{"id":9438,"date":"2018-06-29T18:32:07","date_gmt":"2018-06-29T17:32:07","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=9438"},"modified":"2018-07-04T09:59:22","modified_gmt":"2018-07-04T08:59:22","slug":"upon-the-rivers-bank-serene","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=9438","title":{"rendered":"Upon the River’s Bank Serene"},"content":{"rendered":"
Upon the river’s bank serene,
\na fisher sat where all was green
\nand looked it.<\/p>\n

He saw, when light was growing dim,
\na fish – or else the fish saw him –
\nand hooked it.<\/p>\n

He took, with high erected comb,
\nthe fish – or else the story – home
\nand cooked it.<\/p>\n

Recording angels by his bed
\nweighed all that he had done or said –
\nand booked it!<\/em><\/div>\n

(anonymous)<\/em><\/div>\n

<\/font>
\n<\/p>\n

Saturday evening. Sadie’s in town. I’m splitting timber and admiring Ted and Evie\u2019s rapt attention to the new puddle in the yard. Total immersion, almost. Ducking into the house, I throw a weather eye at the laptop. The webcam at the weir in Srahnamanragh and corresponding graph of river depth shows a steep rise on the Owenduff all day. This after a lengthy period of little water, when sea trout and salmon must surely be gagging to run this most tempermental of small spate rivers. I’ve booked the Rock House beat in Srahduggaun for tomorrow – but will that be, as usual, a day late? <\/p>\n

The phone rings. It’s Bob. He’s been there since early afternoon and is all excited, says he’s already hooked and lost a few, that the river is alive with salmon. He tells me to come on up and quick. I tell him I’ll leave as soon as I can but I’d need a favour from John Noel, the beat keeper, to fish it this evening as well as tomorrow. Sadie returns. We eat. I pack my gear and make sandwiches. All this happens in parallel to a lengthy text dialogue with my most abstruse brother, who, in a cryptic and riddlesome dialogue of torturous slowness requiring extensive decoding, is pestering me to get him an iPhone, an exchange to which I am duty-bound to attend, carefully, fish or no fish. I’m still juggling tasks and chasing my tail when Bob calls again.
\n– Where are you now?
\n– Still at home.
\n– Ah, jaysus, man. Get up here.
\nI plead family commitments, lamely.
\n– Get the pedal to the metal, boy.
\n– Sadie’s just…
\n– Look it, Sadie will always be there, the fish won’t.
\nYou have to admire Bob. He treats it like a vocation, a personal mission. County Mayo is his parish, her fish his unruly flock. He has regard for family values as much as the next man, but the next man doesn\u2019t fish for salmon and the river is already dropping away. <\/p>\n

I get my dispensation from John Noel to throw out a few casts this evening and I’m off, headed for a Father’s Day alone on the river with Pip, the trusty collie. God is in his heaven and I am flirting with the speed limit from the far side. Entering Mayo, the only noticeable novelty is a hand-painted sign propped up in a disused trailer by the roadside: \u201cJESUS DIED FOR THE UNGODLY\u201d. What, and he lives for the rest of you? Border country, I muse, as we skirt the viaduct at Newport, where Maxwell took his silent farewell of Christendom in 1819, “the Ultima Thule<\/em> of civilized Europe”[1]<\/sup><\/a>. At Mulranney, we slip between the mountains and enter Erris. Mountains to the right, sea to the left, bog in between \u2013 life is simplifying nicely.<\/p>\n

We get to the blue cottage at the foot of the hills in Srahduggaun about nine pm and step out of the car into a cloud of midges. As I pull on my waders and tackle up quickly, I hear Bob\u2019s voice in my head saying “the bastards may be bad here but in Donegal they have knives and forks”. Midges aren\u2019t what Pip needs right now but in matters of loyalty, needs must. We head downstream towards the bigger pools. I’m casting into the Wall Pool when Bob arrives upriver.
\n– Don’t mind that pool.
\n– It’s hard to pass it.
\n– I know what you mean. But here, those two pools below, the long beachy one and the one below again, if I were you, I’d just fish them. If you hit nothing, fish them again, but differently. I’m not trying to tell you what to do or anything but if I were you I wouldn’t bother with anywhere else. I’m after hooking and losing about eight fish there. I swear to Christ, I’ve lost count. They have me meithered. I got one up on the bank alright.
\nHe is referring to the Broken Banks Pool and the High Banks Pool. I know this only because I\u2019ve recently scanned the map of the beat into the computer and studied it. Long beachy one works just as well for me.
\n– Any size in the one you landed?
\n– About four or five pounds, a grilse, dead fresh.
\n– Great stuff, well done. How come you lost the others?
\n– I don’t know. I rang Paddy and he reckons it’s because I’m using treble hooks. So maybe you should just use singles or doubles.<\/p>\n

