To attempt to explain to a non-fisher what the sport is really all about can be rather complex as it certainly isn't just about catching fish. I know some who do fish who find that argument quite convenient!

There is a motto "Piscatore non solem Piscatore" which I picked up from that excellent TV series "A Passion For Angling" which, roughly translated, means "there is more to fishing than catching fish" And how true that is?

Fishing just wouldn't be the same if it wasn't for the enjoyment of the countryside and wildlife, and there are certainly a few fisheries I know that are ugly holes in the ground and I refuse to visit them. However, because of this lazy environment and relaxed atmosphere we are lulled into a false sense of security and anyone fishing should be fully aware of the real dangers that may be lurking.

Unlike other sports, the dangers are rarely evident as in, for example, skiing, rugby or horse racing and, at the time of writing, there is a controversy flaring surrounding boxing with yet another fighter laying in hospital in a coma, dangerously ill, with renewed call for banning the sport.

We are told by the Press that in England, in the last 10 years, 4 boxers have died from head injuries, but they fail to mention that in the same period over 200 anglers died from fishing related incidents. Obviously, the number of anglers is far greater than boxers and statistics are therefore distorted but deaths there are, every year, and it is essential that all anglers learn a healthy respect for water.

WEIR POOLS

My first real concerns over the dangers of angling came during my course fishing days when I used to fish an idyllic spot just below a weir pool on the beautiful River Kennet in Berkshire, where the river crosses the Kennet & Avon Canal. It was a fabulous spot for quiver tipping (I won't explain what that is, that's another chapter) and I'd regularly catch 20 or 30 fish – chub, barbel, perch, dace and even some exotic trout and grayling.

To get to this particular spot required walking along a very narrow path (about 2 feet narrow) with a wire fence on my right and an almost sheer drop of about 15 feet to my left – straight down into the edge of the weir. The depth of the water at this point was a lot taller than me (not too difficult but extremely relevant) and I have to say that each time I made that slippery, treacherous 30 or 40 yard walk, carrying half a ton of gear, with the water roaring into the pool below me I took my life in my hands.

It was utter madness.

There was a large notice board beside the river announcing:

DANGER – DEEP WATER – ANGLERS DIE HERE EVERY YEAR!

Somewhat to the point, and I could see how. One slip and you'd have no chance whatsoever of survival and sliding down into the depths loaded with heavy cloths and equipment…you may as well be wearing concrete boots.

So fear got the better of me and I found another way to get to my special spot which involved an extra 15 minute yomp, but it was well worth it. It may well have saved my life.

UNDERCUT BANKS

The Arundel Arms is an excellent fishing hotel situated on the Devon and Cornwall border with some 20 miles of bank fishing on the River Tamar and its tributaries and it was here, on an extravagant weekend, that I introduced Nigel Webb to the sport.

And an interesting weekend it was, together with his wife Jane, who preferred the more dangerous (we thought) sport of horse riding and another friend, Nick Shires, also a bit of a novice.

Spinning for salmon was the order of the day and after a couple of hours practice on a harmless stretch of the River Lyd, we met our ghillie, David, who took us across a couple of fields to the Tamar.

The first pool we came to looked quite safe and relatively easy to fish, although the water was belting along. There was a drop of about 6 feet down from the field to a grassy ledge which was about 30 feet wide along the bank and about 5 feet in from the river. Perfect.

There were no nasty overhanging trees and the river, which was about 40 feet wide at this point, was slow and deep – no rapids, rocks or other nasties to get snagged on. David decided that his was ideal for Nigel the Beginner.

"Slide down here Nigel and I'll pass you the rod – I'm not too sure about the depths as even in low water you still can't see any rocks or the bottom – but there's certainly a good chance of a salmon here!"

Nigel slid down the short bank to the ledge, David passed him the rod and, with a few instructions, Nigel was away casting his Mepps spinner upstream (quite deftly, I thought) into the deep, strong current.

Off we went leaving Nigel in his own little world.

We strolled upstream for about 50 yards with the occasional glance over our shoulders to check on Webby and by the time we got to the next pool, Nigel was out of sight through the dense trees and bank side growth, and out of mind. This next pool, I gathered, was for me.

