The Con - Part 13

[otter]

Father Brennan admired himself in front of the mirror, the new breathable waders fitted perfectly. He really could not get over how light they were compared to the last pair he purchased back in, well let's just say, quite a number of years ago, when the current Pope was not yet a cardinal.

He was not so sure about buying a wading jacket or even if he was fit enough to wade, but the salesman was convincing. He tried on the wading jacket and looking at the mirror he reckoned he was as fine an angler as any that graced the fishing magazines. All that was missing was his old tweed cap which he placed on his balding head. He was fully attired and ready to head for the river.

Gadgets and gizmos, he had even succumbed to buying a lanyard with magnets for his trout net, the salesman had shown him how to attach it. He was impressed with all that he had bought. Some developments in angling over the years had merit and even he reluctantly had to admit it.

Another postcard had arrived the day before from Sean, he was gone almost five months and judging by the postcards he had visited every exotic destination on the planet. The latest however was from closer to home, Rome. ' Father J, went to your boss for his blessing. Home in a few weeks Yours Mr & Mrs Lavelle. '

As he placed his gear in the boot of his car he took stock. March the first, 9 AM, a nice morning, there was just a hint of mist and a pleasant freshness to the air, a freshness that every angler knew to hold infinite promise for a good day on the river. There was a spring in his step as he closed the boot and opened the front door of the car. Old Clio started at the third turn of the key and soon he was heading out of town, ready to complete the journey that so many years earlier had been halted by the Bishop.

He had decided months earlier that he would start at the top of Casey's Second field. It had easy access from the road and a nice shallow run on his side, deep water off the far bank. Always a sure fire spot in early season for a good trout. Even more important, it offered easy wading. He was pleasantly surprised that he was the first car there and blessed himself twice, celebrating his good fortune.

With great care he made up his rod, the brass ferrules glinting in the morning light. His father's cane rod, now nearly sixty years old it looked as good as the day it had been made. Every season he had fished it, just once a year and that was on the first day of the season. Long has it stood silently waiting for its chance to once again load and propel a fly high into the sky and guide it slowly, until it fell quietly and silently upon the stream.

'Excuse me, what are you doing parking that old bucket of rust there'; startled, Father Brennan turned around to see a frail old man, walking stick in hand, wobbling down the road, pausing occasionally to wave the stick at Father Brennan. It was old farmer Casey, hard to believe that he was ninety seven.

'Mick, I pay my road tax which is more than you ever did. How are you my old cantankerous friend?'

'Old friend?, You have not called in to see me in fifteen years, some friend you are.'; Mick was old but his mind was nimble, never a day passed that he did not finish a crossword.

'The Chapel hasn't moved either, are you waiting to die before you go to mass again? Without the fishing it was too painful to be close to the river, thats why I didn't call.'; Father Brennan could never take a day off, always on duty and always enticing his flock to come to mass.

'If I hadn't heard every sermon you ever wrote at least a dozen times there might be some worth in going. Its time you hung up your cross and let some young fella take over. At least half of your audience are down in the graveyard. The poor devils gave up from having to listen to you every Sunday. You don't look too well under all that finery, are you sick or better still, dying of some incurable disease. If there was a God he would have taken you back long ago.'

'Mick, I'll bury you yet and it will be water from the toilet that I will throw on your cheap second hand coffin when we put you in the ground. How is the fishing?'; Everyone knew that Mick Casey's season started in February and for the past twenty years, weather permitting his son would park him on a chair beside the river for an hour each day and not many a day passed that Mick failed to catch a trout.

Mick laughed as loud as his old lungs would allow;' Not much use James, they are not on the fly yet but a worm is rarely ignored, as you well know. I have missed your company, good to see your hairy ugly face along the river. Will you be a regular your holiness.'

Shaking Micks hand, Father Brennan told him he would call for a mug of tea before he went home. He crossed over a stile and walked briskly towards the river, rod in hand and a huge smile on his face.

Standing well back he inhaled the vista of his favourite trout pool. The rivers character had changed during the intervening years and Father Brennan struggled to map it all out. Using familar reference points he soon realised that most of the changes were cosmetic. The old sycamore that had stood majestically on the far bank was all but gone. A small stump, a mere two foot tall was all that remained and Father Brennan wondered about the lie beneath its branches, a lie that always held a good trout, did it also go when the tree had succumbed to a winter storm.

Such dilemmas and unanswered questions have tested the minds of anglers since the beginning of time. Heaven, Earth and Water, three domains whose mysteries Father Brennan has laboured to understand over many a long year. None held him more entranced than the Water and the creatures within its dominion never ceased to amaze him. According to the gospel of James Brennan there is a glaring omission in the Old Testament, "On the Eight day God created Brown Trout, seeing that his work was good, God went fishing, never completed his work and left man to his own devices. Amen."

It felt good to be pulling his fly line up through the guides, tying on a leader and a tippet, remembering forgotten knots and all the while a careful eye watching the flow of the stream, looking for any signs that a trout was feeding.

Even though he knew what flies he would attach to the leader, he sat, lit a cigarette and quietly observed. As sure as a devout Catholic should say their prayers at night a good angler should take time to observe, time to allow their hunter instincts to come to the fore.

Father Brennan belonged to a small number of fly anglers that chose not to simply stand in the stream and cast out their flies. They allowed the river to wash over them, allowing their minds to quietly close all other thoughts and when ready, waded out and melted into the flows becoming at one with the river. Believe what you want but one thing is for certain, should you bring the troubles of the world with you to the river and do not fully put them to one side then that is exactly what you will bring home, troubles.

Opening his fly box he selected two hare's ear nymphs, one well weighted size 10 and a much smaller and lighter size 14. A large bushy dry was also extracted and hooked onto the side of his cap .Carefully wetting the nylon before slowly tightening the knots and then tested each of them. Finally he opened his little canister of Fullers earth and degreased the entire leader and tippet. Was he ready to go hunting, he was more than ready and inwardly he groaned at the sheer delight that sought to overwhelm him.

Crouching low , he slid down to the river's edge and made his first cast in twenty years. Like the prodigal Son, Father James P. Brennan had come home.

to be continued.

[scotgillespie]

Without doubt the best thing I've read in a while 

[alancrob]

"On the Eight day God created Brown Trout, seeing that his work was good, God went fishing, never completed his work and left man to his own devices. Amen."