Magnet fishing is supposed to be a wholesome hobby. Why all the beef?

It’s a Sunday morning in Stirling, and the rain gods are unleashing their wrath on those foolish enough to brave the elements. Approaching the winding River Forth, an underpass provides a brief respite to check the map, then it’s straight ahead to the Old Bridge, standing stolidly since the 1400s. 

Halfway across the bridge, just about visible in the biblical downpour, there’s something submerged in the water. Follow it upwards, and a man in a fluorescent jacket is leaning over the side, dangling a rope into the swirling current, sweeping it across the river bed in search of silt-buried treasure. 

Stirling is an unlikely location for Glasgow Magnet Fishing (GMF), a ragtag, piratical group of friends bonded since the halcyon days of lockdown by one thing: a love of lobbing high-powered magnets on ropes into waterways to retrieve discarded metal objects. In recent years, they’ve grown in size — the Facebook group totals almost 7,700 members — and reputation, even producing merch.

A hardcore couple of dozen group members are more often spotted at the side of Glasgow’s Forth and Clyde Canal, usually patronising the city’s, shall we say, hairier areas — all the better for finding guns, blades and cracked safes. Today though, they’re in Stirling to put on a bit of a show for out-of-town visitors, while nursing quiet hopes of extracting some history from the river’s watery clutches.

Gregarious group founder Mark McGeachin often hosts live videos, so those staying home can fish vicariously from the comfort of their couch. Currently, he’s frustrated. Every time he tries to go live, raindrops play havoc with his screen. Eventually, he’s forced to give up the ghost. 

“What’s that, a chibber, oan yer first throw an aw?” McGeachin shouts over to Glasgow Magnet Fishing OG, Paul Goody, a hulking joiner with a gentle nature. He wanders over to see. Goody shows him the 1954 military pocketknife. “Finders keepers, this one,” Goody says joyfully, hastening to assure me: “Any big blades we hand it into the police.” 

McGeachin hands me a gift, courtesy of a magnet fisher up from Yorkshire: a keyring and bottle opener. I accept them graciously, instantly reminded that anything magnet fishing related has a curious smell — earthy, oily and a wee bit putrid. 

Like McGeachin, Goody started magnet fishing during the pandemic. Initially, he watched from home but in person, he says, you get the benefit of “socialisation”. Magnet fishing trips have taken him all over the UK, from Glasgow to Birmingham.

The group element is not only for camaraderie, but also because expensive magnets can get snagged, retrieval requiring multiple people and even grappling hooks. Later that day, Alec, a long-standing member, lobs his £500 magnet into the Forth’s depths but crucially forgets to loop the rope. He watches it sink into the brown water with disbelief. 

“Not many people come out in the rain,” says Goody, with a smile. “But we just batter on. You never know, we could pull out Rob Roy’s sword, fingers crossed”. They fish “for the history,” he adds.

A lot of this history seems to be embodied by weaponry, judging from the list Goody reels off. Unexploded ordnances are a particular pain. “We’re a bit scared of pu’ing them oot — feart in case the police will do us wi a public disorder or suhhin like that. It becomes a bit of nuisance when you have to phone the polis and get the MOD out.”

I’ve been reporting on Glasgow’s magnet fishers for about five years now. Their escapades are notorious, including closing down Dalmarnock Bridge not once, but twice in a single day. 

I wasn’t the only person to take an interest. Magnet fishing’s popularity explosion didn’t escape the attention of Scottish Canals, the government body responsible for managing Scotland’s waterways on behalf of the public. “What we wanted to do was make people aware of […] how to do magnet fishing in a safe way and make sure [that] they cleared up after themselves,” explains the organisation’s chief operating officer Richard Millar, chatting to me from his office at the “cathedral of canals”, the Falkirk Wheel. 

Through a somewhat arcane bit of legislation, most of the canal network is legally protected under the Ancient Monuments and Archaeological Areas Act (1979). When the magnet fishers popped up, Scottish Canals eventually told them, heads up: to fish here, you must have consent from Historic Environment Scotland (HES) and permission from Scottish Canals, as the landowner. Magnet fishing without this consent, they explained, “would be viewed as unauthorised work on a scheduled monument” and could lead to fines of up to £50,000.

At first, relations between Glasgow Magnet Fishing and Scottish Canals seemed harmonious; negotiations took place around GMF becoming the first ever officially designated group allowed to fish with permission on the canal network in the UK. 

But things quickly soured. McGeachin became “scunnered” after he was told they would have to halt all activity until the agreement was signed, and thereafter could only fish on certain stretches of the network.