The same 6 foot drop, but no ledge, straight into the the river. The water was about a foot deep and shelved off deeper for about 10 feet out into the river and then plunged into an unknown chasm.

Upstream was a slight waterfall and in mid-stream right in front was a raging torrent. The whole thing looked extremely dangerous so I rather gentlemanly, and sportingly I thought, suggested to David that it would be ideal for Nick as he wouldn't have to cast very far.

It didn't work.

David grinned and said "Come on, get in, but be careful - watch the slippery rocks and don't venture out beyond 10 feet". I slipped in, watched the slippery rocks as if they were land mines and I slowly ventured out about 5 feet. I found a gravelly patch between the wobbly rocks and embedded my feet firmly thinking this was about as safe as it was going to get and I would stay there in one position.

After a couple of casts, and a couple of uncalled for comments from up on the bank I looked over my shoulder and invited them to "go away" However, neither David nor Nick was looking down towards me but both heads were craned upwards and along the bank and were frowning curiously.

I retrieved my spinner, turned slowly in the water and called "what's up?" with a little concern. Other than the roar of the raging river, there was few seconds 'silence' and because of the dense trees and bushes lining the bank, I couldn't see what they could see. But then suddenly, I could.

In fact, despite the thunder of the rapids (now behind me) I heard him before I could see him. The squelch of well-filled waders padoomped along the bank and Nigel appeared, still holding the rod I'm glad to say, though totally drenched through head to toe. He had obviously gone in and gone right under by the look of him and he wasn't too happy about it.

"I can tell you something about the depth of that ****ing pool" he said, very tight lipped and not intending it as a joke. "Oh Christ, are you OK?" we all said, more or less in unison, showing at first some real, genuine concern.

I very carefully edged my way through the water to the bank (one of us getting a soaking was quite enough) passed my rod and landing net up to David and slowly clambered up the bank.

"I haven't a clue what happened..." Nigel sprayed "one second I was on the grass casting my Mepps and the next I knew I was ballistic and under the water..."

Now, it's so strange that when something possibly dangerous happens, and yet nothing nasty actually happens, you quickly see the funny side of it and intense, nervous laughter sets in. However, Webby really wasn't too happy and it wasn't a time for laughter.

"…yet I thought I mustn't let go of the rod…" (quite right too!) "…and somehow although I was completely under the water, I shot straight out like a Polaris…"

"Well, we need to get you back to the hotel to dry off…" I said, still showing concern. "…you can take my car and meet us back here lunchtime"

With the decision made, we started our long trek back to the car along beside the Tamar and on the way we saw the reason for Nigel's downfall. The bank on which he was standing had simply collapsed and disappeared into the river as if a giant had taken a bite out of it. He had literally been standing on a grassy ledge.

Pausing for a few seconds to ponder how serious this could have been we then continued our way beside The Lyd and across the field towards the car, parked in a side lane. Nigel, being understandably a little grumpy, walked ahead with a little more urgency as he squelched and padoomped. We hurried behind carrying the rods, nets, bags and an extremely wet Barbour coat.

There was an embarrassing silence with the three of us as the previous restricted nervous laughter was held in check. Not a word was uttered, but after 2 or 3 hundred yards we began to hear the odd restraining nasal snort accompanied with the holding of breath, watery eyes and slight quivering of upper lips.

We were like three naughty schoolboys who had been severely told off and knowing that laughter would certainly not help the situation, but also knowing that total collapse was inevitable, preferably when the teacher had gone! Another 100 yards and apart from the now more regular snorting and lack of oxygen from longer holding of breath still nothing had been said.

Then, I'm afraid, it was I who broke the silence.

"You didn't see any fish while you were down there?" and the last three or four words faltered and shot up like a soprano – and we were gone. David collapsed by the path like an upturned beetle and the three of us fell into howls of hysterics.

"BASTARDS" said Nigel with a quick grimace over his shoulder but not missing a single padoomp on his determined trek to the car. Webby got into the car mumbling something about making sure we leave him some lunch and I was again a little concerned – not for him this time but for my car seat which subsequently took a week to dry out.

We left him and wandered back down to the river still giggling but then wondered why on Earth we had walked up to the car in the first place as he could have made it quite easily on his own - but that's what friends are for.

