A Grand Finale The season

A selection of Dabblers,a Bibio Hopper, a small Dabbler,
two Invictas, and a Dunkeld.

At the end of a four hour journey I climbed out of the backseat of an over packed car and carefully unfolded myself. As I pressed my hands into the small of my back and arched I caught a brief glimpse of blue sky. But it was quickly covered, buried deeply, by the brutal black clouds that promised rain, dense mist, hail and heavy weather, probably all at the same time. The Fear an Ti came out to meet us. Welcoming us to his lakeshore B&B he promised us comfortable lodgings, a sound boat, reliable engine and the chance of a great fish while completely ignoring the impending natural disaster which we so dismissively refer to as the weather. When pressed he suggested that winds which were promised would soon blow themselves out and bring all the “weather” with them. He then looked at the sky, out to the lake gave his head a small, ominous shake and silently returned to the house.

The location of Lough Corrib

During a four hour-hour drive four guys can do an awful lot of talking. During a four-hour drive to a famous trout lake at the close of a season, four fly fishers thinking about four pound trout can do an awful lot of talking about fly-fishing. After so much talk we were eager to demonstrate some of the points we made many miles ago. And so as the last of the light left the western sky and the wind strengthened we set up rods to compare actions, fly lines and turnovers. There would be no chance tomorrow in a lake which traditionally surrenders some of its bigger trout at the season’s close in a grand finale.

The next morning we were up early. The famous weather was all around. Huge dark waves of rain blocked from view the inky clouds. The savage wind had blown the lake into the epitome of harshest contrast. Dark, dark water and pure white caps. It was not meant to be like this. The idea behind the trip was to soak up the last of the summer’s fading warmth, fishing without much thought, waiting to find the right drift and connect with some of Lough Corrib’s famous wild brown trout. It is supposed to be quite straightforward. Daphnia, or water fleas, those tiny crustaceans, which are only one step above algae in the food chain, form an important part in the trout’s diet at this time of year. Great swarms of these almost krill rise and fall in the water column with the rhythm of the days turning. The trout feed on them greedily; some say they simply swim through the swarms with their mouths agape to fill their stomachs with as little effort as possible. As to flies, well that too was supposed to be simple. Anything orange by all accounts. While it would be nice to say I had developed a stunning imitation of the natural, no bigger than a pinhead. But where would that get me. If I had such a fly, how could it be noticed amongst the millions of naturals. It is one thing to cast a size 28 midge to a rising trout, quite another to fish 44,000 acres blind with a fly that could slip through the eye of the proverbial needle. So a small stock of Dunkelds (palmered), orange and golden olive bumbles, dabblers and other such lake patterns would accompany me to the Lough.

What a rotten morning, this photograph makes it look positively
cheery compared to how it was.

So much for the theory. To be honest, on that glowering, dark morning I had some hope as I tied on my two fly cast, the famous Dunkeld on the point and Dabbler on the top. But my hope was that perhaps some one might mention the strength of the wind, or the size of the waves, or the relentless rain and we could return to the warm lakeshore house for more breakfast and hot tea.

In the time it took to tackle up we had each taken on the appearance of an often-drowned rodent. But no one said anything. We split in to two groups, Stephen, Joe and Brian (who had arrived that morning) in the first boat, Killian and I in the second. We headed out into the lake, our destination a small group of islands downwind and about two miles from the harbour. I had complete faith in the boat, a bonny 17 foot clinker built lough boat, but was less than confident in my ability to handle it in this weather. So I decided that the lee of the first island from the shore, only a few boat lengths from where we set out, would do just fine. The other boat kept going, carried awkwardly by the high peaked, short troughed waves which seemed to threaten the transom at every pass. These narrow beamed lake boats made light work of the waves dead on, but with the wind following, or in any other quarter it was quite uncomfortable. I gingerly brought the boat around, broadside into the wind and cut the engine. We rode the waves like a cork and the day began to seem less a test of courage.

More detail of where we fished:

Our drift were generally north-westish, and we stayed around the islands on the west side of the lake

We started to fish. We kept our back casts short and let the wind carry the line out in front of us. I pretended to myself that my loops were tight and neat, but did not dare to look at the aerial pretzel my fly was undoubtedly tracing in the teeth of the gale. The wind swept us along a quite a rate and we worked hard to keep in touch with our flies. All the while the rain pelted our backs and sank its long cold fingers into our joints, sudden squalls threatening any seams less than perfect. But the ferocity of the sudden squalls punctuating were such that great gaping holes were rent in the black sky and sun light flooded through, warm and welcome. For the first couple of hours it felt like I spent as much time putting up and down my hood and opening and closing my coat as I did casting and retrieving the flies.

