Mississippi Fred McDowell wrote the blues standard ‘You got to move’ in the mid-sixties and it was famously covered by the Rolling Stones on their Sticky Fingers album. It was one of the first blues songs I learned to butcher on the guitar and it remains a favourite of mine. Todays tale from the waterside shows that the sentiment holds good not just in America’s deep south .
It has been a crazy couple of days in the bumbler household. Plans of mine to fish somewhere on Friday fell asunder when Helen announced she had to drop off paintings at a gallery in Westport (not too bad) and Boyle (a fair old trek away). So the rods, reel etc came out of the car and the paintings were loaded up. With Westport done, she had some paperwork to do before we set off for the charming town of Boyle in county Roscommon. This pause between road trips gave me the time to plot an alternative angling trip. Once the painting of the foxes was left in Boyle, I drove the scant few kilometres to Carrick-on -Shannon and bought a pint of maggots. The journey home saw the clouds getting darker and darker as we approached Castlebar and the storm broke just as I was picking up some provisions at the local Tesco. Thunder, lightening and a monsoon of hail/rain left me soaked to the skin by just running across the car park. Maybe fishing the next day was not such a good idea?
7am, the alarm buzzes and I peek out of the bedroom window. The trees in the garden are bent by the wind but it is not raining too heavily so I decide to chance it and packed the gear (which had all been removed this time yesterday) back into the car. Exactly where to go was a vexing question, I didn’t fancy driving too far but then again I would like to have a chance of catching a few fish. Torn between two options I settled on Cloondra, and headed east into yet more rain. It fairly lashed for most of the journey but thankfully the clouds lifted as I crossed the Shannon.
The harbour was full of boats and all I could do was shoehorn myself between two craft, but there was little room to manoeuvre. The rain crept across the nearby river, dampening everything I touched as I set up the rods. Mixing the dregs of three bags of groundbait I chucked three balls in a couple of rod lengths out. That old 12 foot feeder rod soon launched a 30 gram black cap maggot feeder out into the middle of the harbour, red maggots on a size 18 hook on the end. A loaded crystal waggler, shotted to sink slowly and another size 18 hook plumbed to lie on the bottom was soon in the water too and I settled back to see what would happen.
The wind had until now been a minor irritation, ruffling the surface but no more than that. But not long after I started it began to rise, building quickly from the west. A small roach pulled the waggler under on the third cast, saving the blank if nothing else. I fed the swim with more groundbait and loose maggots, while the feeder was frequently cast out to the same spot 30 yards out. A nice hybrid rattled the float but it threw the hook just as I was sliding it to the net. A good solid perch was next to bite and this time I managed to hang on to it. But that was pretty much it for the next half an hour. Mississippi Fred’s words were ringing in my head. Was it time to move?
Cloondra is nestled on the banks of not just the canal, but also the Camlin river and I figured the river might be a bit more lively. Two trips across the bridge with all the gear saw me perched atop the fine stone wall below the lock, my only concern being the ten foot drop to the water. That damn wind continued to strengthen, blowing hard now and gusting almost directly downstream. Placing the feeder down and across the river, I fished the float right in front of me in four feet of brown water. Although this is a river the flow is minimal, so the waggler fished just fine. A solid thump on the feeder rod resulted in a nice hybrid. It was only when I had the fish below me that I found out my net handle was too short and it took some mighty contortions to guide the fish into the meshes. Suitably embarrassed, I traipsed back to the car where a longer telescopic handle resides in the boot. I fished on for a bit but was struggling in the wind, so I decided to make yet another move. Below where I was there is a tiny swim tucked away in the trees. Much more sheltered, it seemed to offer a more comfortable billet, so I set up in the greenery and fed the new swim. Given the closeness of the trees, casting was limited and all I could manage was to flick the float out a few yards. The feeder made it out some yards below me, no more. The wind raged but in this nook I was comfortable and warm.
The first signs of life were a wee roach on the float rapidly followed by a lovely hybrid to the feeder. More hybrids followed, solid fish that pulled hard when they felt the hook. A couple of perch showed up and a final roach as well. It was not hectic, there were gaps between bites, but it was lovely fishing. I was in a little world of my own there in the trees, concentrating hard on placing casts correctly, feeding as required and playing fish without disturbing the swim. A jack pike made a lunge at one of the roach but missed, later on a hybrid was not so lucky and it was ripped off the hook by another jack. Nature, red in tooth and claw!
Maybe it was due to more pike coming into the swim but it all went quiet and I decided to call it a day ay 2pm. The final tally was 3 roach, 3 perch and 7 hybrids. None would have been more than a pound and a half, but I had the kind of session we anglers dream of. I lost count of the times I adjusted float depth, fed the swim to try and hold fish and all the other little jobs that make a day on the bank so absorbing. The problems of the world were forgotten for those hours by the water.
Given the number of pike this river holds I’ll be tempted to fish for jacks here in the colder months. Before then though I might sneak another session or two with the feeder, this time being better prepared for the hybrids. I have landed decent bream from the Camlin in the past, so they could be a target for me too. I’m glad I moved around today and found a few fish. I tip my hat to the esteemed Mr McDowell, he was damn right.
Claretbumbler 