A fanatical fisherman died. On arrival in the next world, he found himself on a river. A ghillie was proffering him a 16ft Hardy. ‘This is the life,’ thought the fisherman. ‘Or, rather, the afterlife.’ Within seconds, he made a perfect cast into enticing water: just the sort of pool which would seduce big fish into lingering. Within a few more seconds, his line was racing, the reel screeching, the rod dipping. Five minutes later, a fresh gleaming 30-pounder was on the bank. With arrogant jaws and an angry, imperious eye, this was no mere salmon. He had caught a lord of the river. ‘O death, where is thy sting?’
A second textbook cast, and a similar outcome. He had landed another fish, worthy to lie beside its confrere. ‘O grave, where is thy victory?’ A third cast, and an even finer trophy: a glistening, majestic 40-pound monster. Suddenly, the fisherman felt uneasy. ‘I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but either of the first two would be the high point of a week’s fishing on a great river. I would have been boasting for months. As for this one — I have never caught anything as wonderful. In Scotland these days, hardly anyone does. All of them within an hour: you’re making it too easy.’ ‘Carry on,’ said the ghillie. ‘But my dear fellow, you don’t understand. For a fisherman, this isn’t heaven. It’s hell.’ ‘Where did you think you were?’
In an earthly paradise, on the banks of the Tay, my friend Andrew Gifford has built a fishing palace. Serious fish are caught, but earned. The Tay is a formidable river. In spate, it is a great brown god, sweeping implacably down to the sea. Those who have dealings with it learn to fear its moods. The Tay can drown incautious fishermen. But this Easter, there was a gentler aspect, as the sun glinted on what seemed little more than a stream.
A group of friends had assembled for fish and wine. I had the pleasure of meeting Leonid Shutov and his enchanting wife Natasha. Leonid proves that Russian businessman is not a synonym for oligarch. Successful in commerce, he has now turned his attention to food and drink, on which he is an evangelist. With no need to maximise profit, he enjoys spreading knowledge, and joy. In London, he runs a restaurant, Bob Bob Ricard. I know: I would not have chosen the name either. But it is an outstanding table, which works as a bistro or for banquets. The menu is an ambitious and creative fusion of old Russia and western Europe.
Leonid is also an oenophile. On the Tay, we compared the ’96 Langoa-Barton and the ’97. The younger year was the lesser vintage and, to begin with, that was how it behaved, with a grumbling reluctance to engage the palate. Then, like an old warhorse hearing a distant trumpet, it remembered that, even if it were ageing, much would be expected, and delivered appropriately. It needs drinking, but there is no tearing hurry. The ’96 was an unbroken roistering young horse, full of promise and still not in its pomp. If you have some, there is absolutely no hurry. We moved on to a Côte Rotie from Guigal: a 1998 la Mouline. If you have drunk a finer Côte Rotie, I envy you.
There is a good old Scotch word: ‘gloaming’. It has been sentimentalised, which is a pity, for it is far more expressive than ‘twilight’. When night musters its forces and the solid shapes of daylight dissolve into shade, the landscape does gloam. One evening, as the Tay passing out of daylight, we had an unusual aperitif: some ’83 Yquem left over from last night’s dinner (I know: survivors seem unlikely with me around, but it was at least as good 24 hours later).
Yquem is the wine which Apollo drinks in his chariot, and the ’83 is a superb example, aflame with sweetness and power. So we paid due respect to the gloaming, while the sun god’s golden favourite reminded us that darkness shall have no enduring dominion.
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