With the bulk of the house renovations completed I am now busy painting. Every square inch of the buildings, inside and out, have to be painted. This not an inconsiderable job and one which will take time. Prepping the walls, ceilings, doors and woodwork is a sizeable task on its own and that’s before I even begin to wield roller and brush. I have made a start and got a fair bit done over the past few days, nothing like what I had hoped but given my one-armed limitations I am happy enough with progress. All my mates have been fishing while I’ve been splattering myself, the floor and the cats with emulsion, some with reasonable success. I was itching to get out.
I missed two calls but found his text about lunchtime when I had stopped to clean a brush and check both phone and emails. Would I do a bit of trolling on Conn that evening? I queried his sanity as outside the torrential rain had turned the garden into little more than a swamp. He assured me all forecasts were indicating a change to dry weather at teatime. Ben would handle the boat and any heavy lifting so there was little risk to my sore arm. 6pm was agreed as a reasonable time to head off and so I looked out a rod plus a few lures. It would do me good to spend some time on a boat for the first time in many weeks even if the chances of meeting a salmon were low. All afternoon the rain pelted down from an angry sky as I worked on, the only break coming when I had to chase off one of the cats who managed to get covered in white paint.
The allotted hour came and we set off for Brown’s Bay, the rain having eased off to a fine mist which steamed above the sodden fields. The brown boat was half filled with water and we both went at it with buckets, he with both hands flinging it hard over his shoulder, me daintily dipping a smaller receptacle into the warm contents with my one good hand. By the time we were loaded up the air was dry and a steady north wind ruffled the surface of the lough. The tiny stream which trickles into the mouth of the bay was a raging torrent, washing debris into the the lake, a testament to the days prolific downpours. Surely the rising water levels would excite any salmon around? Full throttle, bouncing across the waves until we reaching the point where Ben cut to trolling speed and the let the baits off behind us. Since we would be concentrating on fairly small areas there would be a lot of turns to make and experience tells us that both rods using the same baits cuts tangles dramatically. Hence our agreement to opt for 12 gram Toby spoons, his a much worn silver and copper, mine a copper smash, both stamped out of Swedish metal in the ’70’s.
I understand the reasons why many anglers hate trolling, I used to be one of their number. Boring, no skill, unproductive – the list is lengthy when it comes to dislikes of trailing baits behind a slowly moving boat. If my fishing was confined to just trolling I doubt if I’d bother, but as a change it holds a particular charm for me. At least part of the attraction is that it requires a low level of concentration, the opposite to other forms of fishing I partake in. Having said that, it requires other skills and knowledge if you are going to be successful. Knowing where the fish lie and different times of the year, at various water levels and temperatures for example. The tackle industry has provided us with incalculable numbers of baits in rainbows of colours and ranging in size from miniscule to feet in length. Some float, other dive to the depths, they wriggle or swing or perform other crazy action on the water. Then there is the boat handling element too. While I frequently troll on my own it is a lovely way to fish when others are in the boat with you.
The rain came back briefly, a heavy downpour of numbingly cold water which lasted for about twenty minutes, enough time for an inch to accumulate in the bottom of the boat until we bailed it out. After that the clouds gradually lifted a little and we even had glimpses of the westering sun for the last hour. Up by the sandbar a trout grabbed my Toby, just a three-quarter pounder, mercifully lip hooked on one point of the treble. I was so keen to get him back in the water quickly I forgot to take a picture, so you will just have to trust me that I did land something, even if it was not the intended species. Of the salmon there was little sign. Ben spotted two grilse jump in the distance and we nipped over there to run the spoons over them but they could have been in the next parish by then. The lonesome brownie was the only action we had for the evening.
By nine thirty we both felt we had given it our best and we headed back to base with the following wind smoothing the journey over the grey waves. Ben will hit the Moy this week, I’ll return to my paintbrushes. Three scant hours on the lake are not enough to appease my hunger for the fishing but it will have to do for now. Us anglers spend our lives balancing our fishing with the rest of our ‘normal’ commitments. This year this list of commitments grew exponentially and fishing got squeezed out, making even a short evening session valuable to me beyond others comprehension. My arm ached last night when I got home but it was worth it. I know my limitations and just how far I can push myself without risking further injury, and with Ben taking the lead I was free to just sit there and fish. It felt strange holding back from the usual tasks. Lifting the heavy engine on or off the boat, heaving and straining to get her off the shore, furiously bailing heavy buckets of water – I avoided them all and let my mate do the hard work. This desertion of duties will pay off in the long run but I feel useless for now.
All my local rivers are high today and this has the feeling of ‘make or break’ for the season. Nobody can recall a worse spring for the fishing around these parts. Hopefully, salmon, grilse and sea trout will enter our rivers now and put bends on anglers rods for a change.
Claretbumbler 