He refused. When he subsequently heard Scottish Canals had entered concurrent dialogues with a group in Edinburgh, McGeachin says he abandoned the deal for good. “I don’t like backstabbing and I’m no keen on authority figures telling me what tae dae, especially wi ma hobby,” he says.

Scott Lamond, Scottish Canals’ former corporate communications officer, was the project lead for the agreement at the time. “If you imagine a magnet that pulls out 1,000 kilos at any given time there's a real concern there,” he explains of the need for regulations. “We wanted the canals to be a safe, friendly, accessible place [...] There were vehicles coming up and down the canal tow path [where] you're not allowed, so they could pick up scrap metal to sell on.” 

Scrap metal removal, it should be noted, is required as part of the magnet fishing clean-up operation. McGeachin arranges such a service privately. At first, he admits, he cashed in GMF hauls, using the money to buy soup, portable cookers, and to organise giveaways for his group. Now, he has a set-up with a scrap collector who keeps the proceeds in exchange for free removal duties. 

Nevertheless, claims Lamond, access was being obstructed for people in wheelchairs, people with disabilities, people walking their dogs. Besides: without an agreement between HES, Scottish Canals and Police Scotland, Lamond maintains the only other option would have been a blanket ban on magnet fishing.

After discussions with GMF fell through, Lamond alleges McGeachin made threatening phone calls to him (McGeachin denies they were of a threatening nature, but admits to phoning Lamond to speak his mind). 

In September 2020, GMF turned up outside the Scottish Canals office in Possilpark to protest, documenting it on Facebook Live. Announcing the demonstration on the social media site, McGeachin wrote: “Scottish canals read this and listen you have tried to stop us in our tracks no more […] There is no law we are breaking [...] If you push a dog into a corner it will eventually bite back woof woof”. A series of emojis accompanied the post: a magnet, axe, knife, crossed swords and a shopping trolley.

Lamond again claims he felt threatened. “These guys are saying they’re dooking for chibs, and they're uploading [pictures of] swords and everything. Next thing, they're outside the office […] doing Facebook Lives. It gives you an idea of their behaviour.”

To McGeachin’s ire, in April 2021 the alternative group, Edinburgh Magnet Fishing, was selected for the consent agreement, under the umbrella of a Scottish Canals mandated chapter: Official Magnet Fishing Scotland. I spent a day with the anointed cohort, recording with chairman Calum Black for a BBC Radio Scotland documentary. During production for the programme, Lamond impressed upon our team that we couldn’t record with the Glasgow group, owing to their alleged threatening behaviour and lack of state-sanctioned permission. 

The news of official consent was met with defiance on the GMF page: “If anyone asks tell them ye dropped yer house keys and your [sic] trying to retrieve them,” one member advised. “Wasting money on unnecessary stuff instead of cleaning the canal but wait why should they when we do it for free and clean up after ourselves!!!!!!!” wrote Hazel McGeachin, Mark’s mum, furiously. Glasgow Magnet Fishing couldn’t have given a flying neodymium magnet if they had the correct permissions or not. They fished on regardless. 

The Stirling outing has not proved to be one for the history books, with the army knife still the most interesting find (unless you’re into Victorian railway cart wheels). A few folks have retired to their cars to dry off. McGeachin is holding out, keeping morale up by pacing the bridge’s length, cracking jokes. 

I ask about his old adversary, Scott Lamond. He’s unfazed, saying: “Scottish Canals are nonexistent to us because we’re a responsible group. We just stay in our lane and Scottish Canals stay in theirs. To get involved with them and go through the licence deal, there was too much red tape.” 

That red tape looked like putting out traffic cones and wearing hi-vis vests, Mark recounts, lip curling. “I walked away from it. I went naw, this is turning my hobby into a job.”

GMF’s next excursion is to Culloden. Do you need permission, I ask, feigning naivety. Eh, shrugs McGeachin. “Most of these places, it's public land. I've got a ‘he who dares’ attitude. We just rock up, whereas some people would maybe phone Stirling Council and say, ‘Can I go to Stirling Bridge?”. But, crucially, he notes: “they can't stop you — you’re not breaking any laws, as long as you’re being responsible.” 

When I bring up the law they are seemingly breaking— scheduled monument consent — McGeachin’s libertarian spirit holds firm. “All the places we wanted to go to, [Lamond] was telling us naw, and I said, 'ye cannae stop me, we’re no breaking any laws'. He didn’t like it.” 

