Looking fabulous on Tweed, Bronwen Astor explains why she has fallen for salmon fishing hook, line and sinker

It’s mid-October, and there is only one place to be: in a boat on the River Tweed fishing for salmon. I am sitting on a swivel stool in the rear of a small rowing boat, casting a long line towards the opposite bank and letting the fly drift slowly round to the middle of the river before pulling it in in short tugs, lifting the rod (15ft carbon fibre) and casting again. Silence. Just the slap, slap of the water against the boat and a quiet splash of the oars as the ghillie keeps our drifting boat in the middle of the river. A couple of ducks fly past and a mink runs up the wall opposite. I must be careful not to hook that swan floating majestically downstream with my next cast.

The sun is warm on my back, we no longer speak. In the silence I meditate, contemplate, pray, thinking only of the next cast and the beauty of my surroundings. Minutes pass. I am relaxed.

Suddenly, there is a tug on the line. At once I am alert and hold the rod still. No striking; that way the hook would come instantly out of the fish’s mouth. With the rod still and slowly lifting it, I let the line run out. What a wonderful sound, that first run of the reel. The line, held firmly in my fingers, quivers. Yes, it is a fish, I’m not just caught on the bottom. Now begins the contest: the fish versus me.

The ghillie also has jumped into action. He asks “Is it a big one?” “I don’t know,” I answer through gritted teeth and concentration. Suddenly from way downriver a fish leaps into the air. Heavens, it’s the one on the end of my line – so we get a glimpse of its size. “Eighteen and fresh,” mutters my ghillie and I dip the rod hurriedly, although I feel nothing and it may be off the hook by now. We are rowing back to our shore and I am letting the line run out again. “Stop!” I shout, as the fish pulls strongly from a long way away. Goodness, this is exciting. It jumps again. Surely I’ve lost it this time? By now we are anchored to our bank and the ghillie is out of the boat and wading thigh deep in the water holding an enormous net. I reel in rapidly as the fish comes up towards us, my actions jerky with panic and tension. I’m standing up too but sit down again immediately, remembering the time when, losing my balance, I fell into the bottom of the boat and the ghillie grabbed not me but the rod to save the fish. Now comes the tricky bit – to play cat and mouse so that the fish is tired and will roll over into the waiting net. But no, it is not yet ready. With enormous strength it has swum again into the middle of the river and I, in despair at the thought of losing it, let the line run out until it is slack and I can hurriedly reel in again, lifting the rod perpendicular and bending it to the left and then to the right to tire it and guide it towards us.

Whoops! It’s in the net. The ghillie has demonstrated his skill by scooping it up from behind. We have it and we congratulate each other on our joint effort. I let out a big sigh. Have I been holding my breath that long?

If it were a female fish it would be put back into the river immediately. But no, this is male and, with a quick tap on the head, it lies motionless in the bottom of the boat, his big eye staring dolefully up at me. Oh, can I, should I, kill these wonderful creatures? But this is why I have come here. This beautiful, muscular body will be expertly smoked and vacuum-packed and sent south for the family for Christmas. Take… eat… it is a gift for you.

- The glamorous Lady Bronwen Astor is a trained psychotherapist and Spiritual Director

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