We had repeated the initial drift a number of times covering all the ground in the lee of the island. We were allowing the drifts to last longer and longer hoping to come across feeding fish. After several drifts into more open parts of the lake we decided to try our luck on some of the windward shore. There is often the chance of a fish on a windward shore where food organisms become concentrated by the waves. We worked the shore towards the point with short drifts allowing ourselves to come as close to the rocks and shallows as common sense and the interminable winds dictated. Within a couple of casts I started to feel lucky. The wind was calming and the rain was holding off. I would not say that it was becoming more summery but it looked like it could be a grand day.

Those lovely flies again and the lucky Dunkeld

And then it started, a touch, the fish came short. And again, and again it nipped one of the flies. It was about the fifth cast into the feeding fish when as I lifted the rod to cast one of the trout lashed at the flies. I almost fell out of the boat! Killian and I redoubled our efforts. On the next cast I slowly lifted the rod after only retrieving a few yards of line. And everything went tight. It was turning into a grand day after all. I could actually feel the trout turn on the fly and bring in back to the depth it had risen from. My arm rose higher and I pulled on the line with my spare hand. The rod bent dramatically and I gave a bit of a roar. “Oh you beauty, you beauty, you beauty”.
The fish continued to dive. Having used up all the loose line, it was now taking line off the reel. I revelled in the thumping rod, the vibrating line and the song of the reel. And then nothing...

"Oh no, oh no, oh no!" I pulled in the line as fast as I could, nothing, nothing, nothing. I saw a brief flash of gold, and then the water in front of the boat was broken by a leaping trout trying to rid itself of some unwelcome morsel. I could see the bright orange Dunkeld clearly in the scissors of the trampolining trout. I desperately hauled in line and finally regained contact with the fish. We settled into a routine of deep dives and exciting acrobatics. I had never seen a brown trout spend do much time at the surface and was taken by surprise every time it took to the air. We had drifted quite far from the point and Killian readied the net as the fish tired. There was a brief panic when the fish swam under the boat and threatened to wrap the line around the outboard engine shaft. But we brought it safely to the boat, a wild two and half pounder with a heavy shoulder and such golds and leopard spots that we sat and admired it a while longer as we drifted on the great western lake. A grand morning’s work.

The prize - a typical Lough Corrib trout heading to 3lbs - I could have sworn it was bigger... !

We fished for a short while longer, then joined up with the others and lunched after a small amount of gloating. Then we changed boats and I went off in the threesome. We rose a few fish and Stephen brought a couple of small ones to the boat. They were sent on their merry way, not seeming too bothered by the fleeting moment of entrapment.

	Lunch in the rain. ( Note two lazy anglers actualy trying to sleep on the rocky shore.)

And then the rain stopped, for a short while.

The next day was much the same, though the weather was much milder. We ventured further into the lake and fished around many more islands, but never happened upon the magic shoals. And somehow we all enjoyed ourselves immensely. We all rose a few fish, and three of us had played at least one trout at some stage, two of us brought fish successfully to the boat, and I kept one for dinner. We reminisced about the previous day like old sea dogs. Discussed how great we were to have moved fish on such a day. Admired each other for sticking it out and coming up with the goods, the right flies, the right cast, the right tactics. Ah it was a grand weekend.

In French “grand” means big or important or impressive, and it means much the same in English. In Irish it is more often used in simpler contexts, but with richer meanings. After a tough morning’s fishing we have a ‘grand cup of tea’ while relaxing in a ‘grand bit of sunshine’. I suppose we give it the meaning of ‘just right’, ‘lovely’, ‘perfect’, the kind that is accompanied by lightly closed eyes, a small smile and a slight shake of the head. And so it was at the close of the season that we headed back to the to the road and day dreamed about our grand finale.

That's me trying a new method of catching trout on the fly(rod) -
the one string crooner. Killian is actually tipping himself out of
the boat backwards to escape!

Myles Kelly is a longtime Forum member from Ireland. He works with the Central Fisheries Board and is also a member of the Irish Char Conservation Group.