Living the Dream Through Others

For me, fishing has never just been about chasing new PBs or targeting specific species. I get just as much — if not more — of a buzz from watching, or better yet helping, fellow anglers and close friends achieve their goals or finally land their dream fish. Those moments stay with you far longer than numbers ever do.

I think that’s a big part of why I love fishing in Scotland so much. You never really know what to expect. There have been times when I thought I’d completely sussed a venue or a particular fish, only to be brought crashing back down to earth with three straight blanks on the bounce. But that’s fishing — and that’s exactly how it should be.

The uncertainty, the setbacks, the hard graft… they’re all part of the journey. When you have to work for your fish, when nothing comes easy, the reward means so much more. A hard-earned capture isn’t just a fish — it’s an achievement in itself.

I have so many memorable moments in fishing, but there is one that stands above all the rest. Without doubt, the most emotional and meaningful experience for me was a trip to Scotland with my son and a group of close friends, targeting common skate.

While the species itself was special, the real goal of that trip was far more important — helping my son, who was just nine years old at the time, achieve his dream fish. Watching that happen is something that will stay with me forever, and it has gone on to become my most treasured fishing memory.

I can’t thank the lads who were there with us enough. Their support, patience, and shared excitement made an already special moment truly unforgettable. It was one of those experiences that reminds you exactly why we fish in the first place. Thank you guys for that trip !! I think i will leave that weekend for another day of blogging ❤️

A very good friend of mine, Stuart Harding, has always had a dream. He’s a passionate cod angler on the North East coastline, spending most of his time fishing his local, well-earned haunts. That said, he’s never been afraid to venture away from familiar ground to target different species, and more recently he’s found a real love for tope fishing — with some great success to show for it.

Stuart even kindly put me onto tope last year, which I found fascinating, because in many ways he reminds me so much of myself. He’s the sort of angler who thrives on digging deep into research, finding new marks, and heading out to try them the old-fashioned way — no noise, no social media hype, just time, effort, and experience.

In the past, I’ve taken Stuart on a couple of trips in the hope of helping him land his first common skate. Unfortunately for him, both attempts ended in absolute disaster. The first saw him hook into a truly huge skate, only for the fish to make a beeline for a lobster pot, leaving Stuart locked in battle with both the fish and the rope — a situation that quickly turned into a complete tangle.

The second attempt… well, let’s just say Stuart has an unusual talent for dislocating his shoulder. Carrying a load of rods over his shoulder, he took a wrong step and the weight pulled his shoulder clean out. Watching it happen genuinely made me feel sick.

Some anglers just have to suffer a little more than others — but if anyone deserves to finally crack that dream, it’s him.

Now, when I mention dream, it’s important to understand that Stuart wasn’t chasing size. He genuinely didn’t care whether the skate weighed five pounds or a hundred. In fact, he actually wanted a smaller one. Having already experienced the sheer weight and raw power of these magnificent creatures from the depths, and with his shoulder still fragile, discretion was very much the name of the game.

The aim this time wasn’t to hook into a huge barn door of a fish, but to carefully target a smaller common skate — which, in many ways, is an even greater challenge. Finding and connecting with a juvenile fish requires precision, patience, and no small amount of luck.

Sometimes, the true dream isn’t about size at all — it’s about the moment, the experience, and finally putting a long-standing chapter to rest.

Signs of What Was Coming

Winter in Scotland can quite literally separate the men from the boys. Conditions can be so brutal that dreams are easily shattered, with many sessions becoming completely unfishable for most. But it’s often the bravest — or perhaps the most stubborn — who prevail.

We had been planning this trip for months. There were warning signs long before we set off, with talk of a huge storm approaching, although no official date had been pinned on it. Still, we stuck to our guns. No matter what, we were going.

Bad weather, of course, can be a strange ally in sea fishing. Challenging conditions often trigger fish into feeding more confidently. As a general rule, good weather usually brings high pressure, while bad weather brings low. From my own experience, I’ve caught far more fish during low-pressure systems than high — although I’ll be the first to say that high pressure has never put me off, as some of my biggest fish have come under those conditions.

When the day finally arrived, so did the warning signs. Storm Eowyn was knocking on the door. This wasn’t just a local forecast for Scotland — the entire UK was plastered with red weather alerts. It was seriously bad news.

Despite that, we all agreed as a pack that we were going regardless. Sometimes in life you have to take risks… but it does raise the question — is a fish really worth the risk?

The Journey

The van was packed, and the journey began. I made the short drive to pick up Stuart, and joining us on this trip was fellow YouTuber Graham Sidney. Now, Graham is a great guy, and I’ve long admired his channel, Northumbrian Rockhopper. He tends to keep to himself and doesn’t open up to many people, so I feel privileged to have met him and become good friends. He’s a lot funnier than he thinks he is and always amazing company — exactly what this trip needed, especially with the weather warnings worsening by the hour.

