Amhuinnsuidhe, Grimersta, Hamanavay, Garynahine, Scaliscro, Uig ... I can reel off the names of the sporting estates on Harris and Lewis like some sad people can reel off the weather stations of Radio 4’s shipping forecast. For years I have pored over the maps; all brown contours speckled and surrounded by blue which, to a game fisher, translate into tranquility, scenic beauty, wild remoteness and endless opportunity. And yet, I had never fished there. Perhaps it was the feeling that the wild sea trout and salmon stocks of the west coast had been so badly affected by salmon farming that the polish on these gold-plated locations had been irrevocably tarnished over the past couple of decades. Something in my mind niggled: is it worth the long haul over there these days?

In September 2005, I was given the opportunity to find out, when my pal Donny Meldrum asked if I would like to join him, Nick Calleya and George Carstairs fishing for a few days at Hamanavay Estate. As soon as we cruised out of a warm and sunny Ullapool on the car ferry, leaving the Summer Isles twinkling in our blue wake, I was beginning to believe that this trip was already worth it.

The drive from Stornoway across to Lewis’ west coast is astonishing. Once outside Stornoway’s boundaries there are no shops, no post offices, no houses, no garages, no hotels. Just the occasional croft. As my OS maps had implied, Lewis may look a bleak, windswept and barren moorland to the casual tourist, but to a fly fisher it suggests a trout-fishing wonderland. Mile upon mile, trout loch after trout loch, each one beckoning from the road. The landscape, which stretches to all points of the compass and is best described as a mosaic of freshwater lochs linked by rocky outcrops, sheep and peat, poses an immensely difficult question to the fly-fishing visitor. Where on earth do you start?

A good question. Bruce Sandison’s book lists 241 named lochs on OS Map 13 (West Lewis and North Harris) alone. In order to do justice to the loch fishing Lewis has to offer, I can only recommend retiring from work before travelling there.

If retirement is not imminent, you’ll need to buy yourself some time, so then the best place to start your campaign would be either study Bruce Sandison’s book, or Norman Macleod’s Trout Fishing in Lewis, or pay a visit to The Sports Shop in Stornoway, just a short walk from the ferry terminal, which issues tickets for hundreds of waters in Lewis. Gleaning all the information you can will point you to where the bigger fish have been contacted, or where a sea trout or salmon may latch on to your trout cast.

That evening, having travelled over 30 miles from Stornoway, we were installed in the only bed & breakfast I had seen between the island’s capital and the Atlantic Ocean. Perched on Gallen Head we discovered our lodgings were run in conjunction with an excellent French restaurant. That’s handy, we thought.

With a three-course meal awaiting our return, we set out to fish the evening rise on Pink Shrimp loch, which is set on top of the cliffs over the Atlantic. Stocked by RAF personnel a number of years ago, the trout thrived on the shrimps contained in this water supply loch, and as the sun set over the Atlantic, we picked up a few residents on Mallard & Clarets - feisty, leaping fish of three-quarters of a pound. The dull sound of the slumbering sea thudding the cliffs below and the red western sky above us promised a beautiful day for tomorrow’s trek into Hamanavay Estate.

To get to the Tamanavay river involves a 4x4, 1000ft climb up the mountain track up and over the steep-sided pass guarded by the peaks of Cracaval and Teinnasval. As you look back from the top of the pass you can see the sandy bays of the Uig estuary, the clear water and white sand making the fishery famous for its unique sight-fishing for salmon. And as you drive, it’s hard to take your eyes off the narrow trackside Loch Raonasgail, also a fabulous sea trout and salmon fishery at the head of the Red River (Abhainn Caslavat) that also feeds Uig Bay.

However, even this mixture of scenic majesty and sporting greatness can’t prepare you for the descent into the valley of the Tamanavay river, which spills into the saltwater Loch Tamanavay. Only a narrow entrance two miles out allows the sea into this steep-sided, secret cove. Its quiet waters are festooned with bladderwrack and sea trout sport at the edge of the ripple, close to the mouth of the river. Significantly, although this protected loch would make an ideal site, there’s not a fish-farm to be seen.

Wait a minute! There’s a house! On the river, overlooking the loch, it occurred to me that, such is the shelter afforded by the cove, if you stayed in the Hamanavay Estate house you would not only be residing in possibly the wildest, remotest, and most beautiful housing location in Scotland, but you could also float-tube the sea loch for sea trout in the evenings. In your garden, as it were.

It was the first time I’d seen sea trout jumping in the sea with any regularity since I was a youth, and my rod-arm began to twitch involuntarily, but it was a little premature. Today, we were going to fish na Craobhaig – the loch at the top of the Tamanavay river – and there was only one way in. On foot.

