The Estuary - Part 2

[otter]

Leaving Hix's behind, with spinners reattached they trolled across the sandbanks, occasionally churning up sand when the propeller touched bottom.
The ever changing main channel could be seen winding between the partially covered sandbanks.  The river widened now and an excited Otter pointed out familiar sights that he had seen many times from the shore.  On his right he could just about make out the ruins of the hotel at Scuramore strand where they picked cockles, the shoreline where he did his beachcombing. On the right a major widening and Moyne abbey in the distance, another ruin, often visited by tourists after seeing Rosserk before moving on to the historical Killlala and its round tower.  His father pointing to various areas, passed on the names, as passed on by one generation of anglers to the next. The cockle strand, the basin and many others and beyond that Bartra Island, the last sentry guarding the river before it took its finally plunge through the narrow channel into the bay.

As Otter was to learn, the tides are the lifeblood of the estuary and apart from that one hour of stillness at the top of each high tide and the hour of the low, they dictate the movement, location and feeding behavior of the Sea Trout. Moy Sea Trout are small compared to those from rivers on the Southern part of Ireland and tiny compared to those from the great Welsh rivers such as the Towy where a two pounder is a mere tiddler. I expect it is governed on whether they stay and feed close to the estuary or migrate out along the coastline for better feeding.

Trolling the sandbanks had to be timed correctly, you were seeking the channels between the sandbanks that the sea trout would follow as the tide came and went. For the most part the upper estuary fished best on an ebbing tide or the first hour before full tide, the lower section best on the first hour of the coming tide, the middle section for the remaining times. The size of the tide also had a bearing, Spring tides come fast and strong rendering some locations unfishable due to the flow or the volume of sea weed been carried. The lesser tides leave some areas too shallow to fish. It would take years for Otter to learn all this, for now he was a sponge, soaking up but a handful of knowledge, eager to catch as many sea trout as he could.

Compared to fishing the mackerel strips, trolling was a boring method where only the man on the engine had any control or needed to think tactically. I have no doubt that the thinking, the preparations, the planning and the execution are the fundamentals of angling, the cornerstones that defines ones pleasures. For some its sit back and relax, for others it's a constant battle of wits and even at such a young age Otter exhibited the characteristics of the latter, now finding little interest in the trolling that a few hours earlier was so pleasurable.

The monotony of the trolling was broken when Otter spotted some seals, one coming quite close, raising its whiskery dark nose, peered at the approaching boat before leisurely sinking and reappearing a hundred yards away. Like the cormorants they did not trust the presence of man. All three are hunters vying to catch some trout, though one species is more prone to greed and one wonders if the head on which the bounty was placed was morally, the wrong one.
They had now reached the basin and Otter's father quickly viewed all round and made his judgement call ; " There's about two hours of tide left, we will go the The Cockle strand and work our way down to Bartra. The cockle strand, like all such strands is an ever evolving almost living thing, growing and shrinking as all the dynamics of tide and underwater features and weather patterns coalesce to determine its existence. What Otter knew as the cockle strand was merely the edge of a much larger strand that stretched from the upper side of Bartra island for half a mile, inshore for a similar distance and down to the left side of the Island. When the tide ebbed, it would flow off the larger strand, firstly revealing the cockle strand and finally the entirety would be revealed with only a small channel running of the edge of bartra.

When filled the Sea Trout would hunt this shallow water, dieting on shrimp, on sand eels and a host of other prey, constantly on the move, constantly hunting and very spread out. When however the tide ebbed they would be forced from the strand, following any deeper channels until they reached safer water, The anglers job was to identify these channels, moving the boat when a channel lost advanatge to the Sea Trout, seeking another, hunting at its best. Otter's father explained all this to him and Otter's young brain raced with the excitement of the challenges that this information presented.

What was previously a flat piece of water over sand was now viewed through the eyes of a fledgling hunter, eager to spot the tell tale signs of the channels by simply looking at the flow of the water. This would not be all plain sailing either for some channels that looked perfect would be suffocated by the sand carried within its flow and these are useless from a fishing point of view no matter how many, indeed if any sea trout followed its course. That same channel could equally be a prime spot ten minutes later.

