AN ANGLER'S MEMORIES OF IRISH WATERS
ril0 an Englishman who has happy memories of day J. _spent by Irish rivers and on . Irish lakes, The Angler's Guide to the Irish Free State,- published by the Ministry of Fisheries, Dublin, is at once a pain and a. pleasure. Mr. Stephen Gwynn, in his preface—and who is a keener fisherman ?—keeps mostly to the business of fishing and only touches on politics when he says that the stranger will be just as welcome as under the old order of things. And this is probably true, for the theory., that Englishmen are foreigners, and that Ireland was. ruled by foreigners when Irishmen were elected to Parlia- ment, is only held by the extremists. But he does not mention the difficulties of accommodation now that so many houses are destroyed, or the increased cost of living under heavy taxation. And though he maintains that the preservation of fish is better attended to by the unarmed civic guard than the old R.I.C., he does not explain that the R.I.C., under the Irish government of. Dublin Castle, always held that to stop fish poaching was no part of their duties. Their presence may have affected. the guilty conscience of poachers ; but the real preserva-, Lion, where there was any, was by the keepers and watchers of the riparian owners who have been turned out.
To the English fisherman, condemned to a country where so many rivers arc polluted, and where £200 a mile is asked (and obtained) for anything like good trout fishing, what pleasure to turn the pages of this book— what golden memories in the enchanted names on almost every page ! It is delightful even to read of Ballynahinch and Rathmelton, of Clonmel and of Delphi, of Ballina, and Blackcastle, of the Meath Blackwater, and the Blackwater that runs into the Kenmare Estuary, of the three rivers of Louth, the Dee, the nine, and the Glyde. The list could be prolonged indefinitely. With perhaps rather selfish satisfaction I note that some places, marked with a white stone in my memory, are merely mentioned some of the best not mentioned at all. So that, even if crowds of English tourists pour over in response to this S.O.S., and camp in hundreds of tents round the ruins of the Recess Hotel, I may some day find, unharried, that bog stream where I once landed (not for myself, alas !) two great trout--3ilbs. and 41 lbs.—in an afternoon. How well I remember the breakfast in the mail train—the. salt bacon and fried eggs, and the black tea so satisfactory after the night journey ; the halt at the little wayside station, apparently for my companion and myself alone ; the bumps of the bicycle over the broad white limestone road ; the cheery greetings from the big men going lazily in the ass carts to the creameries (to talk treason, though we knew it not) ; the flat bog all round with the curlews calling and the plovers swooping and dipping, and one blue hill in the far distance ; and then the dark, narrow, evenly flowing hog stream and the wooden bridge where we leave the bicycles and feverishly put together rods and soak casts, though we know that there is plenty of time and that the fly is not up yet.
But see, as we lean smoking over the rail, here is an olive dun coming down, and now another. My com- p-anion leaps on to his bicycle and starts off on the road downstream with his rod up (a thing I could never do with comfort). I leave my bicycle, and walk down the stream, which here runs along the road ; but cautiously, and looking ahead for a rise. It is early, and the duns arc not touched, except by an occasional swift. Then the stream goes under the road and plunges into the flat meadows and I follow, still very slowly, keeping wide of the bank, but close enough to see all except quite under my own bank—and even there, if a fish rose, I should see the rings of the rise. Still nothing stirring, but I am quite happy in the wonderful pure air, for I know that we have ten or twelve hours before us. Ah ! there he is ; a dimple. where the stream runs under the high straight hank of peat on the other side of the stream. I dive into the meadow, make a circuit, conic up well below the dimple, and wait for the fish to rise again. Mercifully these fish, though shy, like all big fish, do not always insist on the absolutely orthodox fly, tied according to Halford's pattern, though sometimes they have all the niceness of the Test. If I can give him something of the right size which cocks nicely four or six inches above him, and does not drag, he ought to have it. Therefore the mediocre fisherman can use a fly which cocks well, as a rule with success, even if it is not the fly on the water. Here a hackle olive, rather smaller than the large flies which arc coming down, -is chosen. Miraculously it goes right first cast, is eagerly taken, and I jump to my feet and run downstream, pulling the line through the rings. For if I reeled up I. should not be quick enough to get on terms with him and he would be in the weeds. There are no hushes here, and before I get to the hedge I am well below him, and able to pull him over the net--nearer 2i than 2lbs., and a beautiful yellow fish.
Not a little pleased I go on—but when I meet my companion at lunch this is the only fish in my bag-TI have scratched two more, put back one, and frightened two others by had casting. Though he is a. much better !ishermin than I, he has, so far, had no luck and is rather gloomy. But his chance comes when I find a big fish in an awkward place, and put fly after fly over him, without result. The master takes my place, makes a different approach, with a different fly, a perfect cast— and he has him ; after a desperate struggle I net for him a fish of 411bs. We part again—he a different man ; and when we meet once more in the evening I am in time to land for him another of 31 lbs., while I, after many adventures, have only secured a lanky fish of and a smaller one.
We are quite content as we bump back over the empty road—no perpetual stream of motors here---to our little town, getting whiffs- of peat smoke from the cottages on the roadside, and a cheery " good-night " from the people we pass. Golden memories—but shall we ever fish the bog stream again ? or gaze proudly on six great salmon laid out on the floor of the fishing but as we prepare to leave the great south-country salmon river in the grey dusk of a February afternoon ? or stand waist- deen hi the same river at ten o'clock on a June evening and see an otter's head thrust up silently from the water live
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