The Master Class
- Details
- Published on Thursday, 03 January 2008 05:17
- Written by Joe Whoriskey
The lough sits in the middle of gently rolling farmland, with green fields full of fat lazy sheep surrounding it. Its popularity evident by the fact that the sheep barely acknowledge my presence as I walk from the car towards the lough shore.
I have that incredible feeling of freedom tinged with guilt that I used to get when dobbing school to go fishing, a feeling that still overwhelms me on mornings like this when I have taken a day off work to fish.
At the top of the lough there is one small bay where the fields stop short of the water’s edge and there remain the remnants of the ash and hazel forest which probably covered these lough side fields long before the sheep came along.
I walk towards the trees, for this small bay is, on the whole lough, my single favourite spot, and I already know just how I am going to fish it. I will wade out through the bank side weeds to the small shingle bar from which I can cover the front of the bulrushes on one side, and the mouth of the small burn running in on the other side, both areas which regularly yield a trout or two.
As I come through the trees my heart sinks, because there standing on the shingle bar is another angler. I don’t have a plan B, it just never occurred to me that anyone else would be here so early, and if they were that they would have walked the whole way to the top of the lough. But here in front of me is the living fishing proof of my error.
I sit down on the trunk of a fallen tree to consider what to do next, but find myself studying the figure in front of me. He’s probably in his late sixties, maybe even seventy, he’s wearing a pair of black thigh boots a Barbour jacket and across his back is a small canvas and leather fishing bag.
He’s fishing a short cane rod, well, short compared to my ten foot Orvis anyway. As I watch, more schoolboy feelings return, for this is how I used to sit and watch the fishermen on my local river, amazed by the ease at which they would swing their long double handed rods and shoot a line across the stream.
Unaware of my presence he continues to fish, now I become aware of trout gently dimpling the surface tight to the bulrushes, and watch as he expertly sets a small dry fly in the path of each trout in turn. His line creates barely a ripple on the almost flat calm surface, yet the trout ignore his offering. He changes fly and again is ignored by the now greedily feeding trout.
He suddenly turns around and I feel as though I've been caught doing something I shouldn't, I can feel myself blushing, another hangover from my schooldays. I stammer out something about not wanting to disturb him but he smiles, walks off the shingle bar and with almost as little disturbance as made by his line he wades ashore.
He indicates that I should take his place, but to be honest I‘m not at all sure I want him as an audience. After all, I have just watched a master class in fly fishing and don’t really want to be compared. But I can’t think of any good excuse so we exchange places on the log and I wade gently into the water and across to the shingle bar. The trout, if anything, are now feeding in even greater numbers than before. I start working out line but just as I am about to put my first cast over the trout everything goes solid, without even looking I know that I am caught in one of the trees behind. I look around, two of my three flies are visible so with any luck the point fly is just nicked through a leaf and will pull clear. But no matter how hard I pull nothing gives, so I wade ashore, climb the banking and manage to free the fly. As I return to the water I exchange a smile with my new found friend who is pouring a cup of coffee from a small flask.
Amazingly trout are still active as I work my flies onto the water; I start with a short line building up my confidence again before attempting the longer cast needed to reach the feeding trout. This time I take no chances and by changing my position and wading a little deeper my back cast is well clear of the trees. The flies land perfectly, tight to the bull rushes and among the feeding trout. I draw gently on the line, feel it tighten and lift into, not a trout, but a bulrush. My perfect cast was obviously one inch too long.
I’m once more involved in a tug of war, only this time each pull causes the bulrushes to shake about as though a water buffalo was ploughing through them, and no doubt sending trout fleeing in all directions. There is only one thing for it wrap the line around my arm point the rod and pull. It’s amazing how strong a 4lb cast is when you actually want to break it. Then it gives without warning and I stumble back tripping over a large submerged rock and fall on my backside causing a minor tsunami to race across the bay.
As I get back to my feet, wet and bruised, I look around hoping that I am alone, but no he’s still there smiling and nodding to me. I reel in the loose line to inspect the business end and find I still have two flies and a small pig’s tail where the point fly had been. After tying on the first fly which comes to hand in my fly box I cast into the now disturbed and seemingly trout free water.
I draw on the line half expecting to be caught on the bulrushes again but no everything is loose and free moving, and then suddenly the line tightens, I pause for a moment surprised then lift the rod this time tightening into something alive and definitely pulling the other way. Unbelievably I am connected to a trout and a pretty good one at that. I manage to play the trout without incident, retrieve the net from the loop on the back of my jacket and slide it under approximately two pounds of solid brown trout.
I quickly dispatch the trout, put it in my bag and look around. My friend is drinking coffee and still smiling; I wade ashore and go sit on the log alongside him. I feel the need to apologise, but before I can speak he laughs, shakes his head and offers me a cup of coffee.
An hour later as some others arrive to fish we are still sitting chatting, without wetting another fly we have caught fish, lost fish, and travelled the world.
Joe Whoriskey ,a keen Irish fly fisher, is fifty years of age and has been fishing for more than forty of those. His main passion is wild trout in river or Lough, although he also fishes for salmon occasionally. Joe firmly believes that any day spent fishing is a good day, trout caught are an added bonus and should never be used to measure success or failure.
When not fishing he works as an electrical engineer to pay for licences, permits, and to fund occasional overseas fishing trips.