A vague family kinship gave us access to a proper croft in a place called Oldshoremore.

To those not in ‘the know’, a proper croft in those days meant fetching buckets of water from a mysterious pool which was covered with wooden planks , bitter family disputes over who’s turn it was to empty and bury the outside toilet, even worse disputes over who had to clean up after the sheep when the gate had been left open and of course, the worst job. Fetching peat and ensuring the range was kept hot.

Every single time we visited would brand a new memory into my childhood. The place was – and remains – magical. I’ve absolutely no idea what my parents did whilst we visited the croft. They’d allocate jobs to the four children then somehow become vague figures who we’d bump into at mealtimes. So long as we, the children, did our part, we were free to roam and roaming was something I excelled at.

The frequency of our visits ensured some lasting friendships were made with local children who were impossibly mature when judged against us town kids. One such was Calum Gunn.

Calum enthralled me with his tales of catching salmon from the River Aisir. Between himself and his father, they would take turns shooting at seals patrolling the mouth of the river. The seals regrettably interrupted the Salmon Run which was an important part of their annual income.

It was also illegal to take fish from the river. Yeah, right.

In the weeks before the Salmon Run started, a sharp ‘crack’ during daylight hours generally meant yet another seal had met its maker and drew me irresistibly to the bay from which fishing boats had been launched in the 19th century. Whilst twin tailed birds dive bombed us, we’d scan the bay for the tell tale round black shape of a seal’s head and Calum explained clearly and concisely how to pull salmon from the river.

The ‘Gaff’ was the weapon of choice, a long pole with a sharp hook at the end. The aim was to lie on the bank at a point where the river narrowed with the Gaff already in the water and sharply pull it upwards when a fish swam past. A successful local would generally be able to buy a new car, crofting implements, or make some other flamboyant gesture with the income received from this annual plunder.

In the 1960’s, Fish Farming had not been invented and Salmon was very much regarded as a luxury dish.

One year, we were all present and correct at the start of The Salmon Run. My parents knew nothing of my intent but I’d spent the previous winter counting the days while waiting for this trip north. Concealed amongst the clutter of childhood holiday junk was my secret weapon.

A New and Improved Gaff.

Despite having lain amongst rocks watching distant seals being despatched, despite all the stories about how a target salmon was impaled on the steel hook, I actually retained a city boy’s abhorrence of blood. Not death, just blood.

I was going to catch a salmon but it would not be hooked through the gills. Instead, my ‘humane’ gaff was to be finally assembled using two wire coathangers attached to a pole by a roll of black insulating tape.

Essentially, this invention looked more like a garden rake with prongs bent firmly back on themselves, allowing a wide spread which would flip the target salmon out of the water onto the shore behind me.

It’s funny. At the age of 12, it all made perfect sense.

On this particular trip, my allocated job was water fetcher. Sometime around 5am, I filled the galvanised steel buckets – ensuring no tadpoles made it into the supply for the house – and with a clear conscience, made my way down to where the river met the sea. Assembling the Gaff was easy. There were ample poles with “No Fishing” signs and one of them sufficed to make the shaft.

A thankfully low tide  would mean I’d see a fish splashing up the rocky shallows from the sea before it came to the deeper peaty pool where I silently waited. My New Improved Gaff lurking below the surface eagerly.

Eventually, patience was rewarded.

Obviously, I remember what happened next with honest and concise clarity. A salmon, somewhere in size between a killer whale and the Loch Ness monster started its run up the shallows. My logic suggested it would pause for a rest where I stalked the calm pool. The game went exactly as planned. This Jurassic Fish slid easily under the surface, resting briefly above the Gaff.

I pulled sharply upwards, the metal web catching the underside of the fish.

Using insulating tape was probably the downfall of the plan. As I yanked my ‘No Fishing’ pole triumphantly, the metal part of the Gaff remained in the water and the panicked salmon fled, heading downstream back to the sea.What the fish did not know was I’d waited this moment for months and it’s failure to co-operated did not mean I was giving up.

I went in after it.

The battle between a 12 year old boy and a fish did not last for hours but memory suggests it may have. I chased that damned fish up and down the shallows as it splashed from pool to pool in the rocks exposed by the low tide. No sheep dog ever marshalled a sheep with the dexterity which was used on that salmon.

Eventually, a final flat lunge was sufficient and I stood hugging the biggest fish I have ever seen. Then I panicked and threw it over my head to the shore.

And there was Calum, his gun lying on the heather and his face alive with utter glee. He’d heard the commotion from his seal hunting hide above the bay and come down to investigate.

‘Do you want take that home with you?’ he asked.

Reality set in. I was soaked, I was bleeding from multiple cuts, I was probably in a lot of trouble with Mum & Dad.

‘No, you have it. I’d better get home.’

Back at the croft, no-one believed a word of the story. Given several historical precedents where I’d shown uncanny ability to fall into water, I suspect the matter would have rested with the finger of dubious suspicion falling on me.

Everything was to change the next day. Calum caught sight of my father driving to Kinlochbervie for ‘the papers’, a daily exercise as the morning papers found their way to the oddly named ‘London Stores’ by mid-afternoon.

When he handed my Dad a £10 note for the salmon, a family legend was born.

Me, I still don’t fish and retain a hatred of blood.

Finally, keeping this ‘on topic’, those who’ve visited Ardentinny and seen the river at low tide will have an idea of the conditions where my epic battle took place. I didn’t build the rock seat which sits above that river but will confess to sitting on it, looking down at the water, and wondering what I’d do nowadays if a salmon lost its way.

Alistair Strang ©

The image of the salmon at the top is by copyright holder, Hans-Petter Fjeld and is reproduced here under the Creative Commons licence.