Paddy is the guru, instructor to the good and the great. A day with Paddy costs a few quid but it\u2019s always been money well spent. Bob gives me a few flies, as he always does, and says he’s off to the Junction Pool to wind down from the adrenalin. I make for the pools mentioned and see from the stone beaches how much the river has dropped off even in the last hour or so. In a halo of midges, I fish both pools, tricky work in such low water. Instinct commands one to stand well back, the river is so narrow. Not a nibble. <\/p>\n

At midnight I return upstream to the blue cottage, wondering if booking tomorrow was wise. It’ll be another day of low water, there’ll hardly be rain tonight. I’ve had three blank days here already this year and countless others previously. The most I’ve ever lifted from this beat has been a few fat sea trout, never a grilse, not to mention a spring salmon. But at least there were fish taking here today and there might be more tomorrow yet. When I get back to the blue cottage, Bob is dozing by the fire. He’s landed a sea trout in the Junction Pool and is sleeping the codhladh an gascaigh<\/em>, the warrior’s sleep. He’s working early tomorrow in Westport so I leave him and head for the lodge in Srahnamanragh, at the far end of the river.<\/p>\n

The alarm wakes me at 4:30. Sunrise is for 5:05 so I drag myself to life. Surprised by how much water the river still holds down here in the Bridge Pool, the last before the estuary, I decide to give it a lash before heading back up to Srahduggaun, ten miles upstream. The only sure thing at this point is that there will have to be a lengthy nap later in the day. It’s breakfast time for the midges. Pip looks askance from the bank as I wade in under the bridge. Though there’s plenty of water and a good flow, not a fish stirs and at 6:40 I’m in the car wondering why that pool took so long. <\/p>\n

Just before the bend for the blue cottage, I’m startled by a deer stood stock still just off the road, staring in at me. I stop the car and stare back. A big beast but no antlers, does that make it female? I file this question away for Ted to answer later, he who gets his bedtime reading from the Collins Guide to Irish Wildlife<\/em>. When she’s had her fill of me, the deer bolts across the road in front of the car and away through the bog towards the encircling mountains. <\/p>\n

There\u2019s no sign of Bob’s car at the cottage but an Offaly reg land rover suggests Ois\u00edn, that foxy old furniture flogger from the midlands one meets on almost every second visit here. Ois\u00edn is a deadly foe to god-fearing salmon the length and breadth of the Barony and the thought crosses my mind that if I don’t catch one today, I might at least see one in his clutches. A glance at John Campbell\u2019s Rock in the adjoining stream tells that the river must be low. I suck my cheek. But the trickling, gurgling water and rejoicing larks above remind me why I’m really here and how, water levels notwithstanding, nothing really matters.<\/p>\n

Sure enough, on my way down past the Wall Pool, Pip’s growls herald Ois\u00edn\u2019s arrival upriver with a fine fresh grilse, about a six-pounder. He\u2019s full of the joys. My mind rattles to a collision of conflicting thoughts: “What was I at wasting time in the Bridge Pool?” and “Look, a fish that took only this morning, despite low water.” Net result optimism.
\n– You’ve been busy.
\n– Indeed and I have. Begob but that pool is heaving with salmon.
\n– Really, which pool?
\n– That one beyond the stony one, what do you call it, the High Banks I think it is. Absolutely heaving with them.
\n– Really, did you hook him far down?
\n– About half way, I’d say. I fished it from the far bank.
\n– Did you?
\n– I did. I always fish those pools from the far side, especially in low water. The lies are all on this side, you see, right under the bank. Salmon are easily spooked. It only takes one frightened fish to run back along the pool and put all the others down. Walking the bank this side is enough to send them all to the bottom. They can feel it. That\u2019s my opinion on it anyway.
\nHe strikes me as a man who knows these fish personally and has great regard for their heightened sensitivities. It occurs to me also that as often as not he’s carrying a fish when I meet him.
\n– Well, seeing as I\u2019ve never caught a salmon on this beat, I might follow your example.
\n– Have you not?
\nI remember his penchant for the small fly, especially the Black Pennell and steal a glance at his rod.
\n– What fly had you up?
\n– This little lad here.
\nHe\u2019s pointing to a very small fly on his dropper. It has a hint of purple and a shank of silver. I can’t name it and he doesn’t. His tail fly catches my eye.
\n– You had the Black Pennell on the tail.
\n– Begob and I did. Never leave home without it.
\nMany’s the day I’ve met Ois\u00edn with a salmon in one hand and a Pennell retired to the cork of his rod. On one particular day he had just released a sixteen-pounder, having hooked him on the smallest Pennell to be had. I’m still remembering all this when Ois\u00edn opens the end-game. He is the type of man who assumes that, like himself, you are on the river as much seeking solitude as salmon.
\n– Isn’t this a little bit of heaven? Well, I’ll leave you in peace. I’m off now to Mulranney for a swim and a bit of breakfast. I’ll drop back again later.
\nI thank him for his advice and am grateful for his manners, because he’s right. There\u2019s nothing I want more now than to be alone with the river. <\/p>\n

