The Brown and White Moth

The little country inn I had booked for my fishing holiday was lovely. Nestling in the moors, there were miles of tumbling streams and a few small lakes available to me on the local ‘passport’ system. My room was very comfortable and the BBEM was just right – plus they provided a packed lunch, too. Every day I would strike out with directions to a new water. The surrounding countryside was glorious, the weather kind, but not so the fishing gods. All I managed were very infrequent wild brown trout, the biggest not quite the length of my hand.

After each long day I returned to the inn’s bar to have a reviving beer or two before getting ready for dinner. The only other angling guest, a chap who had left the Emerald Isle a long time ago to seek his fortune, would appear a little after me, to hand the chef a brace of beautiful trout, each around the two-and-a-half-pound mark, much to my envy. I would engage him in conversation and we would have the craic, him well versed in the blarney and giving nothing away other than which beat he had fished that day.

After my typically delicious dinner I would return to the bar and buy him a pint or two, until just before heading to my room I would ask him the same question “What fly did you catch on today?”, to which he always replied “Oh, the Brown and White Moth, drifted with the current. Goodnight”.

I tried all the patterns in my fly boxes which were at all moth-like, or which were brown and/or white, but it made no difference, day after slogging day. On the eve of my final day I once again plied him with a few pints, but this time added a good Irish whisky chaser with each round. Eventually I judged him to be in high enough spirits (pun intended) to take my chance and ask if I could see one of his ‘moth’ flies. Grinning, he agreed, reaching for his old fishing jacket. From an inside pocket he took a small oblong wrapped in greaseproof paper, certainly not the fly box I was expecting. “I always do well with this” he said, opening the little pack, then tapped the side of his nose, the age-old sign that I was being let into a secret. He solemnly revealed half of a cheese sandwich, with several small pieces of the crust missing!