There are a lot of them around here. Nameless bodies of water which pepper the pancake flat boglands of east Mayo and across the border into Roscommon. They probably do have ancient Irish names but these are long forgotten or only spoken of softly by the old people of the immediate locale. Nobody in their right mind fishes them, these bog holes. Every now or then I think about wetting a line in the Guinness coloured waters but then I defer to the delights of the big lakes and the lusty trout therein. Maybe it is just that I have more time on my hands now but something changed this summer and I decided to try my luck one of these loughs with no name.
R375 links the town of Swinford and the small village of Kilkelly, worming its way across the blanket bog, past deserted homesteads who’s folk long ago left these shores for the bright lights of ‘merica or the Antipodes. White vans now speed over the rough tarmacadam, passing out the inevitable Massey Fergussons replete with trailer and compulsory monochrome sheepdog. Otherwise, this is a lonely and dreary landscape which could be anywhere outside of the Pale. A few times each day jets cross over as they take off or land at Knock International airport which is perched precariously on top of a low hill nearby. Anyone unfamiliar with Knock airport should read up about its creation, led by the redoubtable and ‘cute’ Fr. Horan. Being ‘cute’ is a highly valued trait here and the late priest had ‘cuteness’ in abundance as he demonstrated by running rings around the authorities who had no idea how to cope with this energetic and driven man. The resultant airport is indispensable to the local economy and, as someone who spent far too much of his life shuttling through airports around the world, is one of the best in Europe. Fast, friendly, efficient and a decent pint of porter in the bar to boot.
The townlands of Midfield, Treanlaur and Tullynahoo lies to the west of a lake no bigger than a football pitch. I picked this one for a short session simply because it was accessible, unlike so many which are a long way out across the squelching, sucking bog. Turning off the main road on to a rough track, I inched along, trying to dodge the worst of the potholes and soon came to something I was not expecting. A long disused cark par, big enough for about 4 or 5 cars lay next to what had at one time been a boat house. The concrete structure was in ruins but for it to be here on the side of a bog hole was, to say the least, unusual. A rusty sign said something about fishing by club members only but I paid it no heed.
There was a very good chance the lough was totally devoid of fish of course. Many bog holes are extremely acidic and support low levels of aquatic life. I could be simply wasting my time but it was a fine day to be out and about, so I felt there was little to lose in this experiment. The chances were this small lake had at one time long ago been stocked with brownies but those stockies would have died out many moons ago. I tackled up with a 5 weight rod, floating line and tied on a bibio and a grouse and claret.
As with most of these loughs there is no great depth of water. Peat silt forms the bottom, and this means wading is definitely not recommended. A sky lark serenaded me from on high as I took in my surroundings, breathing deeply of the invigorating fresh air. The shore beside the old building was strewn with debris, great chunks of broken concrete despoiling the view, but otherwise it was a peaceful spot. A steady breeze cooled me, an indispensable aid to any day out here. No wind means the midges will be able to devour every inch of exposed human flesh, reducing the toughest to gibbering wrecks in no time. Tobacco smoke keeps them at bay but who wants life limiting respiratory diseases just to keep the midges away? They still find me of course, crawling under the cuffs of my jacket to draw blood from my forearms and leave me itching for hours. I have read that some lucky people are left alone by these nasty creatures, but most of us are fair game to them. Today they were bearable, just a few nips here and there on arms and face, but I have seen my skin black with midges and completely unable to carry on fishing. No snakes live in Ireland (we are told that is thanks to St. Patrick who banished them), no poisonous spiders or lethal scorpions scurry in the leaf litter or lurk under toilet seats here. We have been spared those horrors, but by God the midges do their best to fill the gap.
Bogland is a humbling setting for me. It makes you feel small and insignificant. The land looks scarred and abused in my eyes as a result of years of turf cutting. Any indigenous trees would have been felled years ago for fuel or building, leaving an undulating moonscape largely devoid of life. The far side of the lough has been planted with invasive spruce, a cash crop for hard pressed farmers. The black forest reaches right to the water’s edge, a dead zone for wildlife and an eyesore on an already blighted vista. There is nothing positive about these densely packed hectares of monoculture, wild creatures don’t live in them and they ruin the land for generations.
The ground around me is teeming with insects, mainly beetles of varying hues, small fleet footed spiders and lots of grey winged moths. I could waste hours of my life watching the tiny creatures, mesmerised by their ways and fascinated by the complexity of their worlds. They know nothing of, and care less about the human existences we live, wrapped up as they are in just surviving minute to minute in a primeval micro environment where you eat whoever is smaller than you until a bigger monster eats you. They don’t think as we do, yet they can build, excavate, create and spin in ways we, in all our technical wizardry, cannot emulate. If time allowed, I would enjoy leaning more about them but my already busy life means spare time is at a premium. I an a prolific reader but with so many interests already requiring my attention there is little room left to indulge in new areas.