Despite having always fished the High Banks Pool from the near side in a manner I’ve considered scientific, I wade the river at the first opportunity and fish my way down the far side of the Broken Banks Pool towards this now famously \u2018heaving\u2019 pool. In deference to Ois\u00edn, I’ve opted for a Black Pennell, about the size of his tiny killer fly. Just one, I don’t bother with a dropper. It\u2019s a single hook, so I think of Paddy nodding sagely. I apply a rub of quick-sink mud to the nylon, just to get it deeper that bit quicker. Though I’ve not seen even a suspicion of fish along the way, by the time I get to where the river quickens to the neck of the High Banks, I’ve mastered the breeze and am casting fairly well, all focus, treading the bank as softly as a shade. Mine is a high risk style of casting when water is low. No false casting, just pick a spot and try to get the fly there in one cast. Experience and today\u2019s reading of the river would have told me, without Ois\u00edn’s intelligence, that the fish must be lying under the far bank, where the water is deep, even now. The fly must land gently as close as possible to that bank. But whatever about precision, subtlety is a must. No point landing the fly in the right place with a splash. All this is tricky for a right-hander casting across and downstream with a single-handed rod when the river is flowing to the right and the breeze is blowing upstream. The fly must swim around before the noses of the fish who are facing the current, so that when it’s time to retrieve the line and cast again, a kind of back-hand action is required. Into the wind, tighten your loops – Paddy nods again. But all this has been practised on the previous pool and now I have a decent rhythm going. <\/p>\n

I’m just in the swing of things when Pip growls and my heart sinks at the sight of another angler walking upstream along the far bank towards us. After all my efforts at stealth, this clown is about to plod the turf directly above the fish. John Noel has told me all four rods are booked today, so if he\u2019s number three, who will be the last? Strangely, there’d been only Ois\u00edn\u2019s car when I arrived at the blue cottage. And this man hadn\u2019t passed me going downstream. What road did he come? Yet he\u2019s no farmer, at least not today. He\u2019s wearing thigh waders and wielding a fly rod. Bob mentioned an angler here last night who’d never resurfaced at the blue cottage, the only legitimate point of departure from the beat. And there was another day last month when a mysterious angler’d been seen disappearing into the bog. I try to focus on my casting and am relieved when he takes the higher path along the bank, away from the river. He stops at the neck of the pool.
\n– Any joy?
\n– No. I\u2019ve just got started. Yourself?
\n– No. The water\u2019s awful low. There was plenty in it yesterday.
\nHis complexion is ruddy and his accent local, unusual for anglers here.
\n– I met Ois\u00edn there a while ago with a fine grilse, do you know him?
\n– I don\u2019t. Was it a big fish?
\n– About six pounds. He says there\u2019s loads of them in this pool.
\nAs I speak, a decent fish breaks the surface about thirty yards downstream. We watch its ever-increasing ripples dissipate into the wash.
\n– Are you from around here?
\nPause.
\n– I\u2019m from Mulranney.
\n– Really? Where are you parked? I saw no car.
\nPause.
\n– I was dropped off.
\nSilence. The larks are impressive this morning. The sky over the mountains has darkened.
\n– Where are you from yourself?
\n– Galway.
\nIt comes on to rain, nothing heavy but something different, what brother Dec likes to call a \u2018potential trigger\u2019. My fly is landing nicely under the far bank now. I\u2019m not managing to get the line to turn it over exactly as I\u2019d like but at least the nylon is landing very gently, if in a bit of a coil. A bird’s nest, I hear Gerry Fitz say, “it landed in a bit of a bird’s nest”. So when it drops on the water, I tug gently to straighten the line, then let the current swim the fly back round. Another fish rises downstream. The Man From Mulranney is in the mood for a chat.
\n– Galway. What part?
\nI\u2019m in with a thump before I know it. The line takes on a life of it\u2019s own, tensing. So firm is the knocking that I resist striking the fish. Even if it\u2019s a trout he\u2019s hooked already, surely. I raise the rod, press the line to the butt with my finger and drop all the slack to the bank. All tightens and the rod bends as the fish heads for the bottom. A beautiful drug begins to course in my veins, but a command to attention rings out from within. I reel in the slack line and hold the bent rod high, nodding to The Man From Mulranney, indicating the take. He gestures as if striking a fish.
\n– And you wouldn\u2019t strike it?
\n– No.
\nThe fish takes off up the pool. Hard to know how big but surely a grilse. I allow him to take line off the reel, then tighten up its drag, careful to keep the tension decent. I\u2019ll be damned if I lose him for lack of vigilance. He stops mid-river. I reel him back towards me and he comes, reluctantly. Off he goes again, exacting line from my singing reel, to back under the far bank where I hooked him. We play this game a few times until he heads downstream so fast my reel sprays mist from wet line unspooling. I’ll not go chasing him. There are gorse bushes along the way to get snagged in and my rod is only eleven-foot. For as long as possible I’d like to control things from right here, so I don\u2019t budge, just up the drag on the reel which slows him again to a stop mid-river. By now I know he\u2019s not big. Pip takes a sudden interest when the fish leaps from the water and thrashes about, showing himself to be dead fresh, a bar of pure silver, then heads again for the sea. This time I loosen the drag and he stops, confusing, I imagine, the loss of tension with freedom and a chance to rest. I tighten up again quickly and haul him back, draining him of any hope. He shows a flank, so I ready the net from off my back, take the lucky stone from my waders pocket, drop it in to keep the mesh down, and lower the net gently in. Belly up, the fish drifts towards me.
\n– You\u2019re a cool man.<\/p>\n

