Raindrops keep falling……..

Those of a certain vintage will recall a French singer called Sasha Distel and his hit ‘Raindrops keep falling on my head’. He was never off the telly when I was a kid. I thought of that ditty as I sat on the edge of a river today……………….

The weather has been alternating between heavy rain and dry spells with light winds and cold, foggy days. Maybe not the most auspicious conditions for fishing, but beggars can’t be choosers in the winter time and with ‘light rain’ forecast for today I decided to spend a couple of hours on a local river. The Lung meanders through the pasturelands of western edge of county Roscommon and has a reputation for good coarse fishing. Not fancying a long drive, I settled on a stretch of the river not too far from the sleepy village of Ballaghaderreen. I am sure some of you readers have experience of this river, but this would be a first for me, so expectations were limited.

Lough Urlar is where the river Lung begins and from there it flows for about 20 miles to Lough Gara, passing through three smallish loughs and even disappearing underground for a mile or so along the way. It’s had a bit of a chequered history with pollution causing fish kills in the past and the usual problems due to arterial drainage schemes. The bogs through which the river flows have been worked out leaving a moonscape of brown land which is slowly recovering as plants self seed. A few stands have been built for anglers and there are some car parks for easy access. In many ways it is strange that I have never fished this river before. I cross it numerous times every year, heading for far flung venues in the midlands or even further afield. If I make more of an effort on this (relatively) close it could become one I visit very often.

I brought along a couple of rods and some bait. Remarkably, I still have some maggots left over from previous sessions, not many mark you, but enough for a couple of hours fishing. Target species would once again be the elusive roach, although I suspected perch and skimmers would likely be present too. The Lung used to be a noted bream river, but that was long ago and I have not heard much about bream there for many years.

Weather wise, this would be a damp outing. The lingering cold spell shows no immediate signs of leaving us, and the rain just added to the chilly feeling. If you can’t face getting wet then living in the west of Ireland is not going to suit you. Waterproof outer layers save you from the worst of the rain but cold water sneaks in sooner or later. I was under no illusions I’d remain dry today but that is just part of Irish angling.

I parked up in a rough, muddy layby then lugged all my gear to the furthest away of three wooden stands. Water levels have gone down a bit over the last few days, leaving a filthy black mess of smelly gunge on the boards. Slippery and stinking, this spot would just have to do me. The rain was steady but not too heavy to begin with and I tackled up the feeder rod first with a small maggot feeder and a size 12 hook loaded with mixed red and white maggots. The river here was roughly 20 yards wide with the main current flowing close to the far bank. I lobbed the feeder close to my bank then got the float rod set up. The stick float I had used the other day did sterling work, so I kept it on for this session. Plumbing up showed roughly 5 feet of water in front of me, so I set the float to that as a starting point. Over the coming hours the float would be moved frequently.

This time I brought some ground bait with me and a couple of small balls were chucked in while I was setting up, then I began to trickle in a pinch of maggots with each cast. Trees on my bank limited the length of trot a bit, but I was still able to control the float as far as thirty yards down the river. So there I was, hunched against the rain, glued to the wee orange dot that was the tip of the stick float and trotting happily, if unproductively.

Around an hour passed with not so much as a nibble. I tried further up river, around a bend where the flow was a tad faster, but that proved to be equally fruitless. Returning to the stand, the rain became heavier, the only positive being the lack of wind. I fed and trotted different lines, starting close in and working my way further out. One small bite (missed), was followed by a second (missed) that was a closer to me. Were some roach moving into the swim at last? I hit on the idea of feeding right in front of me where a back water swirled right under the tip of my rod. Throwing in some maggots, I almost lowered my float into the back water but there was no response. Maybe I was fishing to high now? I plumbed up and sure enough, there was some sort of a hole in the bottom there, so I slid the float up a bit then cast again.

A few casts and more maggots later, the float dipped and I was into a roach at long last. Not a big one, but I took a photo of it in case this would be my only fish of the session. Pinch of maggots, back in with the float and hey presto! another bite (missed). Fresh maggots on the hook, back in again and another bite which turned out to be another small roach. And so it went on for a while. The bites were good strong pulls and after my initial fluffing of a few bites I was hooking them well. The rain was very heavy by now, water dripping off all my tackle and pooling on my seat.

The maggots were running out fast, what between hook bait and feeding the swim. One white and one red impaled on the size 16 fine wire spade end seemed to be the most effective, but single reds worked just fine too. Between the rain, handling the maggots, rolling small balls of ground bait, unhooking fish and the slime on the stand, I was becoming filthier with every passing minute. I had hopes of bumping into some good fish on this river, but all I could manage were the usual 4 to 10 ounce roach. I didn’t mind, after a very slow start I was only delighted to be having some sport.

After about a dozen fish I considered packing it in. I had caught a few, proved a point and was just getting cold and wet now. But there must be some kind of personality flaw we anglers suffer from, an inability to see sense when the fish are biting. Even though the water had now discovered a way inside my waterproof trousers, I gritted my teeth and carried on. It was not as if I was hauling out monsters, these were your run-of-the-mill roach. I tried to convince myself the rain would ease off soon and stuck manfully to the task in hand. Only when I had banked 36 fish did I call it a day, breaking down the rods and splashing back to the car along the path which now resembled a stream. Car loaded, I sat in the drivers seat with the engine and heater on, eating my sandwiches which had been left in the dry rather than eat them soggily on the river bank. Hands beginning to thaw, I headed back home. The rain did stop about ten miles from Castlebar and Helen told me they hardly had any rain all day!

With the gear indoors and now drying out I can reflect on the session today. I had intended to fish with bread, but piss poor planning on my part meant there was not much bread in the house and with maggots available I did not bother going to the shops to buy a loaf. It tool me a long time to draw some fish into the swim, maybe that is normal or perhaps I need to work on my ground baiting. While hardly an epic outing, I am happy enough with a dozen roach on such a miserable day.