We all get them, those days when nothing goes right. Last Monday was just such a day for me when a bad day and work spilled over into an equally poor session on the bank.
I woke before the alarm, not an unusual occurrence for me but one which shortens an already insufficient night of sleep. Once behind the wheel I was buffeted by high winds, something the elderly Toyota does not handle too well. The journey across a slumbering Ireland felt normal enough but once at work my world began to spiral into a pit of intractable problems. I only work two days per week, which sounds great but the days when I am not there allow any small issues to ferment into major difficulties. Now I was plunged into a maelstrom of broken down machines, disgruntled staff, lost production, irate customers and questions from every angle which required the diplomacy of an international peace keeper. That would all be grand except I had wall to wall meetings all day, so I was trying to sort out the problems as I sat in on ‘Teams’ calls or while sitting around meeting room tables in deep discussions. Some resolutions were found but by the end of the frustrating and testing day I felt like I had fought 10 rounds with Iron Mike Tyson and would have to face the same ordeal the next day.
To cap it all, intricate plans to fish a new venue had to be scrapped due to the howling winds. Glances out of the window over the course of the morning revealed trees bent over by a gusting southerly and after lunchtime the already grim situation was compounded by pouring rain. I caught up with John, who was going to show me this new spot on the Shannon, as he was exiting the building. ‘No fishing this evening!’ he shouted, turning his collar up against the storm. It would be an hour later before the last of my meetings petered out and I was free to go and brood in my digs, most likely still tapping the keyboard of my work laptop. No, I needed to lift myself from this mire so I’d go fishing on my own, despite the foul weather. I convinced myself that Micky’s Hole should be fishable in this wind, so off I went down wet and leaf strewn byroads, the Toyota being tossed like a small boat at sea. once again.
Micky’s Hole is a well know backwater of the Shannon which is heavily fished by locals. In the winter, the mighty river floods and this backwater becomes just another channel, but by summer it is an appendix, joined to the main river by a narrow cut. Reeds and lilies surround the water, making access a bit tricky but there are always a few coarse fish swimming around in the hole to make the effort of clearing a swim worthwhile.
Bumping down the heavily rutted tractor boreen, I parked at the end and set up my gear. Thankfully, the rain stopped, allowing me to munch a much needed sandwich as I sorted myself out. Over a sort of rough stile and across one field lay the hole and I reconnoitred the eastern shore which has a little bit of cover from the wind in the shape of a tangled thicket of bushes and small trees. Trampled reeds showed where someone else had fished recently leaving me only to tackle the ten yards of lily pads before I could cast. I got to work at once, tossing the rake out and dragging it back time and time again. Broad dark green leaves and thick, ruddy stems took a bit of effort to cut and it was maybe twenty minutes later before I had dredged a rough gap of clear water in the pads. Ground bait, mixed and formed into balls, were lobbed in before my first cast. It was about here that my bad day got worse.
These days I generally know what I am doing when it comes to coarse fishing in my part of Ireland. I am no expert, but I have found some very basic set ups which usually produce a few fish. For some inexplicable reason, I chose this session, in very poor conditions, to try something new. Even now, writing this the next day, I can’t figure out why I did not just stick to my usual set up. After all, I came to try and relax, not give myself even more heartache. Anyway, from the multicoloured selection of floats in my box I picked out and rigged a Polaris waggler. For those unfamiliar with this design, the Polaris as a sliding float which allows you to fish in deep water. The secret to the design is on the bottom of the float which looks like a solid tube. Closer inspection reveals two holes, one larger than the other (one for light lines and the other for heavier nylon). With five pound mono on my reel I selected the smaller hole and threaded on the float before adding heavy bulk shot above a five inch hook link to a size 12 spade end hook. In operation, you cast out the float and feed it slack line. The float initially disappears but the slack line allows it to rise up to the surface. When that happens the angler tightens the line, thus setting the float at the desired depth. Sounds very straightforward, doesn’t it?
