My initial thoughts for fishing today were centred around tench, meaning a long trip to the Irish midlands. I hummed and hayed about where to go and how long it would take me, before dropping the idea and finding some fishing closer to home for a few hours. Even though I have not been fishing much, I have been in ghillieing a boat for many days recently so I wanted somewhere I was on dry land for a change. In the end I decided on a couple of hours on lough Bunnaveela, trying to fool the small but feisty wild brown trout in there.
When looking out a fly rod I happened upon an old Hardy rod which I broke many years ago. Why was it still in the rack with the other rods? I opened the tube and took out the rod, to find it was still in usable condition. Now this has me a bit worried as I can clearly remember breaking this rod when fishing by the ‘bundle of rocks’ in Victoria Bay on lough Conn. It snapped just below the joint on the middle section when casting and was consigned to a pile of bits and bobs which I might (or might not) get around to fixing. Why then was this middle section looking OK? Had I bought a replacement section and forgotten about it? There was no sign of a repair, nor indeed of a breakage, so what is going on here? I stowed the rod away again, not wanting to think too deeply what this meant for my failing memory. I found the actual rod I wanted and scuttled out of the fishing room in haste to get outdoors before any further doubts about my sanity surfaced.
The road to Bunnaveela is lovely, picture postcard Ireland. Up along the shore of Lough Beltra, rippled by a west wind, then skirting the foot of Nephin, its top shrouded in thick mist. At Keenagh junction I swept left and into the high hills, the road twisting and narrowing with every passing mile. The lough comes into view through the mist, set like a diamond amid the rough greens and purples of the land. A white car with Dublin plates was parked in the tiny layby and I could only just squeeze the Ford in behind it. Rain hammered down, so I sat for a few minutes to let it ease before getting out and stretching. The air was sweet and cool after the clamminess of the car, it was time to be about my business.
I set up the eleven footer with my old Roddy reel and a 6 weight floating line. On the leader I tied a Bibio, a Grouse-hackled Ke-He and a Silver Invicta, all dressed on size 12 hooks. With the wind coming from the west I started along the road shore, wading a few feet out on the slippery bottom then casting across the wind. A trout rose to me on the very first cast but I missed it. A dozen cast later the same thing happened. At least the fish were responding to one of the flies as they both came at the Bibio. In the distance I could see the owner of the white car casting from the first point, so I decided to head over there.
Wading the exit river and then one of the many feeder streams, I met up with the angler and we chatted about the fishing for a while. An experienced chap, John has fished these parts for decades and knows Bunnaveela well. He had risen lots of trout so far but only landed a couple. The wind had by now dropped to next to nothing and the midges came out in force. John pointed out the fish were lying a bit out from the gravelly shore and he had been moving them to a Black Pennel. I suggest he keep fishing and I would head further on but he said he was packing up soon and I could fish the stretch of bank we were both stood on. John moved a hundred yards away and later saw him land another trout.
It’s June and the weed growth has reached all the way to the surface in many areas. Casts were made and the flies found berths in the weeds, so I had to pull them in, clean off the weeds and start again. This was getting monotonous, but by moving further to my right I found clear water and easy casting. Trout began to rise to my flies, but hooking them was another thing. Maybe smaller flies would be the answer? Off came the three starters and I also removed one of the droppers on the leader, turning it into a 2 fly cast. A size 14 Black Pennel went on the bob and a Pearly Claret Bumble occupied the tail position. More casts, more rises and 2 trout hooked but lost. Finally, one stuck and a tiny brown came to hand. It had taken the Pennel. I fished on, the wind rising and then falling away, the showers of rain doing likewise. Larks songs filled the grey air and I lost myself in the joy of being out on a day such as this.
The offers dried up a bit so I changed the flies again, this time going for a size 14 Green Peter on the bob while a Coch-y-Bondhu was given a chance on the tail. The Peter looked new, but that Coch was very, very old. I must have tied it back in Scotland, and most probably while I was at school! Despite the years, the wee Coch was grabbed by a trout and successfully landed. It repeated the feat 20 minutes later. The trout were holding about 20 yards out from the bank, thus requiring a respectable cast on my part just to reach them. It was lovely fishing, the sailed on the breeze, flies twitched back through the small waves tempted many strikes but they all came short or fell off when they felt the metal of the hook. Two hours passed in a jiffy and then it was time to head back home, retracing my steps to the car then taking it handy on the wet tarmac back the twenty odd miles to town.
Three small trout sounds like a poor day but it was far from that. Walking the rough shores of Bunnaveela, casting a team of wets and ‘belonging’ out there in the moorland was a tonic for my soul. Ok, so I got a bit damp amd the midges feasted on my exposed skin each time the wind dropped, but it is sessions like this which live long in the memory. There will come a day when I am not able to fish, maybe confined to a bed at the end of my days, but I will always have the memory of my fishing, of the lark’s song rising and falling over the lonesome lough, high in the hills of west Mayo.
Claretbumbler 