Fly Punk - Issue 3

― Dominic Garnett―
Still think fly fishing is a sport of toffs
and English chalkstreams? In this
excerpt from Dom Garnett’s book of
tales Crooked Lines, the author goes
in search of Ireland’s River Suir and
its original fly punk, Aidan Curran.
N
o matter how many times I pack
a suitcase or study the guide,
fishing trips in far off places
always sidestep expectations. From
the picture you build in your head to the
flies and even the weather, something
different always hatches. Things mutate.
Sometimes you expect easy listening
but you get punk rock.
Which is funny, because rather than
some grand Irish River, this particular
trip begins in a second hand car in
Tipperary. I hadn’t been to Ireland
for a good eight years, but the one
picture I found reliably true to life
was my host, Aidan Curran. A redmohicanned
punk with a taste for fly
fishing.
“I guess I’m not your typical game
angler,” he chuckles, as the car
rattles with loud music. No word
of a lie. The bands we are listening
to have names like Sick Pig, Crisis
and Runnin’ Riot. “Pike fishing is
definitely something that appeals to
punks, but trout or fly fishing? It’s not
such an obvious match is it? People
think you’re pulling their leg.”
Aiden’s dented car takes innumerable
turns down crooked country lanes as
we seek out the river. But behind his
wild appearance is the subtler, laid
back heart of an angler. In his own
unique way, Aidan is just the next
in a long line of colourful River Suir
regulars, or should I say irregulars.
Perhaps the greatest of them all
was Liamy Farrell, described so
beautifully in the writing of Niall
Fallon as a “rotund, stocky” bull of a
man with “rolling, limping walk.” Yet
in spite of his burly frame and a rod
that could have landed sharks, this
grizzled character could make his fly
land “like the kiss of an angel.”
A refreshingly frank Suir angler from
the present day is guide George
McGrath, who meets us in stately
looking grounds by the Ara, a pretty
little tributary of the Suir. “Are you
any good with a fly rod?” he asks, only
half teasing. “Because if yer shite you
won’t be ketching much round here.”
With a slightly despairing shake of
the head, George recalls an American
guest with a PHD in entomology. A
nice enough bloke with all the right
gear who sadly couldn’t hit the Rock
of Cashel at ten paces.
Quality water is abundant here and
in fact the Suir and its’ tributaries
offer the highest density of trout of
any river in Ireland and quite possibly
Europe. But that doesn’t mean “easy”
fishing, as George will testify. And
he’s fished these waters for so many
years I’m wondering if his folks had
a fly patch sewn onto his babygrow.
Lesson number one is in fly selection.
The typical advice for Ireland is so
often of the “big flies for big fish”
variety and yet a peek at George’s
box reveals a good deal of specials
in the size 16 bracket, with both little
olives and sedges prominent. I need
no second invitation to poach a few
of these.
Lesson two, about the legendary
fussiness of local trout, is dispensed
in the field as Aiden and I hop onto
the Ara for an initial foray. It looks
beautiful in the sun. Shallow waters
reveal trout by the dozen. They
multiply before your eyes and are
everywhere, flitting over the pale,
sandy bottom of the river. You feel
like you’ve stumbled upon paradise
until you actually try casting for
these little devils, which are among
the spookiest trout I’ve ever come
across in my entire sorry existence.
For the first two hours we try
everything: long, fine leaders;
tiny flies; longer casts. It’s simply
bordering on impossible to tempt
these fish, or more precisely to get
near them without raising panic.
When I’d previously heard Aidan’s
missives about the shyness of the
fish I had joked about him getting
his hair dyed green instead of bright
red. I now believe you’d need to be a
camouflaged midget, invisible or able
to levitate rather than wade to get
anywhere near the buggers. It is pure
agony to see such riches slip away at
every bend in the stream.
Nevertheless, revenge is almost
served as we have one final crack
in a bigger bridge pool where a few
more sizeable fish are lying and,
touch wood, with more water to cover
them don’t seem quite so desperately
spooky. With George joining Aidan on
the bridge I now have two extra pairs
of watchful eyes -and extra pressure!-
to try and end a frustrating afternoon
on a happy note.
“A little further upstream” or “Just in
that hole, there!” come the regular
words of advice. I can make out some
shapes that are way bigger than the
little runts we spooked earlier, but will
they show any interest? The moment
of truth comes as I manage to drop
a heavy nymph so it passes right
above a tempting little depression on
the stream bed; a dark shape shifts
across the current, there is a decisive
flash and all hell breaks loose. For
about five seconds the rod bends
dangerously as I pay out line; next
there is just slackness and a lone
swearword. George’s next declaration
has already been ringing through my
head: “He won’t be coming back any
time soon now.”
With a week of sultry-hot, distinctly
un-Irish weather ahead, most of
our fishing the next two days takes
place in conversations over coffee
or beer. Trips to pretty local towns
and crumbling relics appease our
curiosity and also our womenfolk
while we plot our next assault on the
Suir.
The area is full of spectacular ruins
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