Jane told us later that she had walked into the hotel reception lunchtime and was informed that the path of wetness across the carpet and up the stairs was "her husband" and on entering the room she found the radiators covered in cloths and ten pounds notes.

But the day turned out fine with Nigel meeting up with us later for a super lunch on the river laid out on a blanket by the very pretty Bridge Pool on the Tamar and he was more cheery for the rest of the day. Jane managed to find us (intrigue got the better of her) and the day ended almost perfectly with David hooking, and Nick landing a fresh salmon of 9½lbs.

THUNDERSTORMS

The thought of fishing in the midst of a thunderstorm fills me with dread.

I have become a real fair-weather angler and I see little pleasure in struggling through the wind, rain and cold merely to catch the odd fish. I'll happily leave all that to those die-hards who snuggle under giant umbrellas on canal banks (the vision that most non-fishers have of us) and stay in the warm.

But thunderstorms bring with them something far more worrying...lightening!

There's an amusing old golfing story concerning Lee Trevino who, when asked if during a thunderstorm he would be silly enough to shelter under a tree (the last hole for many a golfer!) he replied "Not at all, I'd take out my one-iron, hold it high in the air and walk boldly across the fairway. Even God can't hit a one-iron!"

Now, there's a similar problem with fishing.

In the middle of a serious storm that threatens lightning I see little commonsense in sitting in a boat in the centre of Rutland Water waving a 10 foot long lightning conductor. Not very clever and it may be your last cast.

Admittedly the use of technical earthing agents like wellies or rubber soled shoes can help, but somehow I don't think that this principal works whilst sitting in a boat in water and I've no intention of testing it. Whilst on terra firma, however, I'm told it may save your life although a large supply of Grecian 2000 may come in handy later.

Far more sensible is to stay in the bar, watch Spurs stuff Arsenal on the telly and wait until it's all blown over.

Another similar problem is with overhead power lines.

Many rods have a little warning sticker attached to them but although I wouldn't think that any electric cable was physically low enough to be clouted by a trout rod, I do know a couple of fisheries where a decent back cast would be enough to wrap your fly line around 35,000 volts.

Fishing on the River Dochart in Scotland once, spinning with a large Toby lure, I managed to cast right over a cable that was stretched across the river. Before the line settled on the cable I threw my rod down and stared at it for some time wondering what would happen if I picked it up.

I eventually decided that is was, in fact, a telephone cable and therefore quite safe but certainly for a few moments I was, to say the least, worried!

QUICKSANDS

It may come as a great surprise to many non-fishers but quicksands (or rather less than solid ground!) are more evident around our country than you may imagine and can certainly be deadly.

The worst examples may be found along sandy estuaries whilst sea fishing where they are naturally loosened up twice a day by the tide and waiting to suck up (or rather suck down) any unsuspecting, wading angler. But they can also exist much further upstream as I found to my shocking disbelief one day.

I was fishing for salmon & trout in the River Moy in Ireland, slowly wading across the large, gentle river well in sight of my fishing partner, Geoff. It was nearly lunchtime and I decided to try, just for half an hour, another stretch of the river just the other side of a bridge.

I waded out, wandered across the bridge, climbed over a small fence into a field and made my way down through the densily wooded bank towards the river, slowly forcing my way through trees, branches and bushes - and at the bottom, there in front of me was the edge of the river, a couple of inches deep with a gentle gravelly bed where I could walk out to the very centre of the flow. Brilliant.

I took a couple of eager steps into the shallow water and, to my sheer horror, in a couple of seconds was literally sucked down into river bed, well over my knees and gaining on me!

For reasons only an angler would know, my first reaction was to throw my rather expensive Hardy rod up the bank, as if it was worth more than my life, but that moment of stupidity was followed by pure panic as it quickly dawned on me that I was, metaphorically, in deep shit!

I immediately fell backwards, thus sitting in the water, and somehow managed to grab hold of a lifesaver of a tree root and slowly, VERY slowly, worked my way backwards and after a good 15 minutes (the longest 15 minutes of my life) my legs had been extracated from the sticky depth and I was sitting on dry, safe land.

Yes, sometimes fishing CAN be bloody dangerous!

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From the 'never to be published' book, HOOKED FOR LIFE