Pick the Right Lough

Pick the right Lough

By our standards we’d had a brilliant week. The Irish weather had gone soft on us, the cloud cover allowing just enough brightness through to bring out all the colours of the small islands dotted about the lough. The only fly in the ointment came late in the week when my fishing buddy tangled his legs up with a lurking oar, hands full of rod and equipment he fell heavily onto the stone dock, full weight onto one knee; the pain was obvious. Back in the hotel we tried copious glasses of knee oil but come the morning of our last day we both knew Brian wouldn’t be fishing. Reluctantly, I took the boat out by myself, intent on one area we had not fished yet, for my parting shot.

The wild Brownies went loony toons, hurtling up to snap at my flies, six to twelve-ounce jewels that put a spirited bend into my three-weight. Late morning, however, the sun broke through completely, the surface of the lough turned into a beautiful mirror and the fish did their vanishing act; the day became unusually hot.

Three hours later I was suffering, luck and concentration gone, so I decided to row to the nearest islet to eat the packed lunch and make a brew on the Kelly. A couple of scrubby pines provided some shade and having taken care of the inner me, the exertions of the week and several late nights carousing came home to roost. I laid down in the shade and fell straight off to sleep, dreams populated by the beautiful fish, a soundtrack of tiny waves lapping the rocky shore.

I woke suddenly, sensing something, and rolled onto my side to find a woman’s face just inches from mine, her clawed hands to her mouth, wild hair, pale and wrinkled skin. She stared intensely into my eyes then screamed. Fear wrenched my guts, I rolled over and away, scrambling quickly to my feet, turning to see … nothing … she had gone! Shaken, I grabbed my stuff, checking all around me, clambered into the boat and rowed away from there, chilled despite the day’s heat.

The long row back to the dock dispelled my fear a little, although I continued to scan all around me, nervously. Back at the hotel, no longer solitary, I headed for the bar to help settle myself. Brian was already there, knee stiff and bandaged, sitting beside the barman. They both stared at me with visible concern: “What’s happened to you, finished early? What’s the matter?”. I told them what had happened on that little island and how spooked I had been.

An elderly local gentleman joined us, having overheard the telling of my tale, saying “I think that you met Kathleen” before elaborating. The story was of long ago, handed down through generations.: Kathleen and her betrothed lived on opposite sides of the lough, and their long courtship had entailed many crossings of the water in a rowing boat. Just two days before their wedding the groom-to-be rowed over to see his sweetheart. A sudden, vicious storm swept in from the nearby Atlantic coast, catching her beau en route. Somehow, perhaps a sudden squall, his old boat capsized and he disappeared. Anxiously, because of the ferocity of the storm, Kathleen was waiting for her love, on the shore, when another fisherman hove into view, towing the capsized, over-turned rowboat behind. Kathleen screamed and dived headlong into the lough, the churning waves and the weight of her woollen shawl and long skirts making her vanish in an instant.

The old man told us that no-one goes out on the loch after dark, nor do they put ashore onto any of the islands  because it is still said her ghost is still at large, searching for her long lost sweetheart.

I shuddered, “Give me a large whisky, please”.