The flow was much stronger on the Cockle Strand than he had experienced in front of the walls and it took a little getting used to. Otter squealed when the first take came, it was so much more powerful he thought he had hooked a monster but as a ¾ pound trout was drawn over the net it suddenly dawned on him that it was the power of the current that had elevated the size of the trout. With the seemingly stronger takes, timing was more crucial, too early and the bait would not be taken in far enough for a hook hold.

With each take, Otter would reach forward with his rod, stretching as far as he could dare without falling in, willing the sea trout to make that final drive so he could set the hook. As before his father looked on and grinned, this could not be taught, it could only be learned and no matter how skilled one became, the outcome was always in the balance and that is what made it such a pleasurable way to fish.

Shifting sands, the Cockle strand, stands proud over ebbing tide.
Patient anglers watch the gathering flows, the shifting sands,
that timelessly move and move and shift and shift,
the shifting sands of time.

No Architects here, no grandiose plans of man,
for man cannot block the shifting sands of time.
Nature's way, alone dictates the scene,
the movement of sand and of time.

Ebbing tide, the movement of sand and time,
linger a while and watch the the shifting sands of time.
And all the while, the anglers hunt
the trout that hunt,
across the shifting sands.

Enjoy the days, your allotted days,
from the shifting sands of time.



Regularly lifting and dropping anchor their small boat edged ahead of the sand bars as the tide receded. Reaching the edge of Bartra Island they dropped anchor just inside the main river channel with full command of the final push of water coming of the inside strand. The flow here was very powerful and lead shot had to be added to the line, the swivel not heavy enough to sink the mackerel strip. Otter gasped as Sea Trout regularly came out of the water yards away from the boat, landing back with a splash of spray. The currents here were intricate, strong swirling eddies, a multitude of flows fighting for dominance and no doubt a lot of good feeding opportunities for the trout. Any remaining trout leaving the inside strand or the various channels off  the edge of the Cockle Strand  had to pass here, a better ambush point could not be found.

All the rules went clean out the window, there were no tap taps, no knock knocks it was knock, bang, strike and usually grrrr. Frustratingly, fish after fish was missed but soon enough the flow eased and on the last remnants of the going tide Otter hooked a strong trout. Holding it carefully, a wide eyed young Otter exclaimed;" It must be three pounds or even four. ". A proud father wondered should he say anything and eventually did;" Son that's a fine trout, about one and a half"; cruel to be kind, but not so cruel, for it was about a pound. Well pleased Otter did not complain when told to wind in his line and they rounded the Island and beached the boat on the sandy shore.



Fresh air does wonders for one's appetite and Otter scoffed back a few sandwiches in double quick time, all the while talking excitedly, pounding his father with question after question. Listening enthralled, as his father recounted the days of his own youth, spending countless hours rowing up and down the estuary, the huge bags of trout that they caught. Off strange events such as the time a Sparrow Hawk swooped down and with its talons it took his fly whilst they trolled a team of f lies behind the boat. Rising high, line trailing behind until from a great height the fly released and they watched it fall back onto the water. Otter had never seen a Sparrow Hawk or any hawk for that matter, but he had seen pictures in books, and eagles on television with ease he could imagine this bird of prey, its wings folded tight as it dropped at great speed, legs reaching down and opening talons seizing the fly.

Whilst his father slept under the midday sun Otter climbed the sand dunes, slipping regularly whilst trying to negotiate his way up through the soft sand and on more than one occasion sliding all the way back down an incline. Off course there were easier paths to take but they were strictly for adults.
Apart from a derelict farmhouse there was little to see or investigate so he turned seawards. To his left in the distance he could see the dark cliffs of  Kilcummin head and tracing back along the shore he could see the faint outline of the cottages that overlooked Kilcummin village. Out in the bay, some boats fishing for markerel and a larger one which he guessed was a small trawler out of Killala. On the far side he marked the spire of the church at enniscrone and sought out the pier but the distance was too great. Following the breakers he traced the line of the long Enniscrone beach until it rounded onto a mark just opposite his position on Bartra. Looking out along the edge of the Island he spotted a perch and beyond some rollers where the river met the sea.
Appreciation of such beauty is beyond analysis by a young mind. Otter stood for ages, searching for the minutae, the interesting things,  until the enfolding  panorama  was firmly implanted and to be never forgotten.


