Stranger on the River

The fourth time I booked a week’s fishing on the Rainbow Inn’s river beats that cascade down the flanks of the mountains and hurry away towards the mighty Irish loughs, I decided that for the final day I would challenge all I had learned and had been told, about the miles of fishing at my disposal. I decided on a whim to do a Gierach and hike upstream on my favourite stream just to see what was there; I had been told that the waters above the ancient stone bridge never yielded many fish and so visitors just didn’t bother with the top end, which was therefore pretty wild and unkempt. I had enjoyed another good week so I wasn’t bothered that the fishing might prove poor or even non-existent. I headed off after another great breakfast, climbing upwards gradually, the gradient steepening in the narrow valley. Above each short ascent there would be a small pool or glide before the next barrier of rocks, but all was shallow. Almost at the point of giving up and heading back down there opened up a level stretch of one hundred plus metres, with deeper pockets of darker water visible throughout the length, and I spotted that there were fish rising sporadically but all along this stretch. I started fishing but was struggling to find a fly that proved acceptable, there were no insects airborne to give me a clue, so perhaps they were intercepting emergers? None of mine, it seemed. Suddenly I realised I was not alone, I jumped at finding an old weather-beaten fellow right behind me; I hadn’t heard him approaching. He asked how it was going, when I replied it was proving to be a struggle he asked to look at my fly box. “None of those” he said “try one of mine, a size 16 I reckon”. He took out a battered old box, opened it and I noticed both sides held the same neat pattern but all arranged according to size. “Here’s two” he said “a 16 and a 14 should do”. I said I would be grateful for just one, but he retorted I should have two in case I lost one. Thanking him, I nipped off my fly, put the larger spare into my box then tied the other new fly onto my tippet. I cast and watched intently, before suddenly realising I was alone again. I thought the old chap must have been considerably more sprightly and younger than he looked to disappear so quickly and silently, but my thoughts were interrupted by the take of the first beautiful trout. I caught fish after fish until there were no more rise rings. Enough was enough. I snipped off the fly and put it in my fly patch to dry, dismantled the rod etc, pulled on the backpack and headed for the Inn.

Near the car park I met one of the locals who had ghillied for me earlier in the week, and he asked me how my last day had gone. When I told him that I had actually lost count of the fish I caught he asked me where I had fished, and after I had explained where he simply said “That’s Pat’s beat”. I asked him why nobody had mentioned it to me before and everyone always said that above the bridge was no good. He explained that Pat was a retired keeper who only ever used one fly pattern when fishing, simply varying the size, and that before his dying day he had requested that he, his rod, all his tackle and flies be cremated together and the ashes scattered into the stream up near the top of its course, the wilder, unspoilt part where no-one went.

“Funny” I said “I met an old guy up there and his box only had one sort in it, they were all different sizes too. I used one that he very kindly gave me and had fantastic sport with it”.

“Can I see it?” came the reply,

“Of course” I responded, opening out the fly patch … “Damn! it must have fallen out during the hike back down here, but never mind, I’ve got another one in my box” and I pulled the box from my vest pocket. I opened it carefully but the slot that I had so securely inserted that fly into was empty. An icy shiver began to spread up and down my spine, but was soon replaced with my smile,

“Thanks, Pat” I whispered.