At the point when it was way too late to turn back, my body felt like it was engaged in a waltz with the current. Turning, lifting and probably bobbing too. My chosen crossing point was a little deeper than it looked to be, for sure. And that current was undeniable. Here we go again, I thought. Things are about to get very cold and very wet. Or colder and wetter, seeing as I was damp from above already. My feet made occasional contact with the riverbed as I tried to remain upright, gallumphing towards the steep grassy bank. Ha! Almost made it! Two metres to thin water only...
Then like a labrador hitting the water, I went down. Trying to stay dry, but in the process going in up to my neck, palming off the bottom. Running shoes are for running and not for wading on algae-covered rocks, as I've been advised countless times. It scares me to think I used to fish similar rivers wearing flip-flops as a lightie. No chance of that now mate. Not even on sandbanks. But it was running shoes or nothing, so running shoes it was. But I had made it to the shallows, a soggy mess of draining synthetics and vehement swearing. It took a little while for the humour of the situation to sink in, but when it did I laughed hard as my clothing drained. That must have been a classic wipeout. Pity nobody but me saw it.
I was out in Ireland with Dina to celebrate a significant birthday of an old friend. Simply getting there from Berlin via an unplanned night in Amsterdam had required a truckload of humour, as did the long, cold and smelly wait for our baggage to join us in Killarney. Borrowed clothing and heavy Guinness consumption soothed us until our gear arrived. But the nagging thought – what if I never see my flies again? - weighed heavily. That would be hard to take. Years worth of tying and random experimentations just can't be bought, nor remembered. And most especially not the memories that are tied into some of them. I caught myself thinking far too often of this possibility and had to remind myself to breathe and just calm down. Another Guinness? Yes please. Our gear arrived. I breathed out. A party weekend in a rusty iron barn filled with offshore South Africans, assorted Kerrymen, Dubliners, and other mental characters commenced.
Several days later I was dropped off at the Beaufort bridge on the River Laune at about half-past eight in the morning. I sorted out my day ticket from the dour youth at the general dealers across the road. “Trout fishing by fly only, using trout fly rod“ the ticket said. Since I wasn't going for salmon, no state licence was required which was nice. In fact, the fishing in the lakes of Killarney is free, gratis and umsonst, but this fact was simply too weird to digest, so I didn't try it out. I prefer moving water anyways, pretty though the lakes were. I paid my money and crossed the rush hour traffic to a picnic bench and tackled up in the rain. So what kind of rig for a new and unfamiliar river then? Seeing as the last time I fished flowing water was on the Vaal for yellows, I stayed in that groove and tied on a great big indicator above a weighted nymph. That should do it, I thought.
I'd chosen the beat below the old stone bridge. Water was roaring through the archways and pushing down a rapid with deep channels before relaxing out into a broad, weedy run. The character then didn't change for as far as I could see, which was to a bend about a kilometre downstream, where trees blocked further view. The meadow on my side of the river glowed an unholy green, its prettiness spoilt only by the massive girders of an electricity pylon towering Babel-like above everything around it. I felt right at home there. All that was missing was the N3 and cruising security vans.
My first few casts were short and upstream. The current blasted the indicator past me in seconds, my weighted fly clearly visible behind it. It left a wake. The thought occurred that I might have to rethink my tactics here. A few more casts. The same result. Damn. I tried high sticking the drift, wading out a little so as to keep more line off the water and give the fly a chance to sink better. A bit better, but still not satisfactory, so I waded back to shore for a rethink. My arm was getting tired and I was feeling the pressure of wanting – really badly – to catch a fish. I realised as well that I was out of practise for this sort upstream nymphing and my reaction time for striking was probably seconds off what was necessary to hook up, assuming I could even get a fly down to the fish. Seeing as I was at the top of my beat, and had no idea where it ended, I decided to be sensible and stop stressing and just go with the flow. Downstream so to speak.
The decision was the right one. I immediately calmed down, as I didn't have to keep concentrating on the ball of orange fluff on my leader, or keep blaming myself for missing takes. And I felt that to fish across and down here, in Ireland, with a soft hackle fly, was good and justified and sensible. For what reason I thought this I don't know, but I did. The hares ear and partridge hackle fly seemed somehow to match the colours of the countyside, the people and the waters. For the first time I felt confident fishing this pattern. This is one of the simplest fly patterns – a dubbed body and a hackle – and only one step up from the one feather budgie flies I used to tie as a six-year old, though vastly more effective.
