Every year seems to be that bit tougher for Mayo anglers
COUNTRYFILE
WELCOME, rain, welcome!
Just a week ago I found it near impossible to do more than raise my head and look out from the window at hour after hour of broiling sun before collapsing back into a state of acute inertia.
One thing is sure, my accumulation of sleep debt is all but cancelled. What else could we do in near 30 Celsius but slumber and snooze?
A friend went to the river, claiming there was never a better time to catch a trout than when they were confined to deep, cool pools. He got his fish, too, tempting them with worms hard-won from the garden.
He turned up at the house grossly misshapen, having come to the attention of the battalion of horseflies that I knew must be lying in wait.
"Was it worth it?" I asked. His reply came through badly swollen, bleeding lips, the words hard to understand. The sentiments were clear, though.
He did make the point that as I had spent the afternoon at the pretext of reading, I should have bread while he dined on trout.
It is evident that the wounds wrought by those ferocious insects as they seek to satisfy their lust for blood is equally damaging to the character of a man as it is to his complexion.
Never mind, for better weather has arrived. The appetite of the horsefly tribe has been quelled, a proper flow will soon be restored to the river, and the trout will find their usual lies from which they can be more easily extracted.
I did make one small trip, doing so in the cool of evening, after the sun had dipped below far hills.
Didn't I know that fish would emerge from their deepwater retreats just on dusk to feed in the least bit of sparkle in the throat of each pool? I convinced myself that was so, and waited long for such to take place.
Eventually, just on the point of darkness, something bulged at the surface, just below the bank.
When I threw my fly at him he attacked with gusto, as if it were the first morsel he had seen in a week. I daresay a feather duster would have done the trick, so hungry was the poor creature.
There followed a short battle, during which he took me to the bottom of the pool and back and into the weeds and out.
When he finally came to the bank, on his side and spent, I felt no remorse in batting him over the head and slipping him into my bag.
Two and a half pounds, he was, and never a finer, fatter fish ever fell to the fly.
Better, at that time of night no marauding flies latched onto my arms or face. As they say, night time is the right time.
The rain will also allow those salmon which have been backing up in the estuaries to finally enter river pools. We would like to think they are safe out there while they wait for the flood. They are not.
Through more prosperous times, high market prices can be charged for wild salmon (and there remains a ready market for them).
When times are tougher, men keen to augment their income might quickly slip a net to an incoming tide and sell their catch for a little less. There is never a moment that salmon aren't being targeted.
Even a short flood will bring them into the river away from the nets, where I can catch them with the rod.
It's been a tough year for anglers. Every year seems a little tougher.