Roy Eaton, who set off to fish that great trout loch in the sky in August, was a good friend to me. We go back to 1976, when he was editor of the magazine, Trout & Salmon, to which I contributed for more than 20 years. When Roy and his family came to Dalnaha Cottage on the banks of the upper Thurso River in Caithness, they would always come over for dinner with us at our then home at Ruther House, near Loch Watten.

Most years, Roy and I would go off together on assignment to prepare a feature article for the magazine; Durness Limestone Lochs, South Uist, Orkney, Shetland and other locations. These trips were always full of incident and great fun, because Roy had a mischievous, understated and irresistible sense of humour. On one such trip, Roy was photographing me fishing and called me over to where he was standing: “Bruce, do you see that hill over there (it was Sletill Hill in the Flow Country)? “Yes, Roy,” I replied, “what’s the problem?” Could you just move it a few feet to the right, please – it would make a much better picture.”

When we were in Shetland, our rooms were adjacent. We had arranged to meet for a drink before dinner and we both opened our doors to the corridor at the same time. Roy had given me a Trout & Salmon jumper, which I thought it would be appropriate to wear. However, we both suffered from a ‘bad back’ and, consequently, were a somewhat stooped. Thus heads down, we almost bumped into each other. We looked up. Roy was also wearing his T&S jumper. Without a word being spoken, we turned back to our rooms to change.

On another occasion, when Roy was staying with us in Caithness, we had an unexpected visitor who shall reaming nameless, but he was an angling journalist who talked a lot, in fact he could have talked for Britain. Whilst Ann and I were trapped in the living room, Roy was nowhere to be seen. I excused myself and went off in search of the missing editor. It took me an age, and, at one moment I thought that he had fled Castle Sandison, but his car was still there.

I eventually found him cowering under the dining room table. “Roy,” I exclaimed, “What on earth are you doing?” “I heard the voice! Please, Bruce, please don’t tell I’m here.” “Come on Roy, that’s no way to behave, why should we have all the fun.” I returned to the seemingly never-ending monologue, and, a few minutes later, Roy entered the room. I don’t know where he had found it, probably in one of the children’s rooms, but he was wearing a grotesque, Micky Mouse mask.

I have many happy memories of Roy Eaton and I miss him to bits. Nevertheless, I am quite certain that he will now be fishing the celestial, crystal loch above and undoubtedly catching his fair share and bringing a smile of pleasure to the face of St Peter; as he did to all of us who were privileged know him hear below.

Tight lines, Roy.