Astride the sands dunes, soft sea breeze
caressing hair,
a young boy digests the widening scenes of
of ever widening horizons.
Without a care, nor fear,
the complexities of life, were yet to visit here.

I see him still, that young boy,
standing on a hill over distant shore.
Eyes out to sea,
seagulls hovering, swooping, diving,
a trawler trawls beneath the cliffs,
waves rolling towards the shore.

Seeing opportunity, in every grain of sand,
and in his hand, a sea shell taken from the shore,
fishing rods in bow of boat, sea trout on the floor.

In the corner of his eye, a father sleeps and snores.
Eagerly awaiting, earths solitary moon,
to turn the tide once more.

I see him still, that young boy,
in the recesses of my mind.
As I sit here daydreaming, those pleasant days of yore,
I stand beside that young boy and hold his gentle hand.
Before reality takes me, from that distant shore,
to unlock further memories, together to explore.

Otter raced back to the boat when his father called, no mean feat in wellingtons that were a size or two too big. His father was holding the landing net and a bucket which he handed to Otter. In the net bag was overlaid with another bag of fine mesh made from very fine white net curtain. Pulling his waders up as high as possible his father waded out a few yards and started walking very slowly sea wards along the edge, constant peering into the water. Otter followed  along the sand all the while wondering what was his father up too but didn't ask, knowing in time all would be revealed. They must have walked two hundred yards in this fashion when his father suddenly stopped, paused then stepping out as far as he could he dipped the net and walked backwards dragging the net he made for dry land.

"Herring fry, great bait"; he explained as he tipped the contents of the net into Otters bucket. Otter grabbed one of the squirming fry, not much more than an inch long it bore little resemblance to the adult herring that he had often seen laid out in neat little rows on a tray in the fish shop window. Lying in his cupped hand, it twisted and squirmed seeking freedom, eventually falling on the sand. Otter dived on the poor creature, scooping it back up with a handful of sand, grabbed it by the tail and dropped it into the bucket to rejoin its brethren.

Back in the boat his father stared out to sea, stared at the sky and seemed to be lost in thought. Stern faced he looked at young Otter, " We are going to fish the bar, it can be a dangerous place and there are two rules, first you are never to stand up and secondly  hold on tight when you hook a big trout"
The Bar as it is called is that point where the waters from the estuary collide with sea and over the eons a great sand bank had been formed, stretching across the full mouth of the estuary. Apart from the strong pull of the tide and gentle swells as the tide pushes over the bar it can seem no different than the cockle strand but when the wind blows strongly downriver and meets the tide the sleeping giant awakes and no more a dangerous place for a boat can be found. You can be over ten foot of water one minute and in an instant only a foot or two of water beneath your keel. When the swells are big only a fool would fish the bar and those that have been caught there by a sudden shift in wind have no choice but to make for the bay for turning the boat is fraught with danger if not downright impossible.

Flanked on each side by rollers and bigger waves some hundred yards ahead Otter could clearly see the boundaries of the bar. His father took Otters hook and hooked on  one of the herring fry showing Otter how to do it. Otter cast it out as far as he could, the hook landing fifteen yards away, the herring by the edge of the boat. "Less force, the herring are fragile"; his father laughed as Otter hooked on another and casted more gently.  The line barely moved in the water and soon Otter was lifting a small crab on board that stubbornly refused to let go. A mighty battle of wits ensued which seen his father doubled up from laughing. Finally Otter swung the line, bashing the crab into the gunnels and it released the herring on impact, fell to the bottom of the boat and attempted to hide under the floor board. " No tide yet said his father"

Whilst they waited the coming tide, Otter tried to find the crab and his father opened a further package revealing a dozen small sand eels. They had been caught weeks earlier and frozen. " Fresh ones are best but carefully handled ones that had been frozen will do fine."; Otter did not understand this but nodded in agreement anyway. Even at nine years of age he exhibited that trait that all anglers have in common, an ability to put on that serious poker face defying anyone to challenge their knowledge of any matter piscatorial. All anglers are liars though not all liars make good anglers. As the years would show in good time, it was not only the crab that was stubborn aboard this vessel.

