Monday, 9th August 1976
(Appleby Castle, Age 14:10)
I woke in the children’s flat at the top of the Barons Tower at about nine and washed. I came down for breakfast in the family kitchen on the other side of the Great Hall. When we stayed with Dad, we got our own meals unless they came up from the Refectory. I made myself a pachsd egg on toast.
Dad was already in the car in the courtyard packing the car. He had bamboo rods and fly fishing kit. Though he explained as we’d be ‘dappling for sea trout’ the extra long rods would be provided. I handed him my overnight bag.
Cars were usually parked beyond the gatehouse or down at Castle Park. Tyres circling the gravel drive made a sound I came to associate with arrivals and departures.
Someone came to collect, Oliver, the nineteen-year-old Frenchman who had stayed with us. he had some connection with the Morris family and the Astraka imitation-fur factory in Bishop Auckland.
Dad collected six bottles of wine from the cellar—his provisions—and we set off. He liked to travel with his own supply. I imagine he opened a bottle in his room each evening after fishing, though I cannot remember him paying corkage to drink it with supper.
Mabel, the cook, had packed a picnic for the road.
It took us all day to get there. We stopped for lunch, then again for ice cream. Later, beside the road, Dad used coins in a telephone box to ring Gairloch and say we would be late.
The single-track roads had passing places and wound on for ever.
It was rare for Dad and me to travel alone together. My brother and I had gone fishing with him when we were younger, but the last father-and-son trip I remembered was to London when I was ten or eleven. He had introduced me to his girlfriend, who later became his wife. It spoiled the visit instantly.
We passed 17 French and one German car on the single lane – a European visitor hit spot.
We eventually reached the Loch Maree Hotel. A cold meal had been left out for us. At least we had something. We ate alone, and Dad rang Jane.
I wrote dutiful postcards to Mum and Jane, then went to bed.
We had come to Loch Maree to fish for sea trout, as Dad had once done with his father and mother, perhaps in 1946, 1947 or 1948. We still have the photographs. The shock is not only the scenery but the resemblance. My grandfather, my father and I look significantly alike.
For Dad, it was a nostalgic return, but he wanted me to enjoy it too. I did. Loch Maree is a stunning and unforgettable part of the world
Leave a Reply