If only The Man From Mulranney could know that this is my first fish this season and in all likelihood, my first grilse ever on this beat. I had forgotten about him but now the pressure is on. He is all eyes, admiring me like I do this every day before breakfast. I banish him again from my thoughts. Don\u2019t lose him at the net, don\u2019t go at him with it too soon. This is a fresh fish, full of energy. I back him slowly into the net, lift him to the bank and give thanks to all the gods, living and dead. I\u2019ve already decided that this fish has a future so I remove the fly quickly, take a snap with the phone and get him back in the water.
\n– You\u2019re putting him back?
\n– I am.
\nThe fish doesn\u2019t stir so I bring him up to fast water and try again, a finger and thumb of my right hand circling his wrist and my left supporting his breast. After a minute of drinking oxygen, I tickle his belly, away he swims and I am left to fist the air, in my mind, while The Man From Mulranney ponders my stupidity from the far bank.
\n– Congratulations.
\n– Thanks. That was my first this year. In fact, my first grilse ever on this stretch.
\nWhy am I telling him that? My first this morning would have been equally true.
\n– I\u2019ve had four spring salmon this year, two eight pound and two ten.
\nWhy don\u2019t I believe you? Though I\u2019d say you\u2019ve been here often enough and there have been a lot of fish about. But where do you hide the car? That I\u2019d love to know. Thirty six pounds of wild Atlantic salmon, gratis, and ape here paying seventy a pop for each blank day. It occurs to me that he’s standing there because he wants to fish this very pool, so etiquette prevailing over suspicion, I move off downstream to let him begin. <\/p>\n

I think of Ois\u00edn in his jacuzzi, full of breakfast, purring. Thanks for the tip, old-timer. I send the picture and a short text to a few. Bob replies instantly: \u201cFantastic, fair play in low water. Broke your duck.\u201d Then comes news from brother Dec at Salmon Central: \u201cNice trout! Any grilse?\u201d My learned kinsman is not one to drown in sentiment. He has, no doubt, enlarged the picture, examined the maxillary scissors, inspected the tail, counted the bleeding scales. Had Thomas not doubted back in the day, would we now have science? What matter, it was a fish. And if fish<\/em> was good enough for Jesus Christ, Son of God, Saviour, it’s good enough for moi. And such a beautiful, fresh fish. Easily three pounds, it had put up a great fight and was now safely back at work. We\u2019ll enjoy it as a grilse for now, thinks I, and let the brother later prove me wrong. I consider again Belacqua and his surprise at the fishmonger\u2019s expression.
\n– Lepping?
\n– Lepping fresh, sir, fresh in this morning.
\nTo what other creature than a fish would “lepping” be ascribed?<\/p>\n

I fish down the river slowly to the tail of the next long pool, but tiredness has caught up with me. Resting up, I pull the sandwiches from the back of my coat. Home-grown onions and mozzarella. Pip is all over me. Aithn\u00edonn mutso mozzarella<\/em>[2]<\/sup><\/a>. Curiously, she won\u2019t eat any of her own grub upriver, only bits of mine. It\u2019s a tacit contract. A couple of extra sliced pans a year is the net price of her unbending loyalty. I\u2019ll buy that. Again with the growling, though. This time I see three men in the distance making good headway down the opposite bank towards me. But who? Could they be The Man From Mulranney\u2019s family coming to fetch him later but to drown me first for turning him in. I\u2019d noticed him watching with interest as I texted and enjoyed his possible unease at what intelligence I was transmitting to whom. Pip is barking furiously when I recognize John Noel. I push her from the bank and the swift current soon sees to her barking. We cross back over.<\/p>\n