With rucksacks loaded to capacity with food, tackle, clothing and gear and waders draped and strapped over the top, we yomped upstream over the boggy moorland in bright, hot sun, using our rods as walking staffs. Although we wondered if the keeper had ever walked the track of “about a mile” to the loch (it was surely at least two?), we arrived in good time; hot, sweaty, but in good spirits. It’s amazing how a few leaping sea trout can transform the normally sedate angler into a nifty fell runner.

Loch na Craobhaig is axe-shaped, and the stone-built boathouse snuggles into the corner of the ‘blade’, and the ‘shaft’ points towards Harris. Under a clear blue sky, the flat-calm loch mirrored the striking peaks to the south and comprised one of the most stunning vistas I have ever encountered. The view was enhanced further still when a grilse leapt through the air just ten yards from the boathouse, the splash shattering the silence. Ten miles from the nearest single-track road, we were, I calculated, slap-bang in the middle of nowhere, sitting by a loch full of sea trout and salmon. The walk was already worth it, and we hadn’t put up our rods yet.

As we launched the two clinker-built boats, on cue a light breeze disturbed the surface of the water. As Donny and I motored down to the shallow narrows of the loch, Nick and George headed for the known salmon lie on the far bank. Before long, we both realised that a run of finnock had run into the loch recently. They hit our flies hard and dashed about in the peaty loch and in the warm September air. Sport in the sunshine was constantly in the offing – rocks, promontories, inlets and all the obvious places and then, out of the blue, over deeper water another hit, or a snatch, or a boil or a bow-wave. Silver Invicta or Silver Stoat were their preference, each silvery fish of almost 1lb returned carefully, as Hamanavay Estate operates on a catch-and-release basis. The sport we had was a tribute to the overall management of the estate waters – the policy is producing excellent results. Occasionally, the peace was broken by the crash of a leaping salmon and we’d mark the spot for future reference. On one such drift, opposite an inflowing stream, Donny’s rod kicked over again, but this time a hefty fish sounded deep. A dogged, powerful fight ensued, the rod hooped, line angling down, directly under the boat. No sign of this one jumping. Definitely a salmon we decided ... just as it decided to come off. Never mind, at least it reminded us that we weren’t in Heaven just yet. Did I tell you we caught some decent trout, too?

That was before the cloud cover thickened. Then the intensity of the fishing actually increased. It got better, with more and more fish attracted to the flies. A Green Peter Muddler was good. We also found that casting from the bank was often more productive.

On the second day, Donny and I hiked further up the system still, to Loch Crò Criosdaig a shallower more convoluted water, which if anything, fished better than na Craobhaig. Almost first cast, at the loch’s outflow I hooked a sea trout and a nice brownie. Then another sea trout set the tone for the day. I had switched to a slow intermediate line andthink it helped in the bright conditions.

One or two of the older residents began to put in an appearance too, particularly to darker flies when it got cloudier. In a corner of Crò Criosdaig, wading a small sandy bay, a thumping fish took my size 12 Stinchar Stoat double. After a spirited fight, a pewter-coloured sea trout of close to 3lb was released. Meanwhile, during the same cloudy interlude on the lower loch, George was into a similar fish, and he had also lost a salmon. Conditions were far from ideal for fishing in terms of wave and cloud cover, but we were having a fabulous time.

What is the fishing like when conditions are good, we pondered, as we made the long trek back, wondering what gastronomic delights awaited us back at base?

The final day of our break came all too quickly, and this time we aimed to fish the trout lochs which we had constantly admired on the run into Tamanavay. The weather had now closed in and a typical Scottish September day greeted us as we tackled up on the shore of Loch Brinnaval, which is just one of the 241 lochs listed as available in the area.

Using the technique of casting and moving a few paces along the heather-lined shore we started to connect with a few fish and miss a few more on wet flies. I switched to a team of dry flies and fished a team of a Daddy Long Legs, a white-posted Claret Emerger and a Black Hopper, twitching them occasionally, or figure-of-eighting slowly, or letting them drift on the wind. This highly under-rated tactic for loch trout worked fabulously, the big heavy outline of the Daddy enabling me to see it in the glare of a wave, the white post of the Emerger showing up in the wave’s dark patches. Any semblance of a movement at the surface which might be a trout was met with a swift lift of the rod.

Of the 40 or so fish we took that day, the best was in the region of 1lb, but all the others were ‘keepers’, and fought like tigers. Then, just as we were about to bid farewell to the loch, Nick’s rod buckled over and his cast was broken, as if the loch was determined to leave us with an unanswered question; something to linger over as we packed our bags.

As we steamed home on the Stornoway-Ullapool ferry there was only one unanswered question at the back of my mind: why had I never been to Lewis before?