Mayo angling folk must make the most of the next few weeks

COUNTRYFILE

SWALLOWS are beginning to congregate in numbers.

It's not that they have their minds on foreign lands far south, not yet, but it is mostly juvenile birds that join forces first, with just a few adults scattered in among them.

Last night about a thousand were swarrming over the reedbeds, where they gather to feed on emerging insects.

As an angler, I'm always interested in what flies might be hatching. But strangely enough, there seemed to be very little that the birds were feeding on despite their persistent diving and swooping.

Autumn brings quite specific hatches of flying insect and some of these are very beautiful to behold. They might not have the same appeal as our butterflies do, nor be quite as attractive as, dare I say it, some of our moths.

But should we find ourselves examining some of the smaller mayflies, we will durely be struck by their perfect symmetery and the astonishing array of colour with which they are painted.

And the closer we look, the more we find perfection in the thing itself. See those eyes, how round and bright they are.

And the fine filaments which, taken together, form the insects tail. Look closer – take note of the breathing apparatus, a series of spiracles or small holes along the side of the body.

And as for the limbs, why, they are no mere blindly constructed appendage but have many exquisitely made individual parts, including a femur, a tibia, a tarsus and a multifunctional claw capable of holding them tight in all but the very strongest wind.

Again I feel an enduring sense of wonder that so many perfectly made creatures should all decide that this is their night.

Not only do they all ascend the water column over a very limited period of time, but they all, every last one of them, know instinctively they are to take flight as soon as their silver wings have straightened enough to bear their weight.

A few seconds are needed, and away they go to the reeds, or into bankside vegetation, where they do their best to hide. Swallows find a few along the way while trout mop up any stragglers slow to lift from the water.

Many other species of bird search among the leaves to find them by the score, and we wonder how it is that any remain at all.

But then comes an evening just like this. Clouds of insects emerge – great clouds, such clouds as defy the imagination.

They fill the air by their millions, maybe even by the billion. They coordinate their movements in a coreographed nuptial dance and some strange how find a mate from among the throng.

This is to be the climactic end of their lives, for since leaving their underwater larval stage they neither eat nor drink, having no serviceable mouthparts nor working digestive system. Their sole purpose is to reproduce, to drop clouds of fertile eggs back into what was their watery home.

Now the swallows come to feed, diving in among that living insect haze to take their fill, to fatten for the long journey that leads far south.

And when the insects lay their eggs they fall, spent, to the surface. Now, under cover of dark, great trout feed hard, keeping angling men out beyond the witching hour until they can no longer see, until activity finally ceases for the night.

But this night, despite the presence of so many birds, the flies have failed to appear. Tomorrow they will be here.

Then we have but a month before the rod returns to its place at the wall. With so much to see and share, we must make the most of these few weeks.