Beyond compare

We spent three gentle days casting across the Machrie Water. On the third afternoon we found a hatful of chanterelles but of fish, we found none. Salmon on Arran, much like the once plentiful grouse in the scraggy island glens, are now few in number. Yet, that Scottish river — a meandering burn at points, and a thundering narrow gorge at others — is perhaps my favourite in the country. As a child I fished for the excitement of the line going taught and the reel singing, but the older I get the more I do it to escape phone signal and the miserable madness of Clapham Junction.

I started the pheasant season in Devon last Monday, shooting over pointers and wirehaired viszlas. As I drove back to London in the autumnal sun, I looked out at the Blackdown Hills and thought about what an extraordinary patchwork of diverse landscapes Britain is.

Some months ago, I asked someone which home nation they thought had the best sport. They said they didn’t know. Nor, I suppose, do I. But what I do know is that all those who cherish outdoor forays with rod and gun are blessed to live in Great Britain, a country with grouse at the top and muntjac six hours’ drive the other way, with grey partridges on one side and salmon fishing on the other. Perhaps no one constituent nation is a better sporting destination than the others, but as all four put together, I believe we’re incomparable.

Patrick Galbraith, Editor