this occasion somewhat marred; it was not easy to negotiate a group of young people taking selfies in the middle of the road.

Half-mile traffic queues behind lumbering caravans also served to remind me of my heart felt belief that these tin tents should only be allowed to travel in the hours of darkness… but that’s another story.

There is no secret about the reasons why we return to the Western Isles. For one of us, the unique character of the fishing enthrals; for the other half of the partnership, the archaeology is fascinating and compelling.

I like to try out new fly designs on the wild brown trout of the Western Isles. The old faithfuls never fail to appeal, the Dunkeld dabbler and the Clan Chief are frequent co-conspirators on my cast.

I do believe though that some of the big boys and girls of the machair lochs do like something bright and colourful.

I was presented with an unmissable opportunity to test my theory. It is apparent that when my friends encounter dead things, their thoughts turn immediately to me.

When Rob informed me that one of his collection of Reeve’s pheasant cocks had suffered a demise, I did feel a momentary pang of sorrow for the hapless creature but this soon passed as I conjured up a mental pictures of its plumage; Google it as soon as you finish reading Country Week and I am quite sure that you will share my excitement.

With a selection of plumage arranged on my desk, I quickly decided that the striking black and white barred feathers from the shoulders would make a perfect hackle.

I added a flashy mid-section, a bit of bling around the bum and sent my design off to Steve so that he could work his magic.

My fly tyings are only fit for personal use, they are not for public display.

As it happened, the trout just loved it; some sizeable specimens ate this fly with wild abandon.

It doesn’t have a name; please feel free to make suggestions. Until then, ‘Reeve’s Revenge’ will fit the bill nicely.