112 
THE PISHING GAZETTE 
[February 18, 1893 
INCHNADAMPH, 
Dear Mr. Marston, —The other day I sent you 
some photographs of Lairg and Inchnadamph. 
It occurs to me that you may like to have 
a short account of the place with so quaint a 
name. ,I also send a photo of the River Oykell, 
just above Oykell Bridge. Mr. Wm. Black, 
Mr. Andrew Lang, and you, know the Oykell 
well. 
Inchnadamph is about fourteen miles from 
Loch Inver, a delightfully situated village on the 
margin of a sea loch of the same name, where the 
rivers Inver and Kirkaig run into the sea. The 
fishing in both rivers is very good, and by stay¬ 
ing at the hotel, one soon finds the drift of 
things. Fishing may be had in the rivers by 
payment, and in the numerous lochs free. On a 
good day, a decent fisher should get his two or 
three fish, and in the lochs from three to five 
dozen trout. 
You can reach Loch Inver in one of David 
MacBrayne’s fine steamers from Glasgow, stay 
there a few days, and on to Inchnadamph by the 
mail. Such a drive! The road runs close to 
the river Inver, past lovely shallow reaches, fine 
Soon we pass the headland on which is situated 
the old castle of Ardvreck. One would like to 
build a house there and live in it—occasionally ! 
At last we reach the favourite haunts that 
many of us know and love so well. Off the “ sunk 
rock ” did we not kill a 9|lb. trout with a small 
Jock Scott ? In that little bay under the road 
there we killed four grilse in about an hour one 
afternoon! 
But Willie puts on a spurt; we are passing 
Johnnie Munro the keeper’s cottage, the pathetic 
little kirk, and the school-house. Over the 
bridge we go, the Traligill rushing beneath, 
then sharp round to the left, and there we 
are, with a hearty welcome at the end of our 
journey. 
But there is another and more usual route to 
Inchnadamph, viz., by rail to Lairg, thence by 
mail, a splendid drive of thirty-six miles through 
Sutherlandshire. Yes, it is a longish journey, 
but well worth it; such an utter change to the 
worker in towns. It is/ree up here, nearly forty 
miles from a railway, and there are splendid hills 
all round us—Ben More, Canisp, Quinaig, and 
others—the noble loch close to the cosie hotel, 
delightful sparkling streams and burns full of 
trout, little Loch Awe four miles oft', with as 
West of England, .an old Oxonian, and, in his 
day, a famous athlete and oarsman, of whom the 
headmaster of a large public school exclaimed 
to us one day, “ I have a great respect for 
him; he played Rugby football after he was 
fifty! ” He rather scorns the loch, but can’t 
he just fish the streams with his little 9-ft. 
Hardy ! 
Then there is the General, keen as ever, and 
who takes a deal to beat; and there is a coterie of 
friends with old University and public school ties, 
who read, and fish, and paint, and explore. We 
are all jolly and happy together, taking in fresh 
health and strength and spirits to carry us on 
through the year. 
Nearly every day we see the red deer, and the 
eagle—and peregrines—and the black-throated 
and red-throated divers, and many strange 
birds. Up in the limestone hills there are rare 
ferns and plants, and it is the most interesting 
and bewildering place in the kingdom for the 
geologist. 
Perhaps what we enjoy as much as anything, is 
sitting out on the old long rod-box seat after 
dinner, and watching the sunsets. They are 
often grand; and we chat, and smoke quietly, 
and look out at the wonderful effects of cloud 
deep pools, eddies and swirls. Often the trout I 
are rising like mad, and in some of the big pools , 
you are almost certain to see a fish or two j 
plunge, with the unmistakable sign-royal of ' 
Salmo salar. ! 
The writer has never fished the lower half of I 
the river, but only the upper waters, those 
nearest to Loch Assynt, whence the river flows. 
The best pools in the upper half of the river are 
Garve, na Neaskey, Black Pool, Minister’s Pool, 
Bridge Pool, Upper and Lower Grassy Pools, and 
the Deer Pool; and there are many other “ lies ” 
that hold fish. The narrows are first-rate, though I 
awkward to fish, and there are small pools I 
between the rapid runs—the Black Pool best of 
all, perhaps. 
But we can’t stay by the river en route ; Willie, 
the driver, won’t wait, and we soon come to Loch 
Assynt, a noble expanse of water, eight or nine 
miles long, and, in many places, a mile or more 
wide. We skirt the loch as we drive through 
bonnie birken woods, past the keeper’s cottage, 
and then Mr. Whitbread’s fine shooting-lodge, on 
to mid-Assynt—fine trouting water, with many 
pretty islands. 
good fishing as one could wish in the best 
months, and later in the season a very good 
chance of a salmon or grilse. The writer has had 
several. 
Then the hill lochs are often very good. Shall 
we ever forget those splendid tramps to reach 
them ? and did we not, one memorable day, in 
that wee Loch get three grand, short, thick fellows 
that weighed over 101b. ? And our ghillies, what 
good fellows they are ! How they do their best 
to show us sport, and how keen they are. 
Even now I see Johnnie McLeod watching 
every cast, and when there’s a rise, “ That’s 
him! ” 
How delighted he is if we take the river for a 
few days; but what a tyrant he is, and how he 
makes us fish every inch of likely water. How 
proud he is if we come back with three or four 
fish, and how deftly he packs them up in the 
evening, to go “ south ” by the mail next 
morning. 
What pleasant fellows we meet! How keen we 
all are! What honest emulation! Do we not 
look forward each year to meet our old friends ? 
We recall each one—the genial rector from the 
and colour. We might tell of “The Dell wi’out 
a name,” where we found a cave, in which we 
discovered bones, and reindeer’s horns, and even 
' a bear’s tooth ! 
Last, but not least, we must mention the unfail¬ 
ing kindness of Mrs. Sutherland, and her son and 
daughters, who do all in their power to make 
their guests comfortable and at home. Good old 
John Sutherland passed away, alas, about a year 
; ago, respected and beloved by all the country 
side, and by those who had the privilege to 
know him. In his younger days, he was the 
only keeper over a tract of country, where now, 
perhaps, there are twenty. “Ah, those were 
the days ! ” old John used to say, “ when eagles 
were as plentiful, almost, as ravens and hoodies 
are now.” But “ those days ” are gone for 
ever. 
We all love Inchnadamph, and the good people 
at the hotel, and the ghillies, and the mountains, 
and the lochs and streams, and the Gaelic 
speech. Yes, it does rain, certainly, sometimes, 
and there are midges in August, but what of it 
or them F 
One of our party has just for warded the accom- 