He draws a parallel to the police, who tried to stop him going onto Dalmarnock bridge when “I started finding aw they grenades”. “They tried to jail me. I said: ‘What ye gonnae charge me wi?’ They said ‘being a public nuisance’. I went: ‘That’ll no stick in court’ and I kept on going back. 

“I’m a bit ae a rebel,” he says with another hearty laugh.  

One of the guys out fishing on Stirling Old Bridge today is James Pearson, a member of the Edinburgh group that originally secured official consent from Scottish Canals. He now runs Magnet Fishing Musselburgh, under the official Edinburgh umbrella, although he has little to do with the original group. In fact, it scarcely exists today.

“I think the person that runs that group was doing it more for money, rather than the fun of the hobby,” Pearson explains, between lobs of his rope. “TikTok became a thing, so you could get monetized. He was basically making money off other people’s magnet fishing.”

He says that the deal with Scottish Canals was helpful for the group to begin with, as the public body arrange to pick up their scrap metal. Now he doesn’t believe formal permission holds much weight. “If you take the hobby properly, take away your rubbish — I don’t think [Scottish Canals] care to be honest.” The Glasgow group, says Pearson, “do it the right way: tidy up after themselves and have a good laugh. That’s really what magnet fishing is for. It’s not to make money”. 

A few days later, I contact Peter*, a magnet fisher who used to associate with the Edinburgh group. He disputes Mark’s “backstabbing” accusations. “GMF didn't want to adhere to the requests from Scottish Canals and Scottish Canals decided not to progress with them. It was as simple as that,” he says.

However, he agrees with James Pearson’s assessment of the problems in Edinburgh: that Calum Black, chairman of Official Magnet Fishing Scotland, personally profited from the group’s TikTok account. 

The collective had agreed to monetise the account, says Peter, on the condition proceeds were used for group activities. When video views began racking up into the tens of millions (the most watched clip has over 35m views), members of OMFS started questioning Black about the money being accumulated. Black told them he wasn’t able to access the funds and the group would “need to wait”.

Eventually, in 2023, Black admitted to the group that he had withdrawn approximately £700 from the TikTok account, using it to move in and furnish a flat with his partner. When the group challenged him, Black went nuclear, requesting his name be removed as chairman from the Scottish Canals consent agreement.

It wasn’t the money itself the group cared about, says Peter. If Black had been struggling and asked them to use the funds in such a way, they would have said “go for it,” he tells me. “It was the deceiving and lies that hurt us.” 

Black then started stepping out on the Edinburgh crew, fishing with other people. Worse was to come. 

“We received reports on several occasions that [he’d] removed items from the canal and left it all lying at the sides,” Peter says. Two years on, he remains aggrieved.  

Failure not to clean up post-haul is a huge red line. It’s “part of the reason this consent issue started,” Peter points out. After this transgression, Calum Black was removed from the group consent agreement with Scottish Canals completely. He did not reply to any requests for comment for this story. Peter claims Black then sold the Magnet Fishing Edinburgh page on, and continued to use a logo he'd designed and paid for, ignoring all requests to stop doing so.

The whole deal with the canal authorities has been a “waste of time”, Peter adds, ruefully. He felt threats were used by Scottish Canals pre-agreement, such as warning of prosecutions for not adhering to requests — in fear, Edinburgh’s magnet fishing branch towed the line.

Meanwhile, post-agreement “80%” of pledges made to the group, says Peter, “have never been kept”, including the promise of further consent deals, the use of Scottish Canals workwear they would be permitted to double brand with their own logo and — juiciest of all — access to untouched parts of the canal network. “None of it happened.”

Instead, Scottish Canals went ghost. “They got the initial consent set up, then they just continually left no contact or just didn't follow through,” Peter states. 

When I ask Scottish Canals about the criticisms, a spokesperson simply points me to their website, and outlines the HES guidelines for Scheduled Monument Consent. Scott Lamond, however, remains proud of the “first of its kind” agreement. 

Back in Stirling, I ask McGeachin about his feelings towards Scottish Canals, and the long-standing dispute that finally seems to have simmered down. “We’re doing them a service,” he says. “There’s hundreds and hundreds of tonnes of metal in the canal — shopping trolleys, bikes, safes, you name it. There’s sections of that canal that we’re finding stuff from the 1800s. Scottish Canals haven’t maintained that canal. I can hold my head high that I’ve made a difference in the waterways.” 

Wrapping up for the day, he’s feeling reflective. “It’s something to look forward to every week, it keeps me out of trouble. I’ve got a group of friends that are like family — aw these guys, we’ve all been together for five year noo, and we aw phone each other every night. We’re aw there for each other, I’m proud of myself, it’s a good community.” 

*Name has been changed.