The morning mist hung low over the Sparrowmuir Stream as I worked my way down the river casting into the cool flowing water. A big salmon was a dream, but landing one on a fly rod in these waters would be a battle.

I cast my line, the delicate arc of the fly landing just beyond the run of the stream. The river whispered over the stones, and for a moment, everything was still as the fly arced across the water. Then, the gentle tug on the line… then the salmon ran with the fly, a few seconds later I fitted the rod into the fish as an electric jolt ran through my hands and the rod bent double.

The fish ran hard, stripping line fast. I tightened the drag, heart pounding. It leapt, silver scales flashing in the early light, then it dived deep. I braced myself, easing the rod, letting the salmon tire.

Minutes passed like hours. My arms burned, my heart pounded. Slowly, carefully, I edged it towards me, guiding it into the shallows. With one final effort, my friend Jimmy reached down and gently netted the magnificent fish.

A true River Tay prize. I admired the power and beauty of this 16lb specimen before gently releasing it back into the current. The thrill of the fight, the rush of the catch, this is why we salmon fishermen take to the water, because, you never know when a bit of luck and some skill all culminate in making a special day. The river had given me a moment I will never forget.