Casting out, the float vanished and I fed loose line as prescribed. The minutes passed but the float didn’t pop back up. Two more casts produced similar problems, but with the added fun of the main line catching on lily pads because the wind whipped the slack away. On the fourth cast all went well and the float rose majestically through the surface and allowed me to tighten down on it in textbook fashion. I even had a bite and landed a small perch. OK, things are looking up I thought, but that wind rose to new hights now and the fishing became a farce. My line was swept around, catching it on every reed or pad around me every time I cast. The float usually failed to surface, necessitating frequent casts. On the rare occasions when all went well I found spotting bite very hard as the tip of the float was in near constant motion due to the back eddies driven by the wind. Twice I snapped off when the hook caught on debris on the bottom and lost count of the number of tangles I managed to engineer when casting. On the last snap off I reached into my rig box and found a replacement hook length which was tipped with a suspiciously thick looking size 12 hook. I tied it on anyway, thinking I had more to worry about than the gauge of wire used to make my hook, but that too was a mistake. Nicking maggots on to thick wire hooks is a losers game and all I did was heap further misery on myself as I burst maggot after maggot when rebaiting. The rain started again (of course), adding a further layer of discomfort. To say I was fishing badly was a huge understatement.
A local farmer came over for a chat. Coming across the fields to check stock, he had spotted me earlier as I was raking the swim and presumed I was magnet fishing. Once I had explained my odd actions we got to putting the world to rights. Climate change, the loss of wildlife, kids these days, the price of everything and the value of nothing. You know, the usual ranting of the older generation. I didn’t catch his name but it was another of those chance encounters with one of life’s gentleman which I so enjoy. With a wave of his hand he was off, striding across his land and back in time for dinner with ‘the wife’.
Amid all these shenanigans I was actually catching the odd fish. A smallish hybrid was followed some time later by a roach. A lengthy and troubled gap ensued before a lovely rudd took the maggots on the drop. Before the end of the session a shoal of roach settled in the swim and I landed maybe half-a-dozen of these 6 ounces fish, but that was after the change in tackle.
Somewhere around 8.30pm I finally bit the bullet and cut off the Polaris and the meat hook on the end. Starting from scratch again I threaded on a bodied waggler with a very fine tip. This would give me greater stability in the high and variable wind. A 4 pound hook length with a fine wire size 14 spade end was then attached loop to loop with bulk shot at the join. Plumbed up and hook baited, I resumed casting. As the evening had advanced the horrid wind began to drop, almost imperceptibly at first but as the minutes passed I could sense the change around me. It felt much better, maybe because the wind was dropping but more likely because I felt I was fishing better now I was back on a traditional waggler set up.
Nine bells came and went and the fishing was settling into a pattern of a bite or a fish roughly every second or third cast but I was tiring fast now. Being awake since 3am, driving half way across the country, a rough day at work and now an evening on the bank to forget were all taking their toll and so I packed up despite the improved conditions. Part of me wanted to hang on for a while longer in the not unreasonable expectation that the tench would wake up as the light faded, but with a 30 minute drive to my digs ahead of me I decided against it. I was so weary that once I had packed everything up and scanned the area one last time I failed to see my rake and began to plod off across the field. A final glance over my shoulder luckily located said rake lying forlornly in the long grass. How I missed it when tidying up is a bit of a worry, the yellow cord stood out like a sore thumb on the ground but my tired eyes didn’t register it. Duly recovered, I cleaned off the last strands of weeds from the rusty tines and tucked it into my box before turning for home once again.
Back at the car, I divested myself of the outer layer of waterproofs and had just loaded the rods into the car when the rain came again, this time in prodigious quantities. The Yaris bounced along the track as I thanked my lucky stars I had quit when I did, any later and I would have been soaked to the skin. Darkness had fallen by the time I drew up outside my digs, weary and very hungry by then. My landlady is a lively and chatty woman in her late seventies who is always on the go. Out visiting family, she had left a freshly baked apple tart for me on the kitchen table, an uplifting end to a tough day!
It is 24 hours later and I am still trying to figure out how I managed to be so stupid the last evening on Micky’s Hole. My decision making was awful and then my execution of even the most basic techniques was abysmal. I am sure I have fished worse, but I can’t recall when. I won’t dwell on these lapses, we all have off days and I guess they just make us appreciate the good days all the more. These Monday evening sessions are rapidly dwindling, both in terms of the length of each session as the day shorten and in the number still available to me. By the end of September it won’t be worthwhile trying to sandwich in a session between the end of the working day and nightfall. Not to worry, there is always Margaret’s home baking to look forward to.
Claretbumbler 