Get the Gaff Ready.
CHAPTER XV.
A TRIP TO IRELAND.
SOME years ago, when Ireland was greatly disturbed—it was the year after Lord Leitrim's assassination—a party of three, of which I formed one, decided to fish the Clady, in Co. Donegal. We went viâ Belfast and Letterkenny, bound for Gweedore. We had received many warnings against our projected trip, and were told that the "Boys" would not allow us to cross the mountains in our outside cars on our long drive from Letterkenny. Death's heads and crossbones, however, did not deter us, though our car drivers were sufficiently impressed and alarmed to insist that, if they took us, we should undertake to keep them at Gweedore until we returned. This we had to concede, and off we set.
The reports of the Clady were most temptingly satisfactory. The malcontents had burnt the nets at the mouth of the river at Dum-Dum, as they were the property of our landlord; the fish had, therefore, a clean run up the river. The talented author of "Three in Norway, by One of Them," had taken a fabulous number of salmon shortly before—report said fifty fish in one fortnight—so it was not likely that three sturdy fishermen would be frightened by paper threats. As a proper measure of protection we were each of us in possession of a revolver, more for show, should occasion arise, than because we were likely to need it for our protection. Our drive, if my memory serves me right, was over fifty miles in length, and was satisfactorily accomplished without any startling incident or need for the display of our lethal weapons. We were not sorry when it was over, and we were able to get off our cars and see what comforts the hotel could provide.
The local peasantry, of course, were not inimical to us as individuals, but were determined to score off our landlord, and to destroy or diminish his profits from the fishing. We had, therefore, to house and care for our gillies as well, in order to save them from maltreatment. Fortunately the river, though on the low side, was in fair order, and the pools were crammed full of fish—too full, indeed, for sport; and though we did not exactly equal the totals credited to our predecessor, still, we could not complain of the results. The fish, bright and clean, were not heavy—averaging not more than 10 lb. to 11 lb.—but they fought well. Neither were they by any means perfect in shape, being long and narrow, altogether less good-looking than their cousins of the Crolly, who use the same embouchure. These latter are perfect in contour and shape, more like Awe or Avon fish.
Sport throughout our fortnight's stay was distinctly good, though not remarkable, but the visit gave rise to some, to me, interesting experiences. Thus, in one pool, called the Pulpit pool, the usual cast is from the top of some very high rocks, as the name implies, into the cauldron below. The fish lie near the rocks on the pulpit side; from there the fly would never hang or fish properly; do what you would, it resembled a bunch of dead feathers. On the other hand, there was a convenient run on that side, down which a fish could be taken into the pool below; and, as the fish hooked there always would insist on going down, this point was one of some importance. On the opposite side of the pool there was a charming shelving beach, or bank, and if you could find a fly so well tempered as to stand being thrown against the rocks opposite to you, you were almost certain of a rise, as your fly then played admirably over the taking part of the pool. The problem was then how your fish could be played when hooked, for between you and the before-mentioned run was a line of serrated rocks, and a fish hooked that meant going down would inevitably cut you. He must, therefore, not be allowed to go down. Luckily, between you and this line of rocks was a deepish backwater, and this was our deus ex machina, and solved the difficulty. In this backwater we stationed the gillie, gaff in hand, and crouched down; no sooner was a fish hooked than, before he could realise the situation, he was unceremoniously hurried across the pool into the backwater, and there equally unceremoniously gaffed. After two or three fish had been so treated our gillie remarked sadly, "Well, sorr, you may call this fishing, but I call it murther"; and so it really was.