Why I swapped spin for spinning

The former Treasury press secretary Charlie Whelan explains how he found a new passion - fly fishing

When I worked for what seemed like 24 hours a day with Gordon Brown, I never imagined that fishing on the mighty river Spey in the Highlands of Scotland would become my passion. As a kid I used to go fishing down to the local canal and, although I loved it, nothing can match the sheer joy of landing a wild Atlantic salmon. One of the first things I did when I stopped working for the Chancellor, apart from sleeping for a week, was to purchase a fly-fishing rod. This may have been an odd thing to do, since I had never cast a fly in my life.

I suppose that the most common reaction from people when they learn that I spend much of my spare time standing in the river Spey is disbelief. "Don't you miss Westminster, Charlie?" And I have to admit to missing the buzz during the dark winter months of the close season. Seeing my old chum Alastair Campbell obviously missing it and still plainly addicted to spinning, I did think of setting up a self-help therapy group for ex-spin doctors called Spinaholics Anonymous. Thankfully, I've got the fishing, and as soon as opening day on the Spey arrives I'm cured of any lingering traits.

Having a proper holiday when working in government is not really possible. My first real break from politics was taken on the banks of Loch Rannoch in Scotland. It was from here that I cast my first fly. Just as I learnt the dark arts of being a spin doctor from a real pro, David Hill (who has now deservedly got the top job), I also turned to a pro to teach me how to fly fish. My tutor, Alastair Gowans, did his best, but I was not a very good listener. It was only a few years later that I discovered that Ally was the man who invented what is now the most popular salmon fly in Scotland - the Ally Shrimp. It was on this fly that I caught my first salmon. Most political correspondents have actually seen it, because I had it framed in a box, together with a photograph of my first fish, and proudly showed it off at the Labour Party conference. The only people who were in any way impressed were the BBC's Jeremy Paxman and Guto Hari, who, like me, are both fanatical fly fishermen. Every one else thought I was barmy - and they do have a fair point.

Fishing for salmon is a very odd thing to do, because salmon anglers are trying to catch a fish that is not feeding. The young salmon does eat in the river, but it goes out to sea to gorge itself. These days, they find it more difficult to find food because factory ships from Denmark vacuum up most of their grub. Ironically, much of this is treated with chemicals and fed to farmed fish. The fish farms then create disease, which kills wild salmon, and escapees breed and weaken the stock. Oh yes, and then the farmed salmon allegedly give you cancer! My guests in Scotland will testify that the farmed specimen tastes nothing like a wild salmon - indeed, it is an entirely different species. That's my rant about farmed fish over.

Once the wild salmon returns to spawn in the river that it was born in, it stops feeding and lives on the fat that it has accumulated while in the sea. People like me then try to catch it by dangling a fly in the river, which isn't a fly at all, but just a coloured feather-type thing with a hook on it. I don't know why salmon are lured into hooking themselves, and neither does any one else, but they sometimes do.

For all sorts of reasons, including fish farming, there are not the numbers of salmon that there were; I'm told that even the Thames once teamed with the king of fish. These days salmon anglers return many of their fish to the water to help conservation, though the number of salmon caught on the rod is actually minuscule and has nothing to do with the decline in numbers.

"How do you have the patience?" is another question I'm asked about my adopted lifestyle. As George Melly says in Hooked! Fishing Memories, his extremely amusing book on a life of fly fishing, patience has nothing to do with it. Though I've never masturbated over one of my catches, as he confesses to have done.

Sometimes I'm even accused of being a Tory toff, because some assume those are the sort of people who go salmon fishing. Yes, Iain Duncan Smith enjoys casting a fly. But I would like to see someone tell my fishing pals in the Highlands that they are toffs. They'd end up in the middle of the river.

Salmon fishing is defiantly not the preserve of the rich and royals. The most prolific salmon river in England is the Tyne, and you don't have to pay a fortune to fish it. But the feudal land-ownership system in Scotland means that the best fishing is still owned by the idle rich (and despite what the Tories say, the Scottish land-reform bill has done nothing to change that). I would like to see all rivers publicly owned, so everyone could enjoy them.

Fortunately, there are local associations where anglers club together to lease fishing from the owner (it seems crazy that you can own a river). In the Highlands, where I have made my new home, I belong to the Strathspey Angling Improvement Association, based in Grantown-on-Spey. Only local homeowners may become members, but we sell yearly, weekly and day tickets at a very reasonable price.

For many years there has been a decline in the number of visitors to Grantown, partly because many anglers believe that spey casting for salmon is too difficult. It takes a few days to master. So, along with some local expert fly casters, I've started week-long residential salmon-fishing holidays on the river Spey, with fishing instruction and plenty of fun. Why not come and join me? While we fish, I'll spin you a few yarns about Field Marshall Blair and Gordon Brown. Alastair Campbell has an open invitation, too.

For details of Charlie Whelan's salmon-fishing course, visit www.spinfish.co.uk