With predicted winds of up to 100 mph on the cards, I knew I had to get this trip right. There were so many factors to consider during our 7-hour drive: the direction of the main winds, which venues would allow us to safely land and release fish while keeping everyone safe, how much rain, snow, and ice we might face, and the mountain cover conditions.

I’ve been coming up to this neck of the woods for a long time now and have gained a wealth of knowledge and experience, but still, I felt a huge amount of pressure in that moment. This could be a make-or-break trip. We could be cheering from the rooftops with a dream fish for my good friend on the bank—or it could all end in disaster.

Now talking about dreams wore graham all he wanted was a conger eel, this is a specie that he never caught and mentioned several times regardless if big or small, now it isn't a specie I specialise in however have caught them (not to any great size) and know venues where they come from. He also mentioned he just wanted to see the experience of a common being landed no matter who it was. No pressure ryan ....

Calm Before The Storm

I arrived in Oban very late at night. Surprisingly, the weather wasn’t too bad at all, and the forecast seemed either wrong or just slightly delayed. I decided to pull up at the ferry car park near the Sound of Kerrera, had a quick cuppa, and called it a night after the long journey.

Before my alarm even went off, I was jolted awake by the van rocking violently. My first thought was that something had happened to the solar panels on the roof — it really was that bad! The wind must have been blowing at least 60 mph.

I quickly got ready, and we hit the road. After a quick pit stop for a fresh brew and a greasy sandwich, we talked through our plans. All the marks along the open coastline were out of bounds for the entire trip, with the wind direction swinging wildly between southwest and northwest.

I had a few spots up my sleeve, but we’d have to head a couple of hours north and find shelter in a secluded loch. The beauty of lochs is that, no matter the wind direction, there’s usually somewhere you can fish. But you have to be cautious — due to the contour of the mountains, what looks like a protected spot can sometimes funnel the wind straight through from another direction.

Finding a Mark

Probably the most important—and hardest—part of the trip was picking a venue that would be at least somewhat comfortable and safe for both us and the fish. My plan was to fish from a sandy or gravelly area, so we’d have solid footing and be able to land and release fish easily. Heading out onto the rocks would have been a bad choice, especially with temperatures plunging below freezing and the wind only growing stronger.

After scoping out a few lochs—what we jokingly call “on the fly”—we passed many potential venues. A new spot might be fishable, but what were the chances of actually finding fish there? Sometimes, you find a venue well protected from the elements, but then the tides aren’t suitable. I passed several spots knowing all this, and with the added challenge of searching specifically for juvenile fish, the task became even harder.

However, I did have one mark in mind. It held a good variety of species and had treated me well in the past. I knew that while we waited for the “unicorn” to show up, we could still get some sport on thornback rays, dogfish, whiting, and maybe even a small spurdog.

So, I headed across the mountains to the loch I needed to be at. When we arrived, we were incredibly lucky—the wind wasn’t nearly as bad as the forecast had predicted. My first part of the mission was complete. Now, we just needed some action.

Waiting Game

We were lucky with this spot because it was really close to the van. While the lads were baiting up, looking after the rods from the elements, and keeping an eye out for those rod-bending bites, I stayed by the van, keeping the cups of tea and biscuits coming to keep our hopes alive of finding that juvenile common skate.

Did I feel confident? Of course, I did — I knew we’d find fish. But was I confident about catching a small common skate? No, I wasn’t. Even though the weather wasn’t hammering us like we expected, the water was very choppy, there was plenty of weed, and it wasn’t what I’d call a deep-water venue. It was actually quite shallow compared to what we normally fish.

Targeting common skate in Scotland can be a huge time commitment. I remember when I first started chasing skate — it took me years. And I’ll admit, I did it the hard way: fishing blind, hitting the wrong areas, wrong tides, wrong months for the venue… the list goes on. But it’s a journey every angler goes through.

I was lucky enough to meet a legend in the fishing game — Gareth Griffiths, who’s well known for the massive number of species he catches all over the UK and abroad. I got to spend some time with him while he was guiding one of his clients, and hats off to him — his work rate is insane! If you ever need a guide, he’s based in Wales and goes by GG

Guiding. Check out my other services page for more details and to get in touch with him.

I can personally vouch for Gareth from experience, too. I booked a guided session with him on the south coast of Wales with my boy Harley for a species hunt on rays and smoothhounds, and it was probably the best day’s fishing I’ve ever had in Wales. The man is a machine — huge shoutout to him.

