Nursing glasses of The McAllan and The Glenlivet, they had all – but one - over indulged. He had known tomorrow would require all his energy and focus and that did not sit with alcohol induced impairment .

But more than this – he felt lucky. The mighty Spey ran clear and high, but not too high. The drop in temperature earlier in the week meant pools were holding fish . All augured well. Though excitement of the chase created adrenalin surge in him, sleep had come easy and he had folded into a restful slumber .

In the morning , across the hotel car park, the thin ice on the puddles had shattered like crystal under the groups foot fall. Breakfast had been of the high cholesterol type, a mandatory forerunner to the day ahead. The morning sun was struggling to greet the March day, and it seemed the spring herald was still some weeks away. Rods, nets , boots and hope were eagerly loaded onto the Land Rovers, as they headed for the Bothy and the waiting ghillies .

The angler was reflective ; he was always this way before the pursuit , and especially today for every nerve tingled with expectation . He was in the world he loved best , surrounded by nature and intoxicated by the sound of hard running water.

This was Delfur – the premier Spey beat and the angler was keen to be lucky with the draw for morning and afternoon beat. He desperately wanted Sourden– that deepest and most infamous of the “suicide” pools on the river ,and renowned for holding big salmon. His luck held , and he tried to conceal his delight as the ghillies conspired to draw the straws, and announced he would have Sourden in the afternoon.

The hunters dispersed, taking up their quest on respective stretches of the river. Battle had begun in earnest !

The angler threaded his home tied crimson fly , and cast into the fast moving flow beside a thicket of gorse. For three hours and after four lure changes, his forebearance held, but no palpitating tugs on the line came. Lunch time arrived to relieve the disappointment, and he trundled back to the bothy , his mood lightened only via the ghillies amusing anecdotes and optimism.

No success had befallen any of the anglers through the morning , and conversation over lunch moved to encouraging splashes, dubious pulls on the line , and hopes for the afternoon. The angler had more than hope . He was sure; this would be his day. The ultimate thrill would be his , and he would wallow in his prize . He would defeat the river and beat the guile of the “king of fish”.

He poured over his open fly box as lunch was tidied away, and he short listed a trio of artificial insects with which to tempt his afternoon quarry. A burly, subdued ghillie accompanied the angler along the winding path to the rocks above the Sourden pool. The angler chastised the ghillie for his mood, reminding him of his role, and need for eternal optimism. The top pool frothed with foam as they looked down on the threatening waters . A blue and yellow tube fly was tossed at the river , and the angler concentrated hard on its movement . Cast after cast followed as he slowly moved down the pool . Fish action avoided him, so he re selected a fluorescent treble and returned to the fray.

The afternoon was slipping away as a further fly change was ordered, and a bright blue Waddington now adorned the end of the nylon leader. He was now at the end of the pool , where strong eddies preceded a fast flow into the benign pool below. A cast , then another , then a third and the line stopped and the tell tale draw of a fish struck the rod, then his arm , then his brain. He was “in”, and the catch felt substantial. Had he known how substantial, his sphincter may have twitched , but at this early stage of the contest it was just a case of hanging on and making no jerky moves.

The fish knew something was wrong. Excruciating pain enveloped his head , as the treble hook took grip. He moved his head ; he writhed but he could not shake of the invader. All he had sought was a morsel as he made his interminable way towards the spawning beds of the rivers tributary. Now he was in trouble .

Instinct told him to go deep. He lunged, and shook and dived . The reel screamed as the line flew from the end of the rod tip, but the angler held firm . This was the dangerous time for him. The fish rested ; reflected; reconsidered; then bolted again upstream to the top of the pool where the ferocity of the incoming flow gave him some comfort . The hook would not release . The fish rolled over; the angler held. The line was now to the backing and the fish showed no sign of tiring.

Fifteen minutes now , and the fish bored again. Stopping; resting but feeling being drawn to the shallower water , and the river edge , somewhere instinct told him not to go. The fish reversed , desperately seeking deeper water but his power was sapping and his adversary was dragging him to the gravel shallows. The fish looked up to see watery figures on the bank, a monster net suspended over the water, poised and in readiness for his demise.

Six feet out now and the angler got first sight of the monster cock fish., His heart beat even faster as he contemplated a specimen around 35lbs in weight. The fish was passive now as the inevitable struck both competitors. His eye caught the anglers eye, and his survival instinct subsumed him. The angler smiled but too soon.

The fish felt the metal edge of the net , and he made one last burst for freedom rolling and twisting over the gravel. The fly flew from the fish’s lip, and he broke free writhing towards the deeper water.

The angler stared, blood draining from his face. Despair enveloped him. He had lost . But curiously he realised he had won. A classic encounter with the king of fish ; the worthiest of game species. An unforgettable contest. A life spared; the sport in tact and a story for re telling in many hotel bars for years to come .