John Noel is showing two Frenchmen the beat. They’ll be fishing here in the afternoon. So there we have it, two and two – them, Ois\u00edn and myself. He congratulates me roundly on the fish. For years my lack of luck has earned his upbeat sympathy and now he seems relieved to say something fresh. His ears prick at the mention of The Man From Mulranney. They haven\u2019t seen him on their way downriver. How is that now? I left him only one pool up. They should have passed him.
\n– He shouldn\u2019t be here. What does he look like?
\n– Dark, straight hair, mid-fifties, I\u2019d say. Big. A fine, healthy rose of a man.
\n I mention that Bob met him here only last night. And he was there another day too, according to the Dooleys from Kildare. And never a car. John Noel puts his own two and two together but doesn\u2019t share the sum.
\n– I think I know where he\u2019s hiding the car. He\u2019s not afraid of a good walk, the same man. If you see him again will you give me a shout?
\nThey take a shortcut back across the bog and I head back up the riverbank, too tired now for unfamiliar shortcuts over the bog. <\/p>\n

At the High Banks Pool, I spy Ois\u00edn standing exactly where I stood when I hooked the fish. He’s casting beautiful long lines out under my near bank. I take care to walk it lightly, well back from the river.
\n– I heard the good news. Congratulations.
\n– Thanks. I was actually standing right there where you are when I hooked him.
\nSo who bore the good news? I don\u2019t ask. He may have just met John Noel on intersecting shortcuts. I\u2019m more interested in watching his casting.
\n– Well, you\u2019ve opened your account anyway. A grilse, was it?
\n– I thought so. But the brother thought it was a sea trout when I sent him a snap.
\n– Ah, it was a grilse surely. Did you release it?
\n– I did.
\n– Good man.
\nI have to smile. It’s not for nothing he’s known as the White Heron.
\n– But I have a picture on the phone.
\n– I might take a look at it later. What did I tell you, fish it from this bank.
\n– You were dead right.
\n– Look it, I\u2019m sixty-five years walking this earth and I can tell you that without doubt the most important thing when you\u2019re fishing for salmon is stealth. You see lads tramping up and down the bank here and leaping from one spot to another. Why jump when you can walk quietly?
\nHis line cuts an elegant set of arcs as he lifts it lightly from the surface, tosses it far and high over his shoulder and casts it perfectly from its apoge\u00e9 to where it alights somewhere under where I\u2019m standing, out of sight.
\n– Do you know the way, in a swimming pool, lads\u2019d be walking along the side and you\u2019d hear them, muffled like, but you know they\u2019re there. I\u2019ve seen it in a pool like this on a different river where the water is clear. I\u2019d be watching from high up. A lad\u2019d march along the bank and just like that a salmon at the neck of it’d tear back along the pool and all the fish go to the bottom. Honest to god. And they\u2019d stay there for half an hour at least. You wouldn\u2019t have a hope.
\n– I hear you. Until today I\u2019ve always fished this pool from this side.
\n– Well that might work for you in high water. Anything goes in a flood. And from that bank there at least you can let out a good long line. But in low water I only ever fish it from here. A salmon’ll never follow your fly from slack water into fast water, but he will follow from fast water into slack, do you get me?
\n– Really?
\n– Oh, indeed, yes. You see, the salmon in slack water and the salmon in fast water are two different fish. The lad in the slack water is lying on the bottom. The one in the fast water is on the fin. He\u2019ll follow your fly. I always cast into fast water when the water is low and let the fly come round.
\nHe reels in. I don\u2019t get it. He\u2019s only starting this pool. What\u2019s with the reeling in?
\n– Well, I\u2019ll leave you in peace.
\n– Don\u2019t mind me, I\u2019m heading back to the cottage for a kip. Fish away.
\n– Ah, now, it was hopping with them here this morning but they\u2019re all quiet now. They might have gone on up, even in this water. I\u2019ll leave you in peace and head on downstream.<\/p>\n

I wonder if The Man From Mulranney might have dropped a bomb in this pool after I\u2019d left. Or could it be that the fish are just no longer in the mood? If I could hook one here, surely Ois\u00edn would. And then it dawns on me that hunger for solitude is what\u2019s moving him on. Even with my departure, too many words have been uttered here too recently. <\/p>\n

As I get out of my waders at the blue cottage, the Frenchmen are donning theirs.
\n– Bonne chance.
\n– Merci.
\nIt\u2019s two pm. I set the phone for five thirty and fall onto a mattress. The alarm calls me forth just as the Frenchmen return.
\n– Peche?
\n– Non. No water. And ze…
\nHe suggests midges in the manner of one whose hair has been lit with petrol.
\n– Yes. Midges. They\u2019re fucking bastards.
\n– Pardon?<\/p>\n

At John Campbell\u2019s Rock I drop to my knees and sink my head in the cool water. Time to wake up and smell the fish. The plan has been hatched. Cross the river up here at the Junction Pool and fish all the pools down from the far side until we\u2019re limbered up and ready for another decent assault on the High Banks. Moving through the Wall Pool and the Broken Banks I\u2019m amazed at what a different river it is from the far side. Same landmarks, different experience. Same result, though – no fish. But pleasant. Just enough breeze to keep the midges in hiding. Bosa boga na gaoithe ag cuimilt mo leicne<\/em>[3]<\/sup><\/a>. The river has dropped off another foot since I bedded down so optimism is slightly on the wane. But optimism is a different creature when you’ve had one on the bank already. Cushioned by a little success, optimism never quite diminishes to pessimism, just less optimism. Keeping faith with the Black Pennell, I go for a smaller one again, a size sixteen. In deference to Ois\u00edn and his overtures on subtlety, I tie the fly with only four turns of the nylon. It\u2019s a light knot but it feels sound.<\/p>\n