I moved down to where the water slowed and curled a bit more, instead of just bubbling and rushing, and started rolling out short casts across current. The line swung around and straightened, and putting it out again was the simple matter of a roll cast. A few steps down and repeat. The process was soothing to my party-ravaged mind and I could take in a little of my surroundings through the fine rain that dripped off my hat. Then suddenly, a take. The sharp pull on my line brought me back to the fishing. No connection that time, but proof that the Laune trout liked this fly. Two casts later and a fish was on. Just like that. No striking necessary. A little brown trout came quickly to my hand, and fitted comfortably on it. It may have been a miniature, but this would not be a blank day.
The brownies continued to come up to the soft hackle as I waded down slowly with the current. They ranged in size from small to medium, all outfitted with the same dark spots and a light freckling of red ones. Here in the run the water was smoother, occasionally showing the bumps of a larger rock underwater. With the soft hackle swinging around just under the waters surface, I got to see some of the takes, the pull on my line hand coinciding with a splash or a bulge of a trout turning on my fly. Then a short fight, working the fish back upcurrent to me before tweaking the hook out and waving goodbye.
In this manner I made my way down to the treed bend which I regarded as the end of my beat. I met a local salmon fisherman, who asked as to my luck in his almost whispered Kerry accent. He pointed out where a good trout was sporadically rising across the river, wished me good fishing and then wandered off into the rain, his spinning rod over his shoulder. The salmon were not coming up, he had told me, and I was glad to be fishing for trout. By this stage I had switched to a peacock zak nymph, which worked well for prospecting the deeper, slower reaches I was now fishing. I tried to reach the trout under the opposite trees, failing miserably in achieving the distance I wanted and putting the fish down in the process. A tiredness hit me and I started to shiver in the rain. I headed back to the general dealers for a sandwich and a warming cup of coffee-flavoured water.
More salmon fishermen had arrived in the parking lot by this time, also rigged with spinning sticks. I was slightly surprised by this, I must admit. All the warra-warra about flyfishing for salmon had blinkered me to the fact that you are actually allowed to use other gear for them (in some places anyway) and I could see how a large river like the Laune could be more comfortably covered with a lure and a spinning rod. In the meantime I had decided to give the bouncy water by the bridge another shot and then work my way down the river again, giving the salmon guys a respectable head start and the water a chance to rest.
I made my way across to an island splitting the current just below the bridge and caught a nice brownie for my wading efforts. Staying on the island, I fished down again, working the faster water with an intermediate line and zak nymph. Upon reaching the end of the island, I made the decision to cross there and then, instead of walking back upsteam to the original ford. It seemed shallow enough to the polaroided eye. But in practise, it wasn't. Splooosh. When I finally made it out of the river and scrambled up the steep bank to the meadow, my first reasoned thought was for the cellphone I had in my bag. This was my only link to my mates, and my lift home to Killarney (just text us when you've had enough, we'll come pick you up then...). The sophisticated waterproofing of a plastic shopping packet worked wonders though, and the text – knackered, cold and wet. Just fallen into river, any time good to fetch me – was sent. This apparently caused some consternation among the recipients, along the lines of “oh crap, he's gonna be in a foul mood all day“. Obviously I have a bit of a rep for bad temperedness – justifiably, I admit - but they needn't have worried. I was still having a blast.
My second go at the stretch was a lot less productive than the first. It seemed the fish were no longer impressed by soft hackles and zaks and I had lost any interest in further experimenting with patterns. I half-heartedly put some casts to likely spots, but stayed mostly out of the river this time. Chatting to the two English salmon anglers I'd seen earlier in the parking lot by the bridge, it seemed they were also giving up for the day. The one bloke's reel had packed up, making weird crunching sounds as he wound in. I offered to take a look at it and took it apart with a swiss army knife. The workings were packed with coarse grained sand – hardly any wonder that it had died. Even with all the sand removed, it still was a bit iffy (although a lot better) and they elected to give up and return in the evening with fly gear.
I was getting a second wind however and wanted to give the fast water another go, this time with the heavily weighted circle-hook caddis patterns that had proved so useful on the Vaal. Just as I reached the head of the beat, my lift arrived bearing dry clothes and food, and that was that for fishing the Laune. I think they were shocked at my beatific mood, given my soggy state. But there's nothing like a bit of hardship to make you appreciate warmth and comfort all the more. Only a bit, mind. A great days fishing can more than make up for mild bout of hypothermia. And a great day of fishing it was. I'll be back for more.
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