CAST ASIDE

A fishing rod gathering dust speaks more of good intentions than a lack of riverbank prowess

Alan Cochrane is ready to dust down his seldom used fishing rod

It sits as a constant reminder, a rebuke almost, in the front hall. And it really is time that I did something about it. I’m referring to a salmon rod that my wife gave me for Christmas more years ago than I care to admit. I thought I’d got the bug and decided that serious angling was my ‘thing’ after a day as a guest on a beat on the South Esk in Angus. And whilst I didn’t catch anything, I was smitten and announced that henceforth catching fish was to be my only pastime.

Probably as a way of keeping me quiet I was given that nice rod and several of the necessary accoutrements required to take it up properly. But then? Nothing. Oh sure, I have managed to get the rod out of its case on several occasions, but the idea that I was now a committed salmon fisher disappeared fairly quickly.

Needless to say, I’d caught nothing on the precious few instances that I’d got to a riverbank and gradually the rod became little more than an ornament – and an embarrassing one at that.

That’s not to say that opportunities to catch a salmon didn’t arise. They did and I should express my thanks to those who’ve invited me to some of the most famous beats in the country.

If I’m truthful, however, the experience on one of them didn’t actually ‘hook’ me, so to speak. I was invited to join a group of anglers on one of the best-known riverbanks in the country and was, frankly, astonished at how opulent and downright luxurious were t he surroundings.

And when we actually got to the river, I discovered that if ever a phrase failed miserably to accurately describe something it was the use of the words ‘fishing hut’ to depict the building where we got ready for the battle with the king of fish. It was comfortable to the point of sumptuous. Even the large barbecue pit was a ‘con’ in that it in no way signified that we were having to rough it at supper time, given that as darkness fell a couple of vans rolled up and out got several impeccably liveried waiting staff to make sure that our steaks and burgers were properly served on decent china.

Nothing wrong with that, of course, as I’m never backwards at coming forwards when there’s a bit of luxury on offer, but it did strike me as some way short of a day out in the wilds pitting one’s wits against nature’s finest.

As for the fishing, sad to say nobody caught a thing and I was given a pretty severe dressing down from the head ghillie about the state of my reel which I’d lent to a pal, but had forgotten to check its condition on return.

You might think from much of the above that my heart isn’t in this fishing lark. But I promise you it is.

I never seem to have the time to take up ‘come and fish’ invitations. Often it’s because of that damned curse – work – but with three women at home, none of whom share my love of outdoor pursuits, other than shopping and café-hopping, holidays and time off tend to revolve around what they want to do.

But that’s a pretty pathetic excuse, isn’t it? What I need to do is get some casting practice in, read up on rods and reels and flies by dusting off all those angling books that I bought when the bug first bit and just clear off for a day or two.

I’d better be quick about it because I have managed to exchange my thoughts on the current political situation for a day pretty soon on a well-known beat on an even better-known river. I’m sure everyone there will be patient with my inexperience and impatience about getting to grips with this fairly complicated pastime.

Of much more concern, of course, is whether anyone will think that my views on what’s going on in the political world are worth a day on the banks of one of Scotland’s most famous rivers. There – I’ve given myself something else to worry about. And to think that fishing is supposed to be an escape from everyday troubles. Maybe I should leave that rod where it is.