By the time we get to the High Banks Pool, my mojo is back up and running. Pip is under orders to stay well back from the water. Long backhand casts are landing the fly just under the far bank. Again I’ve applied the quick-sink mud to the nylon. Again the bird’s nest, so again the wee tug after each cast. I\u2019m just surmising that I’m at the very spot where I hooked the fish this morning when the line knocks violently. And again. Hello! And again. Hallelujah. I raise the rod and kill the slack. The line tightens, the rod bends radically and the fish heads for the deeps. This is no trout. This is bigger. My heart whomps in its cage as I reel in the slack and get ready for battle. The fish takes off downstream, deep below the far bank. I try to deploy this morning’s tactics but have to concede to his strength and go with him, tightening the drag as I go. He doesn\u2019t take me as far as the dreaded gorse before I coax him back and retrace my steps. For ten minutes he moves over and back and only a little downstream, a game I\u2019m happy to play. He\u2019s bound to tire before me. Making a sudden dash upstream he leaps vertically, leaving the water entirely. The heart skips one whomp as I drop the tip of the rod \u2013 it’s no match for that dead weight in air. In that extended moment of zenith I see his eye and feel his fear like a dart. Does he see me? He plunges back into the wash and I raise the rod again fast, relieved to feel the tension renewed. As he thrashes about just below the surface I see my nylon scraping tight along his fins. I think of the knot and its four turns. The tiny fly. How can it hold? He must not be landed early, only when fully played out. He is by far the biggest fish I’ve ever hooked, surely eight or nine pounds. The kype tells me he’s a cock. Chivalry not required then, just you and me, mate. Between dives he’s beginning to show more on the surface and I can see he’s been in the river about a week. His spine and head have dulled slightly but the the flanks are still pure silver. He\u2019s well rested and full of fight. Only as he begins to show his belly do my thoughts turn to what to do if I land him. <\/p>\n

I think of Jeri, my sister-in-law in London, wedding next month. Have I not told her that the first decent salmon I might catch would be for her big day? That was the deal – she was to persuade Sadie to let me out fishing at every opportunity and I would do my best for her banquet. But is it fresh enough? After twenty-five minutes of nip and tuck, I ease him into the net and lift him out onto the bank. An absolute beauty. Certainly fresh enough for any table. Nine or ten pounds easy. I make the uneasy decision but having no priest to hand I quickly search the river bed for the right rock to administer the last rites, taking care not to disfigure his face. I whisper my silent apology. Take into the air my dying breath<\/em>…<\/p>\n

After the customary snap and text I rest on my knees, allow the heart to slow back down to workable, savour the gentle breeze and rejoice in the warbling larks. A sandpiper skims the black, glassy surface like a fighter plane, a dipper clings to rounded, submerged stones and swallows dart about in pursuit of flies. Life abounds around me. The fish twitches violently one last time, the shudder that takes it from flesh to meat. And now I hear more intensely the whorling and gurgling and trickling stream on its never-ending way to the sea, the river that contains all the sounds of the universe, the river you can never fish twice. \u00c9ist le fuaim na habhann ‘s gheobhfaidh t\u00fa breac<\/em>[4]<\/sup><\/a>.<\/p>\n

A low growl from Pip brings Ois\u00edn into view on the far bank.
\n– Well, any joy?
\n– Yes, in fact. I\u2019ve just landed this lad.
\nI proffer the catch.
\n– Ah, fair play to you. That\u2019s a decent fish. Nine pound I\u2019d say. In about a week. Where did you hook him?
\n– Right there, same spot as the sea trout this morning.
\nHow easy now to concede to science. Of course it was a sea trout. What the hell do I care?
\n– Really. Jaysus, isn\u2019t it a good spot so? Congratulations.
\n– He gave a great account of himself. I was nearly in him half an hour.
\n– I\u2019d say. He had a few days in it to draw breath. Bejayney, you\u2019re catching up with yourself today.
\n– I certainly am.
\n– Well, I\u2019ll leave you in peace.<\/p>\n

Pip is licking the fish, almost reverently. I whoosh her away and consider my options. It\u2019s just after eight and I feel I\u2019ve only begun. Wind down with a bit more fishing, then take the prize home \u2013 that sounds like a plan. I move downstream a bit as the fight must surely have disturbed the neck of the pool. A quick check of the fly and the nylon shows all to be still good. On the third cast, knock knock, who\u2019s there, whomp, and I\u2019m in again. <\/p>\n

