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Walking in the Footsteps of a General

Started by otter, November 06, 2012, 03:16:11 PM

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otter

Walking in the Footsteps of a General

July was always the best month for mackerel and the hotter the weather it seemed the bigger the shoals that came into Killala bay.  Otter was now a seasoned sea angler and those first mackerel a year earlier seemed an eternity ago and Otter was now considered old enough to use a valuable rod.  All his fishing to-date was on the eastern side of the bay where they  embarked from the pier at Enniscrone. Across the bay lay Killala  and out into the bay loomed Kilcummin head, even from a distance the black cliffs looked imposing compared to the sedate landscape on the Enniscrone side.

Otter was more excited than usual as they packed the boat and car and made ready for a trip to Kilcummin, though Otter had never fished there he had often visited. A friend of his father who was a small farmer and salmon driftnet fisherman lived alongside the small pier.

Young Otter  loved the trip to Kilcummin, passing through Killala on the way, seeing the round tower that was used as refuge from invading Vikings some ten centuries earlier.  He imagined being in the tower, firing arrows at the norsemen as they plundered and pillaged. This area is steeped in history and recently discovered some miles away,  the Ceide Fields, some of the oldest enclosed farms in the world, predating the great pyramids and Stonehenge.   

Kilcummin village was a little more than a collection of fishermen's cottages lined along the pier.  Lobster pots, buoys , mounds of nets were strewn everywhere. Everything in sight evolved around the sea and Otter soaked up the sights and smells and took every opportunity to explore.
This tiny fishing village will forever be in the annals of Irish history for it was here in August 1798 that General  Humbert  landed with his French army to join with the United Irishmen in an attempt to drive out the English.  Their attempt failed and in September Humbert was to surrender  to the English when faced with insurmountable odds. To this day 1798 is called the Year of the French.

Otter imagined the three frigates arriving, the soldiers coming ashore in their splendid uniforms, the locals staring on in awe and uncertainty.  He had as yet little understanding of history and simply regaled in the glamour of such things. Whilst his father chatted to his friend Otter became General Humbert.  He walked in the footsteps of the famous general coming up the shore,  shouted orders at his army. Jumping up onto the saddle of his great white horse and raising his sword he  commenced his version of the march to Castlebar.

Otter took up his position at the bow of the boat, allowed to do so after a dozen or so trips when his sea legs had proven that it would be safe to do so. The water in front of the pier was crystal clear and though it looked only a few feet deep it was nearly twenty. Otter marvelled at the myriad of colours of the sea weed on the sea bed and a large crab seemed so close he felt he could reach over the side and catch it. Soon it faded from site as the trusted Seagull engine pushed them out into much deeper water.  Soon they were a few hundred yards out from the pier and the boat pointed to follow the shoreline.  His father explained that this was much rougher ground than they fished on the more sandy Enniscrone  side of the bay . Otter nodded , he could see the difference on the rugged shore line and realised that it would push out into the bay.

Okay said his father as he lifted his rod, let's catch some fish.  Otter loosened the heavy weight from around the handle of the reel, flicked the little lever to relase the spool and dropped the lead weight over the side. Feeling the line go slack as the weight hit the bottom Otter wound up several yards and commenced jigging every twenty seconds or so.  His father who had been watching his every move  advised him to jig more frequently so he would get stuck in the bottom.  Otter was lost in his own little world, jigging the rod, watching the waves roll by almost mesmerised by the rise and fall of the sea.
"Reel in shouted his father"; as he cut the engine and quickly wound in his own line and then lifted the engine shaft clear of the water.

Otter , though a little confused did as he was bid and swinging the lead on board he noticed his father pointing directly ahead. Otter turned and soon spotted the red buoy bobbing up and down, sometimes lost in the trough of a wave. "Driftnet for Salmon", his father explained; " we have to be careful and keep a watch for them or they will entangle the propeller and that's a right mess to sort out and more than a little dangerous for a small boat like this."   Otter was soon to learn that the bay was littered with these nets, set to intercept the migrating Salmon on their return to their rivers to spawn.

