Mrs Alstons Hole

This is a great illustration of how people, with all their quirks and contrasting personalities, make life (and fishing) so much more interesting. In this story, told by Sandy Milne [long-term head ghillie at Knockando Estate on the River Spey], the chalk-and-cheese dynamic between two previous owners, Grimey Whitelaw and Sir David Wills, is perfectly captured.

A few years after flamboyant and rather gruff Grimey shuffled off this mortal perch, the new Laird, Sir David, was entertaining friends on his recently acquired estate. One of his guests, a rather chuffed Mrs. Jane Fleming, returned with a couple of beautiful Grilse. "Oh, clever you, Jane! Where did you find those?" Sir David exclaimed, ever the polite host.

"I'm not entirely sure, Dave," Jane admitted. "It was a small pool on the middle beat, I think! You'll have to ask Sandy."

As more guests congregated around the front of the house, the Laird, with a twinkle in his eye, approached Sandy. "Sandy, that was quite clever of Mrs. Fleming and you finding that lovely brace of grilse! Where did you bump into them?"

Sandy, a modest man of quiet character, knew this question was coming like a perfectly timed cast, found himself in that uniquely uncomfortable position only a ghillie can truly appreciate. He flannelled, he prevaricated, he tried to dodge. "Err, mmm, Oh, we got them in the pool above Craig Neish, Sir," he mumbled, hoping Sir David would be content with this rather bland morsel of information.

"Sandy, that's just wonderful!" chirped the boss. Sandy, already trying to subtly merge with the rhododendrons, felt the ominous rumble of a follow-up question. He tried to edge away, hoping to escape the dreaded earshot of the ladies in the party – he just knew they’d be the critical audience.

But alas, a hand landed firmly on his shoulder, halting his retreat. His escape plan, like a salmon trying to jump a high waterfall in low water, failed spectacularly. Like storm clouds gathering for a monsoon, a dozen of Sir David's friends now encircled him, their collective gaze pinning him in place.

In a light-hearted, yet undeniably inquisitive tone, the question was posed. The very question Sandy had known was lurking, the answer to which was acutely, excruciatingly uncomfortable: "Sandy, what's the name of the pool Mrs. Fleming had her fish in?"

With all eyes drilling into him, Sandy thought, My God, why me? What have I done? It was one of those "wish a hole, quite literally, would open up and swallow me whole" moments.

"Has it got a name, Sandy?" the new Laird pressed, a hint of playful suggestion in his voice. "Because if not, we'll have to give it one!"

Trying to be as discreet as humanly possible, Sandy whispered, "Mrs. Alston's Hole, Sir!"

"Pardon? Who's... what?" Sir David replied, clearly somewhat bewildered.

Now wishing he’d just bellowed it out the first time, Sandy swallowed hard and, with a louder, more desperate report, announced: "MRS. ALSTONS HOLE, SIR! They were both caught in Mrs. Alston's Hole, Sir!"

Tumbleweed!

In that agonising moment, Sandy felt the stare of a dozen pairs of eyes. Some were genuinely mortified, others wore that priceless "did I just hear that correctly?" look, before the silence was gloriously shattered. A male in the party erupted into uncontrollable laughter, a cascade of mirth that quickly engulfed the entire group, including Sir David himself. Even as he laughed, you could almost see the gears turning in Sir David's head, undoubtedly already brainstorming a new, far less… anatomical… name for the pool.

This tale perfectly contrasts the two lairds. Grimey would have absolutely revelled in the lurid nature of "Mrs. Alston's Hole." He’d have savoured every eyebrow raise and snicker, leaning into the slightly scandalous narrative with pure delight. Sir David, on the other hand, while undoubtedly appreciating the humour, would never, knowingly or wantonly, instigate such a situation. He’d laugh, yes, but then he’d promptly ensure the name was changed. And indeed it was. The pool was swiftly rechristened "Mother and Child," after the two magnificent Caledonia Pines that gracefully shadowed it.

Sadly, one of those grand pines recently succumbed to a gale. I can’t help but wonder if it was old Grimey, even from beyond the grave, up to his usual devilment. He died in the year of my birth, 1963. The doctor had warned him to cut his whisky down to one glass a day or face an early exit. Grimey’s legendary response? A full bottle poured into a pint glass at 4 PM, or as he famously called it, "Whisky O'Clock!" His gravestone, a simple stone from Clune Hill – the scene of some of his most memorable pheasant shoots – tells its own story. Interestingly, for a man who’d shot so many pheasants, as his coffin was lowered into the ground, a single cock pheasant flew onto the gravestone next to him and began crowing. Almost as if to say, "You were good, Grimey, but you didn't get us all!"