By: Colin McLean
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The fly line hisses as it shoots through the rings, the salt-laden north wind catching it as it touches the waves. The angler, hunched against the elements, pulls in the slack, and waits for the line and flies to sink before beginning a jerky retrieve. Halfway back the line stops, then goes slack again. A muffled curse is lost to the breeze. That’s the second one to come short today. Three casts later a sharp tug is accompanied by a swirl amid the white topped waves. That one is on!
A Scotsman of advancing years, resident in the west of Ireland, the author has fished since he was a child. He started out working in a mill sweeping the floor and descended from that to senior management and consultancy, all the time finding relaxation and contemplation on Ireland’s loughs and rivers. Inherently mean, he ties his own flies, uses dilapidated tackle and drives old wrecks of cars but is generous with his time and advice. How his beautiful and talented partner puts up with him will forever remain one of life’s great mysteries.
