The Bloody Doc­tor begins with a rec­ol­lec­tion as sharp as the breeze skim­ming the loch’s surface—where tri­umph is rare, but every cast car­ries hope. The nar­ra­tor revis­its Clear­burn Loch, a rugged haven where trout still thrive despite dwin­dling pop­u­la­tions else­where. The loch, dis­tant and unfor­giv­ing, holds a charm stronger than log­ic. It’s not the ease of the catch that draws anglers, but the puri­ty of the chal­lenge. Even on days when lines come back emp­ty, the promise of wild fish glid­ing under reed-cov­ered shal­lows keeps hearts teth­ered to its banks. The nar­ra­tor, armed with mem­o­ry and opti­mism, makes the trek again, ready to lose as much as to win.

Sur­round­ed by land immor­tal­ized by Ley­den and Scott, the road to Clear­burn reads like a pas­sage through folk­lore. Hills and trees echo with vers­es long for­got­ten by most, but not by the nar­ra­tor. There’s some­thing ground­ing in walk­ing where poets once wan­dered, cast­ing their thoughts into the same wind. Upon reach­ing the loch, the real­i­ty of the ter­rain asserts itself. Nar­row strips of shore offer the only sta­ble ground from which to fish. The rest is rimmed by marsh­es and hid­den springs, eager to claim care­less boots. Yet, despite the risk, that nar­row shore feels sacred—like a pul­pit for the faith­ful. In its still­ness, the water con­ceals a promise.

At first, the fish are silent, and the loch sits like a mir­ror untrou­bled by rip­ple or rise. But then, as if called by some unseen hand, the sur­face erupts with feed­ing trout. Their fren­zy is clear, but their appetite is puz­zling. The nar­ra­tor scram­bles through his col­lec­tion of flies, yet noth­ing match­es the unknown insect they seek. Cast after cast is ignored, met only with the indif­fer­ence of trout locked in their strange crav­ing. It’s a mad­den­ing scene, watch­ing them feed with aban­don yet refus­ing every offer­ing. Anglers know this feeling—a moment of feast, but nev­er for them.

When the rise fades as abrupt­ly as it began, the loch returns to its mys­te­ri­ous calm. The nar­ra­tor doesn’t leave but remains root­ed, study­ing the reeds that hide more than they reveal. He begins to sus­pect a par­tic­u­lar­ly large trout, a shad­ow that emerges only when least expect­ed. It’s the kind of fish whis­pered about in pubs and journals—known more by near-cap­tures than by tro­phies. A flick­er near the reeds becomes the moment he’s wait­ed for. Hook set, line pulled, the strug­gle begins. Yet the fish—clever, mon­strous, or per­haps some­thing more—refuses to be caught.

What fol­lows is not just a bat­tle of rod and fish, but of man against all odds. The trout runs, weav­ing through reeds like it knows every inch of the loch bet­ter than any man ever could. The nar­ra­tor moves with cau­tion, bal­anc­ing between rocks and slip­pery mud, heart rac­ing with each tug of the line. But the fish has the final word. The line snaps—not from a mis­take, but from inevitabil­i­ty. There is no tantrum, just the long sigh of real­iza­tion. In that moment, the weight isn’t just of the lost fish but of every­thing that could have been.

Walk­ing back along the same trail, now with aching limbs and an emp­ty creel, the nar­ra­tor doesn’t feel defeat­ed. Instead, there’s a strange gratitude—a sense that some­thing sacred was expe­ri­enced, even if noth­ing was caught. The loch gave a mem­o­ry, not a meal, and that seems enough. Look­ing back over his shoul­der, he swears he sees a swirl—just where the big trout van­ished. Some spir­its are nev­er meant to be caught, only encoun­tered. Fish­ing, after all, is less about pos­ses­sion than pres­ence.

The land­scape is more than a back­drop; it’s part of the sto­ry. Clear­burn isn’t just a loch, it’s a char­ac­ter with moods, secrets, and a sense of humor dark­er than the peat-stained water. That a fish can out­wit a sea­soned angler is not an insult but a rit­u­al. The fail­ure sharp­ens the pas­sion, the chase renews the pur­pose. That’s the cycle, and the nar­ra­tor accepts it. Tomor­row, the loch may be silent, or it may awak­en with anoth­er mys­tery. But either way, it will be wait­ed for.

The Bloody Doc­tor isn’t a chap­ter about glo­ry, but about pur­suit. It cap­tures how nature hum­bles with­out cru­el­ty, how the act of cast­ing becomes prayer­ful, and how even an unland­ed trout can mark a man’s mem­o­ry. The expe­ri­ence lingers not in the hand but in the heart. Every angler has their “one that got away,” but few can name the hill, the wind, and the shad­ow that made it worth it. This tale does. In that way, it becomes more than a fish­ing story—it becomes a qui­et med­i­ta­tion on hope, humil­i­ty, and the strange joy of not quite catch­ing what we came for.