I took a pair of binoculars with me today, anticipating slow to non-existent fishing. At least I could observe what was in the middle distance. The bog is home the avian predators such as the buzzard and kestrel, birds I love to watch. Buzzards used to be rare but they are making a strong comeback these days and I see them often here in the west of Ireland. The same can’t be said of the kestrel though and it is a rare treat to witness them hanging in the wind as they search for prey.
Only minimal tackle came with me to this remote spot today. A single small box of flies, a spool of fine nylon and few odds were stuffed in an old bag. It’s a world away from the modern need to take everything possible with you, piscatorial minimalism at its finest. Working my way along the shore, casting and retrieving, taking one step per cast meant I soon covered the easily fished bank. A stand of unruly trees and bushes barred me from any further progress so I turned and fished my way back towards the car. So far there had been no signs of fish but suddenly there was a vicious tug on the line and a swirl in the water. Unfortunately the trout did not stick and I was left to rue my missed chance. Another 20 minutes of casting saw me back at the car and it was time to make a decision – would I fish on here or go off and try somewhere else? As you may have gathered, I was in a lazy, contemplative sort of mood and thought a couple of hours watching float might suit me better. Packing up, I turned the car and bounced off down the boreen, heading away from the wee lough. (being the nincompoop that I am, I forget to take any photos at the lough)
Once through Kilkelly, I swung a right to the N17, then cruised down to Claremorris. After my last session on Clare Lake I wanted to see if that was just a fluke or if there were any better sized fish in the still, green water. The car park was strangely quiet, with only half-a-dozen cars there as I grabbed the seatbox, a float rod out of the boot and stomped off down the shady track to the same stand I fished from before. I was going to try one further along, but a pair of pike anglers had beat me to it and they were slinging big spoons and deadbaits from there.
A handful of sleepy maggots were all that I had for bait but I was not planning on a lengthy or highly technical session, I just wanted to sit quietly beside the water for a while watching a float. An old grey balsa waggler with a bright orange tip above bulk shot at the loop-to-loop connection and a four pound hook length with a barbless size 16 was all I started with. In the bottom of the box I unearthed the remains of a bag of 3000 black lake ground bait so I made that up into three small balls and fired them in. I was only fishing two rod lengths out so I could see the float without straining my eyes too much. A few casts went by without response but then I missed three bites in quick succession. This looked suspiciously like skimmers were in the swim and sure enough, when I struck the fourth time the float dipped I was rewarded with a half pounder. It went quiet again before a shoal of tiny roach appeared, 6 inchers who nibbled at my sparce supply of maggots, sucking them off the hook as often as I made contact. Thankfully the wee lads moved off as fast as they had arrived and all was quiet once again.
In an effort to try and improve my hook up I dropped to a size 18 hook. On the very first cast I hooked a nice fish and it stuck, but to be honest they started to drop off again and so I went the other way and changed to a size 14 for the remainder of the session. Those skimmers had came back and a sprinkling of slightly better roach joined in the fun. I was unhooking a skimmer and decided to make a small adjustment to the float. The freshly baited hook slipped off the edge of the stand and slid down under it. The next thing I knew there was tugging going on and I lifted the line out by hand only to find a perch on the end. It must have been lurking right under the floating stand. The fish released, I wondered if I could repeat this feat, so gently lowering a baited hook by hand I jigged it up and down a bit. Yes, another perch was fooled and hoisted up. I did the same one more time before deciding I had enough of these shenanigans and resumed proper fishing.
The count grew gradually as quiet spells were interspersed with hectic action. The roach were not big and I doubt if any of them were better than a half a pound with most a lot smaller than that. An odd hybrid spiced things up but the session was dominated by skimmers. After two hours the bait box was all but empty and it was time to call it a day. While the trout fishing had been a disappointment, the coarse fishing made up for it. I guess Sunday was a microcosm of my angling now, game fishing is not what it used to be here in Ireland and it is hard work most days. Coarse fishing has largely replaced both trout and salmon angling for me, something I would never have imaging when I landed in Ireland back in the late 90’s. I’ve mixed feeling about that. I mourn the decimation of first the sea trout and now the salmon. The pollution and over-fishing which now threatens the brown trout feels unstoppable, despite the efforts of many good people. Set against that, the joys of coarse fishing have opened up new vistas for me, takes me to places I would never have though to visit and introduced me to amazing people across the country. I know that I tend to whinge a lot on this blog, but in truth I am happy with my lot and recognise just how lucky I am to live and fish in the west of Ireland.
The year is flying by and I want to pack in a lot more fishing before the weather turns cold and wet. Helen is busy with a large painting at the moment and she has another commission in the pipeline, so she will be working most days for the next couple of weeks. I’ll take the opportunity to a fish a few places that have been on my radar for a while.
Claretbumbler 