Here is an account of a mackerel fishing trip from my schooldays - that's quite a long time ago now, actually! The venue was Portincaple, Loch Long, in the middle of the summer holidays.

While I was walking, somewhere between the car and our chosen camping site, my knife dropped out onto the path. At least, that's probably what happened. Then someone comes along who thinks "Oh, that looks like a very nice knife", and has it for themselves. Well - easy come easy go, I tried to think, because I had found that same knife when fishing at the Cloch lighthouse earlier in the year. The fishing had been so poor then, that finding the knife was easily the most exciting thing to have happened on that trip. So, for the rest of the day, I couldn't help retracing my steps over and over again, just in case I managed to find it lodged in some inconspicuous place.

While I was making such a fuss about the knife, the rest of the fishing party: Iain (brother) and Iain (pal, from 4 doors up), plus family helpers, got the fishing and camping stuff into prime position for an assault on Portincaple's mackerel. Our intention was to catch fish, then catch more, and catch more and more again, until we didn't want to catch any more (which we all agreed would be impossible). So the first thing we did was to get set up and go about catching ourselves some fish. We had, to a man (to a mum and to a sister), 7' spinning rods and bright flashy lures. And pretty soon, the first mackerel were hit, making the line sing: pulling it to the left, then the right, then finally getting the fish onto the rocks, where they would flap away, spraying orange, and slicing hands with their vent spine as we struggled to remove the treble hooks. It didn't take long to fetch in quite a haul, and the fish were cleaned on the spot before being sped off home, leaving the intrepid campers to fend for themselves.

Not long after, a man approached us and offered to buy all the mackerel we could catch. It looked like a chance for us youngsters to make a few quid, and of course too good to be true, for at that stage the fish decided move elsewhere and when he returned a few hours later we had nothing to offer. The action remained slow right up to dusk, at which point my brother and I got our beachcasters out, and baited up with left-over mackerel heads to target some conger. I cast out about 10 yards, then retreated to the tent, leaving my multiplier on the ratchet. After about half an hour, something made a long slow run with the bait. I ran down and waited for the second run before trying to reel in. But as I struck, everything went solid and there was no way I could budge it. After a good deal of heaving, the line finally parted. The same thing happened twice to my brother, so we decided to call it a day and headed back to the tent.

All my previous attempts at camping out had resulted in completely sleepless nights, and this was going to be no exception. Trying to squeeze 3 teenagers into a 2-man tent was not getting us off to a good start either. But while the two Iains annoyingly had no trouble getting off to sleep, I just lay there, listening to the night sounds. After a while, I suddenly noticed a light outside and heard the distinctive noise of a Tilley lamp. Some men were approaching the tent. I lay back and closed my eyes and hoped they would go away, but I was soon aware that the tent had begun to shake! Oh no! Visions of psycopaths! But then I realised that it was someone trying to knock at the door. "Is that the Pemberton tent?" asked a voice. We all sat up and quicky opened the front, to see Bob - a neighbour from back home. It turned out that he and a mate had come over for some fishing too, so they had just popped over to say hello. (Relief!) They had caught some mackerel in the evening for bait, and were getting ready for an all night conger session further up the loch. We wished them tight lines, then returned to our sardine-like positions.

Dawn arrived at about 4am, just as I was eventually slipping off to sleep. Not for long though, as I was awoken by some cheering from outside. We poked our heads out to see that some other lads who were camping had made an early start, and one of them had been rewarded with a cracking sea trout. That was the start of day 2 then, hurrying down to the water's edge as fast as possible to get started. We flogged the water for a good hour, but sadly nothing else was caught, so we returned for some breakfast. The sun was burning off the early morning mist and we knew it was going to be a glorious day. Looking across the loch, over towards Loch Goil, we could already see the diving gannets and prepared for the return of the mackerel.

Because we were not going back home until the next day, we decided to return all the fish, bar one or two for lunch. It was all for sport then, and we certainly had our share. The fish were a decent size - average just under 1lb, with the biggest fish 1lb 6oz. They kept us busy for hours, until I called it a day at 50, and switched over to floatfishing, in the hope of a pollack. My brother was determined to get into treble figures though, and persevered until he had caught about 110 mackerel.

It was about time for a rest, so we went up to the tent to cook the 1lb 6oz fish. My culinary experience being severely limited, I decided the best way to cook the mackerel would be to boil it in a pan of water for about 20 minutes. The result was virtually inedible, but we felt duty-bound to eat as much of it as possible. While we were tidying up the mess, a dog-walking lady approached, obviously intent on having words with us. "You shouldn't be camping here, you know," she said, tugging her terrier's leash to stop him cocking his leg against the tent, "It's insanitary." And she strode off.

It took a while to work out what she meant, but when we did, we could see her point. So we decided to pay a visit to the Green Kettle tea rooms for some proper toilets. And after our disappointing lunch, the thought of tea and cakes kept us going on the long trudge uphill to get there.

We placed our order and sat down. The tea rooms were quite busy that afternoon, with a clientele that appeared to us particularly posh and well-dressed. Then we looked at ourselves - our clothes filthy with blood and muck. I made a movement to straighten the cutlery, and a shower of mackerel scales flaked off my arm across the table. I tried to keep a stiff upper lip for the sake of polite society, but failed, as did the other two, snorting and giggling like idiots.

Once self-control had returned, we got stuck into some excellent the tea and cakes. Then we made full use of the facilities before paying and heading back down to the shore, incredulous that nobody had made any comment whatsoever about our appearance. Having got back to the tent, we found that the urgency to get fishing again had left us. Instead, I had a few more fruitless searches for my precious lost knife, then got fed up with that at last, and was finally content just to admire the view, reflect on the day's fishing and look forward to tomorrow's hot bath.

Alan Pemberton, December 1996 (Slightly revised March 1997) (Rude word removed August 1998)