A Perfect Day
- Details
- Published on Monday, 03 March 2008 06:05
- Written by Joe Whoriskey
Island Lough was a whim, a sudden flash of inspiration. I don’t know where the thought came from but it was perfect. I had been lying in bed barely awake wondering where to fish, I am lucky enough to have a choice, and so was pondering the merits of several rivers and a number of loughs. Then there it was right slap bang in the middle of my consciousness, Island lough.
No doubt the ordnance survey calls it something different, I’ve never had the inclination to check, but I’ve always known it as island lough. I first fished it some 30 years ago when a hill farmer gave me directions. He stopped to talk as I was setting up my gear at the edge of a small lough I had fished on a number of occasions, and after discussing the weather he asked if I had fished in the lough with the island. On hearing I hadn’t he explained how to navigate there, and assured me that at the tail end of the year I might get a few gorm trout. Gorm trout to the uninitiated was often how sea trout where referred to in this corner of Ireland, gorm from the Gaelic meaning a bluish colour and referring no doubt to the gunmetal sheen on the back and flanks of such trout.
From that time I referred to the lough, which was high in the hills and quite a walk from the nearest farm track, as island lough and fished it off and on for many years. It was never a place for either the lazy fisherman or the fisherman for whom size is everything. The native brown trout where small and the gorm trout although putting in an appearance near the end of each season as promised were few in number and difficult to tempt.
However island lough did have many attractions. In over thirty years I never met another fisherman other than those occasionally accompanying myself. Likewise I have never failed to catch trout. True they aren’t enormous, the average probably go three to the pound with a half pounder a good trout, and those approaching a pound being worthy of special mention. But what they lack in size they more than make up for in fighting spirit.
Now that the decision was made I was out of bed showered dressed and in the car in about fifteen minutes. It was a beautiful summer day, clear blue cloudless sky and bright sunshine; not normally a perfect day for fly fishing, but the weather never seemed to affect the willingness of the trout in island lough to take a fly, so I was happy that I could travel light and enjoy the sunshine.
About an hour later I was turning off the small side road onto a farm track which looked like it hadn’t seen much traffic since my last visit, which I worked out during the drive had been five years before. A couple of miles on the track and there it was a tight ninety degree bend with just enough space on the outside of the bend to pull the car off.
I quickly set up the rod, tied up a three fly cast, consisting of a Connemara black, a sooty olive and a bibio, pulled on a pair of wellingtons and my waistcoat and I was off. After about fifteen minutes I could see the burn which runs out of the top end of the lough. At this point I scrambled down and followed the burn up to the next bend where there is a large pool. This would be the first wetting of the flies.
It always seemed to me that this pool should hold sea trout resting up on their way to the lough, and so on my visits later in the year I would pay it special attention. However if it held sea trout it never gave them up. At this time of year I would take a couple of casts rise some small brownies and then carry on up to the lough. Getting close to the pool was difficult because the undergrowth was up to my chest in places, still I managed to find a spot just at the tail were I could cast up into the pool without too much difficulty. A couple of false casts to work out a bit of line and I landed the flies tight to the left bank; the instant the flies hit the water there was an explosion. The loose line was ripped from my hand and I could see it cutting through the water towards a large patch of water lilies on the far side of the pool. Then there was no loose line and the reel was screaming, at last I stuttered into action applying as much pressure as my three pound cast would allow and whatever monster of the deep I was connected too turned. Then it came out of the water like a missile a gleaming silvery blue trout. After what seemed an age the trout rolled on its side and I slipped the net under it. I held it in the water looking at it; I would estimate it at about 2.5 to 3 pounds. Thirty years ago it would have been destined for the pan, but on this occasion I removed the small sooty olive from the scissors and supported it gently until with an almost lazy flick of the tail it swam off into the tobacco coloured water.
After a few minutes reflection I fought my way back through the undergrowth and climbed up to higher ground where the going would be easier. From this vantage point I looked down the valley seeing the burn twist and turn and eventually disappear from sight, marvelling at the trout’s journey.
I started to walk towards the small stand of trees in the distance which I knew overlooked the point where the burn flowed out of the lough. This isn’t where I would start fishing but would act as a marker until I could see the lough itself. Then just as I rounded a small hillock I came face to face with a hind. She looked up, a long piece of vegetation protruding from the side of her mouth, and gave me a rather comical look. A moment later she turned and with that easy grace deer have on the hill bounded off.
Soon I was looking down on island lough, I quickly scanned the banks to get my bearings. I would, as I always did, walk down to the bay which was now just on my left. From here I would fish in an anticlockwise direction around the lough finishing back where I started. When I got to the waters edge I sat down in the sun to get my breath back after the walk. I scanned the water's surface looking for activity, but although I sat for about fifteen minutes I didn’t witness a single trout rise.
Still I didn’t come all this way just to look, so suitably refreshed I got to my feet and worked a short line onto the water. It wasn’t long before I got into a rhythm, first cast down along and tight to the bank, then opening the angle with each successive cast, the final cast being at an angle of approximately 45 degrees, a step forward and start again. Then suddenly tight to the bank a slashing rise to the flies, I struck, both to hard and much too late, the result on such a short line was a face full of nylon and a Connemara black closer to my mouth than to the trout’s.
After untangling the cast I got the flies back on the water, only to repeat the whole thing a few minutes later. I had forgotten just how fast these small hill lough trout could be. After another few casts I saw a trout, as if in slow motion, come head and tail over the bibio which I was dibbling along the surface.Even I couldn’t miss this trout, I lifted the rod and tightened. The trout was about 6 ounces and perfect in every detail, golden buttery sides, white belly, jet black back and red spots as big as dinner plates, well very small dinner plates but you get the idea.
The rest of the day I fished lazily around the lough, the sun shone the breeze died but the trout continued to find my flies to their liking. I finished where I started, the sun was low in the sky and it was beginning to get cool. I dug my light fleece from the large rear pocket of my waistcoat pulled it on and started the walk back towards the car.
I’ve been lucky enough over the years to visit some of the worlds great fishing destinations, but I can honestly say as I walked back to the car I was thinking it doesn’t get much better than this.
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.