Alone Except for Sound of plover
2024
Oil on Canvas
2024
ENQUIRE
It was on the loch of Mousavord on the west side of Shetland that my fly-fishing journey began with a profoundly powerful and mystical experience when I caught my first ever trout on a fly. A trout that in many ways went on to shape my future direction as an artist.
I had been fascinated by the allure of the mysterious majestic lochs on the Sandness Road and these lochs with their secluded islands and bays amongst rolling heather moorland and rocky hills were calling me in so one muggy evening armed with my fly rod I ventured down through the swampy banks towards Mousavord loch. This was a very new kind of landscape to me, welcoming and beckoning me in its mystery simultaneously filling me with fear because this was the first time in my life, I had ever walked into any kind of wilderness land.
The rolling hills offered a deep sense of tranquillity as I entered a timeless place, where time slowed to the heartbeat of nature free from the demands of the industrialized life I was born into. A land that is mostly undeveloped by the ravages of humans and where the modern world has ignored and forgotten about.
In this wind carved landscape the water is clean and free flowing burns cascade across the moor bringing life wherever they flow. The sound of waterfalls falling on hard grey rock form part of a soundscape that is dominated by the haunting call of moorland Birds. The warbling drone of the curlew sliced through the heavy-laden air like a melodic chanting of the very land itself. Golden Plovers called as if in pain and like a call to a lover lost amongst the moorland heather, the cry is returned in an echo that fills the land with a sound that transcends time. This moorland melody was magnified exponentially because the sound of the London Streets and banging Black Country factories were still recently etched into my mind.
I was greeted by the hares, the sentinel watchers of the land, bolting as I got too close, reminding me that this is their land, and I am a visitor. The skuas sounded alarm calls as I walked deeper into the valley warning me not to get too close. I was unprepared for the sinking peat bogs and the swarms of midges, and I started to overheat in the thick humid air , but in my heart, I was elated by the knowledge that I was the only angler around for many miles. As I neared the water I crept more slowly along the heathery banks and dark rocky boulders of this loch that has lain mostly undisturbed since the last Ice Age.
I had never cast a fly in my life so I was entering into very new territory with no clear plan of where to start so I followed my angler’s intuition which led me to a weedy bay that felt like it should hold fish. I positioned myself on a rock that offered a panoramic view of my surroundings but the swarms of midges tormented me so intensely that it seemed the only way to escape them was to jump into the loch.
I was determined to stick it out as not only was this my first encounter in pursuit of wild brown trout it was also my first acquaintance with a fly rod. In my mind I was doubtful a fly could even catch a fish as I was so a tuned into to using actual bait. On my way I noticed that olive-coloured flies were on the bank, and I had heard it said that a fly fisherman has to look at the flies that are around and try to imitate them. From the dozen or flies that I had I selected one with an olive body, which I later discovered was called a ‘Greenwell’s Glory.’
I clumsily tried to cast and became infuriated when my line got stuck in the heather behind me and when I finally did manage to cast it landed in helpless heaps on the water in front of me. The midges were by now unbearable I decided to move to a spot that allowed the gentle breeze to flow dispersing the midges as well as allowing enough space behind me for the back cast. All around the vista of the loch grew ever louder like a ringing in my ears of a vibratory power from the very land itself that hummed with life. I had subliminally entered the elemental state of the hunter , my senses became on edge and my mind slipped into a different level of consciousness as I entered into the watery world of the fish.
There was a splash at my terribly presented fly and suddenly I was attached to a trout that leaped against the reflections of the darkening hills reflecting in the amber glow of the water. I don’t know who was more surprised the fish or me, and my initial reaction was of disappointment because this was about the size of fish I that I used as bait for Pike, , but when I looked at that dark trout against the backdrop of the landscape around a primordial force was awoken in me. A force that was redolent with a sense of belonging and a recognition of a distant past that the modern world has all but killed off in most of us.
That trout in all its dark mystery was like a timeless link to a time scape where the rocks whispered stories of millennia of accumulated wisdom. A land where generations merge and we become hunters again. The land chimed with the voice of ancient peoples who were keeping the song lines alive and somehow helping to call me back home. A shift occurred in me that transformed the way I relate to Shetland as I was opened up to the power of the voices of the other than human world around me and a sense of mystery was ignited in my imagination that led me on a path towards exploring the untameable and unknowable lochs of Shetland
It was a profoundly spiritual and life changing experience , and from that point onwards angling became a more like spiritual activity than the sport that many consider it to be. . The point where the fly line enters the water became like a bridge that intersects the boundary between our world of air and the unknown mysteries of water. A conduit through which the thread of time of can flow by opening a connection into this most ancient of ancient lands. A land that is worth protecting.
