Colin Livingstone

I come from a small place in Scotland called Alexandria. On my doorstep is the gigantic Loch Lomond. I have been fishing there since I was a child. Usually, it's more of the smaller fish that I catch. But last week, I caught the biggest fish of my life so far. It was so heavy that it even broke my fishing rod. I was drenched in sweat after the catch, it was incredibly exhausting. It was a huge pike, over 20 kilos.

I had been out on the water since sunrise, the kind of cold morning where the mist hangs thick over the loch, making the world feel smaller, quieter. It’s the sort of place where you could believe you’re the last person alive. I like that about it. No noise but the water lapping against the boat. There’s peace in that.

I’d set up just off Inchmurrin, near the deeper part of the loch. The rod had been in my hands for hours without much luck, just the odd nibble. Then, suddenly, it jerked so hard I nearly lost my grip. The reel screamed as something powerful yanked at the line, and for a moment, I thought I'd hooked onto a log. But logs don’t fight back.

For what felt like an eternity, I wrestled with the thing. My arms burned, my back ached, and I could feel the sweat trickling down my spine despite the cold. It wasn’t giving up. It dragged the boat sideways, making the water slosh against the sides. The rod bent dangerously, and just as I thought I might actually win this battle, it snapped clean in two.

I was left holding a useless bit of wood and a tangle of line. But I wasn’t about to let it go. I grabbed the remaining length and pulled with everything I had left. My fingers were raw by the time I saw it—huge, thrashing, furious. A pike, easily over a metre long, its mouth full of razor teeth snapping at the air.

At 46, I’ve had my fair share of fights—with people, with jobs, with life itself. But that fish, that fight, reminded me of something simple: some battles are worth the struggle, even if they leave you aching the next day.