The fight is like the last. This fish seems about as big and goes in for the same aeronautics. When he first shows a flank I see he’s a cock and fresh. Extremely fresh. Lepping. I keep a cool head and when I have him in the net, I note his sea lice with their tails still intact. So, fresh in this morning, just as the fishmonger said. Or, at least, fresh in from the sea this past twenty-four hours. What a fish! A great big bar of pure silver. I make the dreaded decision again. One of these salmon will add to the fish option on the wedding menu. Both would provide the entire option. This guy is a few inches shorter than his pal but fatter. I dispatch him quickly and consider this day of days. L\u00e1 d\u00e1r saol \u00e9<\/em>[5]<\/sup><\/a>. On the bank at my feet are two spring salmon bursting with life, even in death. Born within a mile or three and fledged locally for maybe as many years. Two further years and who knows how many thousands of miles at sea, only to come home to this sorry end. Fooled by pheasant tail tip on a hook and string. How will I square this away with Ted? He has me under strict injunction to kill no fish. The breeze has dropped and I am practically inhaling midges now. I’ll thrash that out later with Ted. He\u2019s not the boss of me! <\/p>\n

Now it’s time to quit and work fast. Thanking myself profusely for having kept an old bootlace in my pocket, I tie it around the wrists of both salmon, roughly eight inches between them, and hoist them over my right shoulder so that one hangs down my front, the other down my back. It\u2019s just a mile, I tell myself, just a mile. <\/p>\n

One carefully-negotiated, midge-blackened mile-and-a-half later, I arrive at the car. Within seconds, Pip growls and Ois\u00edn emerges from the river bank. He must have been following.
\n– Begob, you got another.
\nHe helps lift the burden from my shoulder and lays the fish out on the grass. The relief is immense, the lace has eaten into my shoulder.
\n– Fine fish. That second one is dead fresh. Where did you hook that lad?
\n– Only a few yards down from the other two. It\u2019s like a sacred spot or something.
\n– Well d\u2019ye know, I was thinking that that pool had filled with fresh fish and disturbed the residents. They were fighting for the lies. I thought that might be why the pool was so agitated with them.
\n– I feel kinda bad about killing the two but we’ve a wedding coming up and they\u2019d be perfect for it.
\n– Ah, sure aren\u2019t they your first decent fish in the place? You\u2019d have a right to take them with you. Jaysus but you came back in style, boy. Congratulations.
\nHe extends a hand warmly. I could hug him, clasp him to my breast with hoops of steel even, but it\u2019s not what we wild sportsmen do.
\n– I\u2019ll leave you in peace.
\nHe climbs into his jeep and rolls down the window.
\n– I got another one myself down below, about eight pound.
\nAnd then he’s gone, away from his T\u00edr na n\u00d3g<\/em>[6]<\/sup><\/a> and back to his chairs and tables and mattresses. A beautiful soul rinsed over by another day on the river, our very own Ballycroy Goldi. I cut the bootlace between the fish and remark that this is my first time ever leaving here, after a day\u2019s fishing, in daylight.<\/p>\n

Reading the scales at the blue cottage I’m surprised and delighted to see they are ten and a half pounds, the first one, and ten pounds even, the second. Holy Saint Anthony who preached to the fish, what a day! And who would have thunk it and the water so low? I wash each of them in the stream by John Campbell\u2019s Rock. Midges stick to them as I carry them towards the car. This is midge city, their hotspot. The phone rings. It has to be Bob but now is just not the time. The zealousness of his mission extends to assiduous monitoring of my time with his flock. He wants the details. I want to get to the car alive. With lips sealed, eyes squinting and arms hanging off me, I ease the fish onto the back of my jacket in the boot of the car, fire the rod and net any old way onto the back seat, leap in with the dog and turn on all fans to cold. A text comes in from brother Dec: \u201cScales in blue cottage bit dodgy, easy to misread too. U prob have ur own scales at home. Hard to tell from pic but they look at least 8 or 9. Well done.\u201d What I would not give to have directed the scene where his calibrated, minutely graduated, digital scales puts them at ten point five and eleven pounds, respectively, the very next day.<\/p>\n

For pure pig iron, I take the back road by Shean, searching out boreens and bog tracks where The Man From Mulranney might yet be parked behind a reek of turf, snoring like a sailor in his old Avenger, awaiting an ungodly hour to emerge and strike again. I take my hat off to his commitment, he certainly puts in the time and the hard yards. Descending the lonely road back into Ballycroy village, a text comes in from the abstruse brother: \u201c?enohpEYE ym tcelloc I od erehw dna nehw oS\u201d. This Father\u2019s Day is over.<\/p>\n

Notes<\/h5>\n

[1]<\/sup><\/a> Wild Sports of the West Of Ireland<\/em>, by William Hamilton Maxwell, 1832.<\/p>\n