A land where it is possible to be alone except for the sound of Golden Plover.
I had been fascinated by the allure of the mysterious majestic lochs on the Sandness Road and these lochs with their secluded islands and bays amongst rolling heather moorland and rocky hills were calling me in so one muggy evening armed with my fly rod I ventured down through the swampy banks towards Mousavord loch. This was a very new kind of landscape to me, welcoming and beckoning me in its mystery simultaneously filling me with fear because this was the first time in my life, I had ever walked into any kind of wilderness land.
The rolling hills offered a deep sense of tranquillity as I entered a timeless place, where time slowed to the heartbeat of nature free from the demands of the industrialized life I was born into. A land that is mostly undeveloped by the ravages of humans and where the modern world has ignored and forgotten about.
In this wind carved landscape the water is clean and free flowing burns cascade across the moor bringing life wherever they flow. The sound of waterfalls falling on hard grey rock form part of a soundscape that is dominated by the haunting call of moorland Birds. The warbling drone of the curlew sliced through the heavy-laden air like a melodic chanting of the very land itself. Golden Plovers called as if in pain and like a call to a lover lost amongst the moorland heather, the cry is returned in an echo that fills the land with a sound that transcends time. This moorland melody was magnified exponentially because the sound of the London Streets and banging Black Country factories were still recently etched into my mind.
I was greeted by the hares, the sentinel watchers of the land, bolting as I got too close, reminding me that this is their land, and I am a visitor. The skuas sounded alarm calls as I walked deeper into the valley warning me not to get too close. I was unprepared for the sinking peat bogs and the swarms of midges, and I started to overheat in the thick humid air , but in my heart, I was elated by the knowledge that I was the only angler around for many miles. As I neared the water I crept more slowly along the heathery banks and dark rocky boulders of this loch that has lain mostly undisturbed since the last Ice Age.
I had never cast a fly in my life so I was entering into very new territory with no clear plan of where to start so I followed my angler’s intuition which led me to a weedy bay that felt like it should hold fish. I positioned myself on a rock that offered a panoramic view of my surroundings but the swarms of midges tormented me so intensely that it seemed the only way to escape them was to jump into the loch.
I was determined to stick it out as not only was this my first encounter in pursuit of wild brown trout it was also my first acquaintance with a fly rod. In my mind I was doubtful a fly could even catch a fish as I was so a tuned into to using actual bait. On my way I noticed that olive-coloured flies were on the bank, and I had heard it said that a fly fisherman has to look at the flies that are around and try to imitate them. From the dozen or flies that I had I selected one with an olive body, which I later discovered was called a ‘Greenwell’s Glory.’
I clumsily tried to cast and became infuriated when my line got stuck in the heather behind me and when I finally did manage to cast it landed in helpless heaps on the water in front of me. The midges were by now unbearable I decided to move to a spot that allowed the gentle breeze to flow dispersing the midges as well as allowing enough space behind me for the back cast. All around the vista of the loch grew ever louder like a ringing in my ears of a vibratory power from the very land itself that hummed with life. I had subliminally entered the elemental state of the hunter , my senses became on edge and my mind slipped into a different level of consciousness as I entered into the watery world of the fish.
There was a splash at my terribly presented fly and suddenly I was attached to a trout that leaped against the reflections of the darkening hills reflecting in the amber glow of the water. I don’t know who was more surprised the fish or me, and my initial reaction was of disappointment because this was about the size of fish I that I used as bait for Pike, , but when I looked at that dark trout against the backdrop of the landscape around a primordial force was awoken in me. A force that was redolent with a sense of belonging and a recognition of a distant past that the modern world has all but killed off in most of us.
That trout in all its dark mystery was like a timeless link to a time scape where the rocks whispered stories of millennia of accumulated wisdom. A land where generations merge and we become hunters again. The land chimed with the voice of ancient peoples who were keeping the song lines alive and somehow helping to call me back home. A shift occurred in me that transformed the way I relate to Shetland as I was opened up to the power of the voices of the other than human world around me and a sense of mystery was ignited in my imagination that led me on a path towards exploring the untameable and unknowable lochs of Shetland
It was a profoundly spiritual and life changing experience , and from that point onwards angling became a more like spiritual activity than the sport that many consider it to be. . The point where the fly line enters the water became like a bridge that intersects the boundary between our world of air and the unknown mysteries of water. A conduit through which the thread of time of can flow by opening a connection into this most ancient of ancient lands. A land that is worth protecting.
A land where it is possible to be alone except for the sound of Golden Plover.