The tide is turning announced his father as he hooked on a sand eel. Otter looked at him with quizzing eyes, how could he tell. His father winked as though he had a pact with nature, some hidden talent that allowed him tune into the flow of the tide. "Look at the anchor rope son, feel the tug on the boat". Otter swiveled in his sea and looked at the anchor rope, it was stretched taut, pointing back out to sea and now that it was mentioned he could feel the tug on it as the boat sought to follow the flow of the coming tide. He winked back at his father; "Thanks, I'll remember that one"; this was very important stuff, his library of knowledge filling very quickly to-day.

The flow quickly gathered strength and soon the occasional trout could be seen jumping clear of the water marking their journey from sea to the fresher water inside. Otter wiggled on the seat with excitement for many of the trout that showed were of far better size than those they had caught earlier. Otter fished the herring fry, his father the sand eels but it was the herring fry and Otters rod that caught the trout and he was elated at the fact that he was a better angler than his dad and was quick to say so, with each trout landed. The wise older head smiled and despite the advice from young Otter that he should switch to the herring fry he continued to drift his sand eel.

It was a magnificent trout that lay on the bottom of the boat, over two pounds if it was an ounce and the sand eel visible in the corner of its mouth. Otter's eyes were wide open in awe and quickly grabbed the offered sand eel with his shaking little hands, struggling to hook it on such was his eagerness to catch one as big as this. His turn eventually came and the fight tested him in every way, for the sea trout are the most powerful of freshwater game fish and even a two pounder can be a stern test. They lifted anchor regularly, moving back with the tide and reaching Bartra the engine was started.  They made for the perch near the end of the Island where Otter was ordered to drop anchor once more.

"Black rock perch "; announced his father, " a great spot for a big trout". They were anchored just inside the perch, yards from the shore.  "The trout will come along the edge and hunt the rocks on which the perch stands. Takes will be few but most will be good trout. Use the herring fry. Get to work Son".
Otter did not need a second invite and quickly his herring fry was drifting the edge of the rocks seeking to entice a hunting trout. Compared to the vastness of the bar, this was more intimate, casting to an exact spot, focused on that one place that the sea trout expect to find food with ease. For twenty minutes cast after cast and Otter lost interest. He switched bait to a sand eel which could be cast further away. Otters focus was elsewhere and did not see the sea gull swoop down to try and take the sand eel. "Wind in"; shouted his father. The shout woke a half dozing Otter who began winding in line.  The gull chased the sand eel before finally giving up. It took flight, circling overhead, waiting another opportunity. Soon it was joined by two others, circling, watching, hunting an easy meal.

For Otter, this was the best fun all day. Trying to judge when the gulls were not looking, making the cast. Few casts failed to be seen and Otter would quickly retrieve the sand eel. A great game of cat and mouse. His father had no such difficulties, he waited until Otter's sand eel caught the gulls attention and then made his own cast. The old dog for the hard road as they say.

They caught no trout at black Rock perch and made their way slowly back up the estuary, fishing the flooding cockle strand, the edge of Scuramore strand, until finally the last trout of the day was landed by Otter on a Mackerel strip at the castle walls.
Otter was exhausted after the most exciting fishing adventure of his young life and went to bed of his own accord. He quickly fell asleep but played one more trout before his eyelids finally shut and his tired mind yielded to the darkness. Many more similar days would follow and much more would be learned of the ways of the Sea Trout as they hunted with the tides.

Herring fry and Mackerel strips,
copper spoons and Toby lures.
Drifting a sand eel, by Bartra's lovely shores.

Sea gulls by the black rock, circling in the air.
Seals basking on a sand bank, dropping anchor here and there.
Sun high in the sky, winds blowing from the west,
Father at the engine, son sits eagerly in the bow.

Can you see the vista, the vista that once was mine,
can you see that young boy, as he casts his fishing line.

The glowing cheeks, from salty air,
fresh water mixing with the brine.
I wonder,  if others memories,
have commonality with mine.

Did you ever hook a sand eel,
or tease a diving gull,
Did you ever drop an anchor or
net a herring fry.
Were you ever a young boy, as lucky as I.