Like a Light Switch

From experience, I knew that as soon as darkness fell the place should come alive. The only question was whether we should use bigger baits than we normally would during scratching sessions. Fishing for common skate is a funny one—you’ll see people using huge baits and catching good fish, but it isn’t always necessary. A typical, good-sized ray bait will produce skate along with other species. So we settled on a nice ray bait, combined with fish baits and octopus, as our ammunition, all set up on a longish dongle rig.

Darkness began to roll in and headlamps were switched on, their beams cutting across a cold loch. The air was alive with noise—the rustling and roaring of strong winds tearing through the trees. On the way to the mark, we’d noticed plenty of debris on the roads: fallen branches, overturned bins, even loose seaweed dragged inland by Eowyn. Still, we knew we’d be fine where we were fishing. The spot offered plenty of protection from nearby houses, trees, and the natural shelter provided by the mountains behind us.

From no bites at all until nightfall, it was like someone flicked a switch. The first bite came on Graham’s rod—a great sign that fish were moving in. What started as a small, rattly bite soon turned into a small dogfish. This area holds a lot of juvenile fish, so I wasn’t expecting specimen-sized fish, although I do class a juvenile common skate as a specimen in its own right, given how hard they are to locate.

Every cast for each of us was plagued by small dogfish, a very common sight up here in Scotland at times. Then the thornbacks moved in, with me landing the first—not my biggest, but a very welcome sight nonetheless.

Proper Bite

The dogfish and thornback rays kept coming, and a couple of hours had passed since darkness fell. The first pot noodles appeared, courtesy of the garage we’d passed in Oban. When the temperature is below zero, something as simple as a pot noodle gives you an extra boost of hope and energy—the warmth through the plastic container feels like gold dust in those conditions.

With fish constantly moving through, we almost forgot about the actual target species. We were having great sport and, more importantly, great company amongst us. But just as quickly as the bites had come, they began to slow as the tide flooded high up the shingle bank. Was this a bad thing? It could only mean three things: the fish had stopped feeding, they’d moved off, or… a bigger fish had bullied its way into the area.

All three of us were sitting close to the van, talking and reminiscing about previous trips. Those stories are what keep us going—moments when you’re ready to give up and pack away, only for that one bite to strike and all hell to break loose. What starts as another hard lesson learned suddenly becomes the best fish you’ve ever caught. I love the unknown, the unexpected. I’ve had many sessions where I’ve overstayed, knowing the chance had probably gone, yet stuck it out anyway, clinging to that last bit of hope—usually ending with me soaked like a drowned rat and shivering in the van, laughing about it afterwards.

“What was that?!” Stuart shouted sternly.

I flicked my headlamp on and saw line peeling off Stu’s rod.

“Skate on! Skate on!” I screamed, over and over.

Was this the moment my friend had dreamed of after several seasons of trying for these beasts? Stu picked up the rod, but the run suddenly stopped. Calmly, he waited, knowing this was his moment. Graham and I stood beside him, fully expecting what was about to happen. The rod tip arched over and Stu leaned into the fish.

Fish on!

The fish took Stu for a short walk along the beach. He was slightly confused, thinking it didn’t feel huge, but it was fighting hard—more like a smoothhound on the east coast of the Humber. I stayed calm, talking him through it, reminding him to take his time. I knew this could be the only opportunity of the trip to land a common skate.

After several attempts to run, the flighty fish finally gave up the battle. Before we knew it, it glided ashore through the crystal-clear water. Stu’s face was beaming. We all jumped for joy, and I ran back to grab the camera for a few quick shots.

A Moment That Meant Everything

The fish was stunning—perfect. A moment of madness had led to Stu’s dream fish. He kept it in the water while we weighed it, the scales settling at 22lb. Not exactly a small fish, though not a mammoth either—but special all the same.

After several minutes of carefully reviving the fish, the snow began to fall. Our fingertips were like icicles, but none of us cared. This was a magical moment. I watched my good friend standing on the shoreline, holding his dream fish gently by the tail, waiting for it to move off into the shallows from where it had come.

Slowly, the fish began to flap its wings, inch by inch making its way back into the water. As it disappeared, a weight was lifted from my shoulders. I couldn’t have cared less if I’d blanked for the next couple of days—the mission was accomplished. We packed up soon after—I think a cold beer in the van, with the diesel heater blasting away, was well and truly needed.

Thank you, Stu, for letting me be part of you achieving your goal. It’s something I’ll treasure for the rest of my life. It’s not always about yourself, or about catching the most or the biggest fish. Life is truly short—something I’ve come to understand all too clearly through my own recent health issues. If I could go back to moments like this, I’d jump at the chance in a heartbeat.

Oh, did I mention Graham catching a conger eel the next day? I think that’s a story best saved for another cold day.

Thanks for reading.