Notes from Africa: It was either me – or a mullet


It was my elder brother, Ken, who taught me how to fish for brown trout in the burns around Balquidder where we often camped in a bothy under the lee of Ben Ledi. The trout, pink-fleshed, were rolled in oatmeal and fried. The surplus were given to the shepherd, a spare, taciturn man, who must have walked for 20 miles over the hills every day with his dogs, keeping an eye on the sheep.

One spring, my father showed me the salmon swimming almost vertically up the falls near Boat of Garten – you begin to believe in miracles after sights like that – in contrast to the shoals of…



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