In which the writer fears he is turning into Captain Ahab
I wouldn't describe myself as a trophy hunter - I go fishing for the fresh air, the surroundings and the solitude as much as anything - but there's an undeniable thrill in hooking and playing a big salmon. In Scotland that means a fish of 20 pounds at least, and nowadays, thanks mainly to illegal netting in their marine feeding grounds near Greenland, these fish are few and far between. Atlantic salmon grow big because after they've spawned a small percentage manage to return to the sea where they increase in size before returning to the river again a few years later. The more often they return, the bigger they grow. I've been fishing the same stretch of a smallish east coast river at the end of September for about 15 years now, and although the average salmon weighs about 8 pounds the river also holds a few seriously big fish. About 10 years ago I hooked one of these leviathans and battled with it for about half an hour before it suddenly surfaced a few yards away from me and thrashed its head against the water with such force that the hooks came flying out, the line went slack, and the fish disappeared silently into the depths once more. From what I saw of it I reckon that fish was close to 30 pounds, and for days after our epic battle I still felt a pang of disappointment that I hadn't managed to land it.

Each year since then I've returned to that same pool, where the water suddenly deepens beneath a tall overhanging ash tree, and cast into the spot where I hooked that fish. If there are big fish around this is where they lie, but I'd never again encountered one of them until last Thursday when history unexpectedly repeated itself. I suddenly felt a powerful tug, then a double thump on the line and knew immediately that I'd connected with one of the big ones. It twisted and plunged and pulled out line, and I was helpless to prevent it, even though I was exerting massive pressure trying to make sure it didn't get any slack line to allow it to throw the hook. After about 5 minutes I decided to release the tension on the reel a little more to encourage the fish to run out into the main current on the far side of the pool, as this would be the best way of tiring it out and, with luck, eventually bringing it to the net. However, this particular fish didn't just run; it took off like a steam train, hurtling right across the pool before using its momentum to leap spectacularly out of the water shaking its head with such force that the hook came unstuck. I found myself standing there with nothing but the image of another huge bar of silver crashing back into the water indelibly stamped on my mind. Later I did catch a couple of smaller salmon, which I returned because they were near to spawning, but the big, strong, fresh-run fish from this river still eludes me. Still, fishermen are eternally - and often irrationally - optimistic, so maybe next year ...