[2]<\/sup><\/a> a play on “aithn\u00edonn c\u00edar\u00f3g c\u00edar\u00f3g eile<\/em>“, meaning “it takes one to know one” (literally, a beetle recognises another beetle – in this case, the dog recognises mozzarella!).<\/p>\n

[3]<\/sup><\/a> translates literally as “the soft palms of the breeze caressing my temples” from a poem by Ma\u00edrt\u00edn \u00d3 Dire\u00e1n (I think!).<\/p>\n

[4]<\/sup><\/a> an old Irish proverb which translates literally as, “listen to the sound of the river and you’ll get a trout.”<\/p>\n

[5]<\/sup><\/a> translates literally as \u201cIt was a day out of our lives\u201d \u2013 a phrase regarded by John McGahern as practically untranslateable into English, which recurs in Tom\u00e1s \u00d3 Criomhth\u00e1in\u2019s An t-Oile\u00e1nach (The Islandman).<\/p>\n

[6]<\/sup><\/a> The mythical land of eternal youth where the legendary Ois\u00edn spent nine hundred years before returning to Ireland on horseback and, upon his stirrup breaking, his foot touched the ground and he perished.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Upon the river’s bank serene, a fisher sat where all was green and looked it. He saw, when light was growing dim, a fish – or else the fish saw him – and hooked it. He took, with high erected comb, the fish – or else the story – home and cooked it. Recording angels […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":246,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[351,354],"tags":[355],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\nUpon the River's Bank Serene - The Manchester Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=9438\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Upon the River's Bank Serene - The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Upon the river’s bank serene, a fisher sat where all was green and looked it. He saw, when light was growing dim, a fish – or else the fish saw him – and hooked it. He took, with high erected comb, the fish – or else the story – home and cooked it. Recording angels […]\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=9438\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2018-06-29T17:32:07+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2018-07-04T08:59:22+00:00\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"\u00c9amon Little\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"\u00c9amon Little\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"35 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=9438\",\"url\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=9438\",\"name\":\"Upon the River's Bank Serene - The Manchester Review\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#website\"},\"datePublished\":\"2018-06-29T17:32:07+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2018-07-04T08:59:22+00:00\",\"author\":{\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#\/schema\/person\/0bfd37cec8625f373facbcc5e4f28ec5\"},\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=9438#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=9438\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=9438#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"Upon the River’s Bank Serene\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#website\",\"url\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/\",\"name\":\"The Manchester Review\",\"description\":\"The Manchester Review\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":\"required name=search_term_string\"}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#\/schema\/person\/0bfd37cec8625f373facbcc5e4f28ec5\",\"name\":\"\u00c9amon Little\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/wp-includes\/images\/blank.gif\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/wp-includes\/images\/blank.gif\",\"caption\":\"\u00c9amon Little\"},\"description\":\"\u00c9amon Little is a young author living with his wife and teenage children in rural Galway in the west of Ireland. He writes screenplays and makes film and radio documentaries.\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?author=246\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"Upon the River's Bank Serene - The Manchester Review","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=9438","og_locale":"en_US","og_type":"article","og_title":"Upon the River's Bank Serene - The Manchester Review","og_description":"Upon the river’s bank serene, a fisher sat where all was green and looked it. He saw, when light was growing dim, a fish – or else the fish saw him – and hooked it. He took, with high erected comb, the fish – or else the story – home and cooked it. Recording angels […]","og_url":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=9438","og_site_name":"The Manchester Review","article_published_time":"2018-06-29T17:32:07+00:00","article_modified_time":"2018-07-04T08:59:22+00:00","author":"\u00c9amon Little","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"\u00c9amon Little","Est. reading time":"35 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=9438","url":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=9438","name":"Upon the River's Bank Serene - The Manchester Review","isPartOf":{"@id":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#website"},"datePublished":"2018-06-29T17:32:07+00:00","dateModified":"2018-07-04T08:59:22+00:00","author":{"@id":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#\/schema\/person\/0bfd37cec8625f373facbcc5e4f28ec5"},"breadcrumb":{"@id":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=9438#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-US","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=9438"]}]},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=9438#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"Upon the River’s Bank Serene"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#website","url":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/","name":"The Manchester Review","description":"The Manchester Review","potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":"required name=search_term_string"}],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"Person","@id":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#\/schema\/person\/0bfd37cec8625f373facbcc5e4f28ec5","name":"\u00c9amon Little","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/wp-includes\/images\/blank.gif","contentUrl":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/wp-includes\/images\/blank.gif","caption":"\u00c9amon Little"},"description":"\u00c9amon Little is a young author living with his wife and teenage children in rural Galway in the west of Ireland. He writes screenplays and makes film and radio documentaries.","url":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?author=246"}]}},"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p2PuXo-2se","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9438"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/246"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=9438"}],"version-history":[{"count":17,"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9438\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":9671,"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9438\/revisions\/9671"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=9438"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=9438"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=9438"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}