Fly Punk - Issue 3

that, if they were in England, would
be continually assaulted by coach
loads of invading pensioners. But
here everything is peacefully vacant.
I admit to finding this slowly rusting
side of Ireland reassuring. Samuel
Beckett must have agreed when he
wrote that: “What constitutes the
charm of our country, apart from its
scant population, and this without
help of the meanest contraceptive, is
that all is derelict.”
The bones of old castles sit
splendidly idle, daisies growing from
their windows. Such are the torn
remains of what looks like a medieval
turret sitting by the Suir just outside
Cashel. The waters are sparkling
and, as is always the case when you
don’t have a fishing rod, we spot trout
moving in the stony runs and rushing
water.
An evening return is plotted, but
until that time we must be content
ourselves with fishing trips made
in books. Among all the advice on
Irish trout fishing are the accounts
of night fishing such as those from
Niall Fallon’s “Fly Fishing on Irish
Rivers” are especially bewitching. On
a hot summers day this can be the
only time Suir trout really drop their
guard. The reasons involve science
as well as alchemy; “Invertebrate
drift” is the term used to describe the
nightly emergence of life forms on
the river. During the witching hours,
all that was hidden ventures out. An
endless collection of creatures crawl
from their hiding places in river bed.
The trout suddenly find their appetite
and grow bolder.
This was also the favourite time of
Liamy Farrell, who could be observed
immersing his stocky frame into the
river while more timid souls packed
up for the evening. “Where others
were glad to climb out of the strong
waters of the Suir with an acceptable
brace of trout on a July evening,
Liamy would meet you on the bank
in the warm, scented dusk with half
a dozen, topped by a three-pounder”
writes Fallon. “He liked to get right
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in amongst a shoal of feeding trout,
moving with the utmost patience and
slowness, and fish a very short line
either side and above,”
The first hour or two on our return
to the Suir near Cashel begin with a
friend of a friend and a rusty gate.
The river drops away invitingly at
the end of lush fields, but the only
signs of life are odd rises well out
into the current. Long leaders and
distance casts earn only the most
occasional of finicky takes until the
light begins to drop. Aidan aims a
team of traditional wet flies across
the current to mix things up, but one
hit and miss take is all our river punk
can muster so far. Once again, we’re
foxed.
It is only as the light drops that the
rises become more frequent and we
spot a familiar, tall figure working the
far bank. It is George, here to teach
us a lesson presumably. Creeping
along up to his thighs he searches
the stony shallows with quick, short
casts. Within minutes his rod jolts
over and a Suir trout is kicking at
his side. Aiden and I stand watching
in that semi-appreciative way
unsuccessful fishermen do in the
presence of a local expert. Another
trout comes to hand. And another
the very next cast. “Just watch the
bugger! You have to admit, he knows
a trick or three though.”
Hoping that the dying light will help
to conceal my own lanky presence,
I double back along the bank and
drop into another shallow run, the
water just about covering my knees.
Where there was only a cool flow of
water minutes earlier, there are now
regular, splashy rises. As if someone
had flicked a switch.
Tying on a small Balloon Caddis, I
flick the fly into the stony run and
pick up the line gingerly. I lose sight
of the fly, but there is a sudden rush
at the surface and I’m attached to a
lively half pounder.
Quite soon you can hardly make out
the fly, but it hardly seems to matter.
Numbers two and three follow, while
the whole river seems to buzz into
life. I throw a couple of painfully
clumsy casts along with the better
ones; the trout seem oblivious. At
one stage they’re rising directly just
a couple of rod lengths behind me,
totally untroubled.
Such is this magical time on the
Suir that in the space of half an
hour a frustrated amateur can be
transformed into a trout fishing
assassin. The change is so dramatic
you wonder how you ever found it
so difficult beforehand, but it’s an
exhilarating feeling. The fish don’t
sip, they smash. The best of them
probably wouldn’t quite trouble the
pound mark, but kicks and thrashes
as hard as a punk rock band.
Tipperary is sleeping as we return
home quite a lot later than planned,
leaving the Suir to the trout and
Liamy Farrell’s ghost. Moths swarm
down the overgrown lanes to Aidan’s
place as we gather in the night sky,
still damp from the river. The best
trout tastes beautiful, freshly fried in
butter by the river punk himself.
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