How my amazing teaching ability turned old friend into an addict

Fishing is something I do with a group of people different to my "everyday" friends. It's a bit like leading a double life except these friends know I fish and regard it with some amusement. Occasionally when I talk about a particularly fun bit of fishing I've had, or am anticipating, they say things like "So you really enjoy it then? This fishing malarkey" or "you still fishing?". The flip side of this is people who think that everything I do, everywhere I go, is in pursuit of fish. "I'm going to Italy/Suffolk/the desert" say I, "to fish?" say they. Er no, sometimes I go away to actually see people or places, not fish.

So it was strange to find myself in the countryside with my best friend, Emma, and her husband, Mark. Emma and I have known each other for 25 years. And Mark I've known pretty much all my life but not known it (his dad used to fix our TV, small world etc etc); we were officially introduced 18 years ago when Emma and Mark "got it on". Anyway, one afternoon we decided to catch our own supper and Mark was keen to see what all the fuss was about fishing.

It was only when he was at the water's edge at the Tavistock Fishery in Devon, that I realised that no one from my "other" life had ever seen me fish. This, I have to admit, caused a frisson of excitement as all my latent showy-off tendencies – that I'd tried to suppress since childhood admonishments from my father – suddenly bubbled to the surface.

I took on an air of self-importance, spouting clichéd bits of advice and general fishing bollocks, as so many others before have done to me. Luckily, I heard my daddy saying "Stoppa showing offa" in my mind's ear just in time.

The lovely thing about "teaching" someone to fish (not that I did) is that you realise how much you know and have learned and come on. I, in particular, need reminding of this as when I fish it tends to be with people who know very much more than I. Which is how I like it, but it can make me feel a bit thick at times.

My boyfriend, being a master fisherman, had given Mark a casting lesson on the lawn, in full view of the chickens, ducks and three million bees, just that afternoon. At the lake, the boys faffed around discussing flies. Meanwhile, I put on a damsel nymph, cast and a fish was on.

Mark was incredulous, "Bloody hell!". "It's not normally this easy," I said as I brought my dinner-for-two sized trout to the net. As I only had a two-fish limit, I decided to make things harder and put on a dry fly for the rest of the session.

The boys started fishing. Mark got a fish within about 10 minutes! Excellent, because blanking can be bad enough when you're a seasoned fisherman, but when you first start it can make you feel wretched and think "what's the point?". He struck and played it all in beautifully. I said he had to deal with the kill himself, which he did, wincing slightly. Pete, too, caught a fish almost as soon as he started fishing. I was starting to wonder if the lake was over-stocked. This was too easy, even though the only other man on the lake had caught nothing. Then, suddenly, just to teach us not to look a gift-horse in the mouth, something imperceptible changed and for the next 90 minutes the fish refused to bite. Eventually, after some effort, Pete caught another, then I, both on dry flies this time. Mark, annoyingly for him, missed two on the dry fly, but he became so addicted to the take, ("my heart is beating so fast!" he said) we had to eventually drag him off the bank.

We dined on fish that night. In the re-telling, the legend of Mark's first fish has since grown somewhat in stature. Just the other day, I heard his 30-month old son say that "Daddy had caught a shark."

a.barbieri@ independent.co.uk