Finding a copy of Trout & Salmon from 1994 shows that we’re still talking about the same environmental, and geopolitical, issues three decades on.

“Look what I’ve found Papa!”  I held up an oozing earthworm, my hands blackened by Hebridrean peat.  The year was 1994, I was five years old, and we were on a family holiday to the Isle of Lewis.  My enthusiasm for a day spent trout fishing was waning.  We’d seen and caught nothing and I couldn’t really get this casting lark.  My father took the worm from me, squished it onto the hook of our Teal, Blue & Silver fly, glanced around to make sure his friend and host hadn’t seen him, and said, “try this.”

I lobbed it into the black waters of the burn.   The next moment a trout was writhing on the other end, and with all the awkwardness of a child who’d never done this before, I lifted the poor thing onto the bank.  It probably weighed a quarter of a pound.  Thirty years on I can still recall my uncontainable excitement.  My first fish, and the moment that ignited a lifelong interest in angling.