Otter thought he knew about the Salmon in the river but he knew little of their life cycle. He latched onto every word as his father explained how they spent their youth in the river before turning into silver smolts only a few inches long and travelling thousands of miles out into the Atlantic to feed and returning a year or two later as majestic  Atlantic Salmon. This was fascinating knowledge for a child, the mystery of that epic journey making it all the more interesting.   Otter could picture a  little smolt leaving the safety of the river unaware of the dangers that lurked in the salty water.  He had seen those pictures of great sea beasts in that book at home about Moby Dick, he wondered how could such a tiny fish survive such perils.  But survive they did and even on their return their battle to reach the spawning grounds was no less difficult. 

Clear of the net and with the engine humming, they recommenced trolling and before long young Otter raised the call, "Fish".  As the catch neared the surface, Otter had a puzzled expression on his face, something wasn't quite right. The zippity zing of the mackerel could not be felt through the tip of his rod, more a weighty feeling.  He glanced at his father as lifted two strange fish on board, after unhooking them he held the largest and examined it carefully. Off white belly, yellow tinges and a dark back, far less aerodynamic than the torpedo shaped mackerel.  Pollock, explained his father, a close relation to Cod, they prefer the rough ground.

Otter was to catch many Pollock in the following years  and regularly it would be served up for dinner , always accompanied by fresh parsley sauce.  For a country surrounded by sea , the Irish are not great consumers of fish.  It is said that this is because of the famine when the only food available to people in coastal areas was fish and they were sick of eating it , probably an old wives tale but a good excuse none the less. Italian fish and chip takeaways  are the mainstay of fast food joints in Ireland, family run, almost mafia like in their domination, not in a criminal way but because they are damn good at it.

Whilst at college Otter regularly visited such a place for a Battered Cod and Chips, Tonis Takeaway.  Toni was quite a character, the walls were adorned with framed pictures of Ferrari Formula one racing cars.  In each picture a beaming Toni stood alongside the car, wearing a Ferrari tea shirt, in one and only one Tony was behind the wheel.  Toni  insisted that he had been a Ferrari mechanic for many years, my response to him always, " mechanic my ass".  I think from the years of playing the game he almost believed it himself but for sure it was a source of great fun and light hearted banter.  One Tuesday evening Otter placed his order  and the conversation turned to the Ferraris. As he was the only customer and enjoying the conversation when the bag of Cod and Chips was placed on the counter instead of going home Otter opened it and started to eat the cod.

I do not know if this applies to Italians in general but every Italian Fish and Chip man that I have ever met are easily excited, will raise their arms in the air and talk faster than a speeding bullet. Toni was a master of this behaviour and when Otter handed him back the bag and told Toni that he had ordered Cod,
Toni feigned insult and throwing his arms up.

"Whadda ya mean, da Cod is in the bag".

Otter quickly responded, " Okay Toni, so you  are a mechanic , a proper fish and chip man would know that fish is Pollock."  Toni was now hopping around behind the counter, a tirade of abuse directed in Otters direction. "Whadda ya mean Pollock, we no sell Pollock"; pointing to the neon lit menu above his head; " Fresha Cod, Smokeda Cod and Ray, where you seeeeea  Pollock". 

Otter quickly replied, "In the bag Toni, in the bloody bag"

The argument continued for at least ten minutes before the very agitated and highly insulted Toni backed down. "Okay, itsa Pollock, canna get fresh cod early in da week, how da hell did you know".

In his twenty years of selling fish and chips no one had ever spotted the difference but Otter had eaten more than his fair share of Pollock and knew the subtle difference in flavour.  No money exchanged hands in this transaction, the Pollock and Chips was on the house. Every time after that, when Otter was the only customer in the shop, he would wink at Toni and order Pollock and Chips.

Otter had learned that there was more fish in the sea than Mackerel and before the day was out he learned that Pollock were fake Cod, Coal fish fake Pollock and that the Gurnard had very sharp spikes on their fins and must be treated with great care when being unhooked.  Above all this young Otter came to understand that his father was never happier than when seated at the stern of the boat, one hand on the arm of the Seagull engine the other jigging his sea rod.

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