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A FISHING TRIP IN THE EMERALD ISLE.

BY A. W. LONG.

VIII.

THE glass went up slowly, and then remained high and steady for some days. As there was no immediate prospect of a flood and grilse, we determined to make an expedition to a large lake about thirty-five miles to the northeast, famous for its dapping. We wired to a man who kept a sporting hotel on the shores of this lake, Lough Rusky, and on receiving a reply that you "could not see the water for may-fly," started to get our kit together, meaning to go in Lizzie the next day.

Pat's hotel on the very shores of Lough Rusky is probably the most beautifully situated hotel of its kind in the West of Ireland, and Pat himself was certainly the dirtiest-looking man we had yet met in that country, but possessed the manners of an emperor.

He told us that the prospects of sport were of the best, and after promising to have a boat and two good boatmen ready for us at an early hour, we retired to bed. When dressing the next morning I heard Charles, whose room was next to mine, shouting for the boots. After a time Pat's voice answered from the hall below asking what he lacked, and Charles told him that his

boots had not been touched. A pause, and Pat asked where he had left them. "Outside my door, of course," snapped Charles. "Sorr," said Pat in his grandest tone of voice, "if you had left yer gold watch and chain outside yer door, sorra one in this house would have touched them." Which unexpected reply so flabbergasted Charles that without another word he put on his boots dirty, probably for the first time in his life.

Breakfast over, we started to get our tackle fixed up, while Pat told us of the great size of the Lough Rusky trout, the finest trout in Ireland."

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A fine day towards the end of May in the West of Ireland is wonderfully pleasant, and even if I had not had good sport I was prepared to be quite content with the scenery. Lough Rusky is about eight miles long, with a breadth at one point of three and a half miles, and the hotel stands on the southern shore within a stone's throw of the lake, a square house set down in the midst of rocks, heather, and gorse. The east shore is uninteresting, but the west most beautiful: high headlands clad in bracken and gorse, while at many points there are thick

woods of small oak, birch, and hazel, probably self-sown. And dotted over all the south-west corner of the lake are numerous small islands, some of them nothing but piles of granite rocks, and others clad with the same queer little trees.

Of the many different flies to be seen in early summertime on the lakes in the centre and West of Ireland none surpass the greendrake for grace and beauty; and a really big rise of may-fly is a sight once seen never to be forgotten.

On most of the large lakes in this part of the country there are to be found shallows, called "corrigeens," the bottoms of which are largely formed of that pale, gritty, sandy detritus in which the larvæ of the may-fly love to burrow. The eggs of the mayfly, when first laid on the surface of the water, sink to these sandy bottoms, where they remain until hatched into larvæ, which at once start to burrow, and the colder the weather at the time the deeper they go. And here they stay until the following summer, when the rising temperature hatches them out into may-flies.

in the centre of the country the rise generally lasts for about two or three weeks, while on the lakes farther west it lasts as long as six weeks. Most likely there is a greater uniformity of depth in the former lakes, with the result that the fly all hatch out practically together; while in the western lakes, where the depth varies greatly, the rise will correspond to the different depths, and so is prolonged.

The life of a may-fly is from twenty-four to thirty-six hours. And though this may seem short, one wonders how any may-fly can live even so long with every hand against it. From the minute it starts to ascend from its birthplace to the surface of the water until it rises into the air, every trout in the lake is on the alert to swallow it; and the instant the fly flutters into the summer air every bird, from a gull to a wren, is watching and waiting for it.

On a western lake, when the fly are rising freely, all the small birds of the countryside seem to collect on the lee shore of the lake and every island, and you will see them flying from thorn-bush to whin-bush, Most things in Ireland are gobbling up the fly as fast as pretty uncertain, and the time they can. On one small island of the rise of may-fly is no ex- alone you will see chaffinches, ception. A cold or warm spring tits, wagtails, buntings, whinseems to be the chief factor chats, and wrens, all hardly governing the time of the rise, able to fly, so stuffed are they which may occur at any period with may-fly-and with their from the middle of May to the heads in the air like cormorants second week in June. trying to swallow an extra large On the famous dapping lakes eel, while the legs and wings of

the fly stick out at each side of the beak like whiskers.

On many Irish lakes the mayfly season is the only period during the year when the trout will rise to the surface to take a fly, and on practically all the big lakes the only time when large trout can be caught at all except by trolling.

The earlier in the season the rise comes the better the fishing will be. When the fly comes up early, but few of them appear during the first week or so, unless the weather is unusually warm, and these stragglers seem to have an irresistible attraction for the big trout. In late seasons the fly are so numerous from the beginning of the rise that the trout are soon gorged, become quickly dainty, and therefore rise badly.

When we started there was a strong west wind blowing, with the result that the fly as they rose in the different parts of the lake were blown towards the east shore, and here the air was white with gulls hawking ceaselessly after the swarms of may-fly.

The two boatmen, Con and Terry Walsh, first rowed to an island in the south-east corner of the lake, where, by the aid of butterfly-nets, they quickly caught and carefully placed in a specially made wicker-basket sufficient fly to last us for the day.

Dapping is an art peculiar in itself, and once mastered is not particularly difficult except in rough water, when great

care is required to keep the fly from being drowned. The ignorant and simple angler, on demanding a dapping-rod from a tackle shop, will find himself presented with a twenty-foot rod resembling the mast of a fishing smack, which he will use for possibly half an hour. After that he will, according to his nationality, either break it in as many pieces as he can, or else endeavour to sell it to a friend greener and simpler than himself. A light fourteenfoot grilse rod when the breeze is very light, and a twelvefoot trout rod when strong, are the handiest ones to use. Apart from the fatigue of holding up a twenty-foot pole for hours, it is nearly impossible to play or bring to the net a wild trout with such a weapon. blow lines are necessary: of plaited silk for use in a strong wind, and one of the lightest and airiest gossamer floss silk to keep the fly well away from the boat when the breeze is of the lightest. At the end of the blow line, which is spliced to the reel line, is attached two feet of the finest gut. And the reel check must be smooth and light in order to play without breaking a wild five- to eight-pound trout on such fine tackle.

Two

one

There is a wonderful fascination in watching the may-fly just barely tipping the water. Suddenly the water breaks slightly-sometimes in heavy water you miss it, the fly disappears, you strike at the right moment, and in a flash the

line tightens and you are bat- the hotel with a fine basket tling with the first mad rush of two dozen beautiful trout, of a heavy trout in the pink ranging from a pound and of condition. three-quarters to seven and a half, not a small trout amongst them.

Quickly I forgot everything in the world, my whole mind centred in the greendrake dancing and tripping over the waves, always expecting it silently and slowly to disappear. Towards evening the rise went off, and we made our way back to

The following morning came a wire from Robert, saying that there was a grand flood and that the grilse were landed, and we were not long taking the road for home.

Charles drove slowly and carefully until we got to Eastport, where a sudden spurt and an extra bad pothole put Lizzie's back axle out of action, and we had to leave her there to be repaired. We managed to squeeze into a small hired car, and got home without further mishap in torrents of rain.

There was the usual full parade of servants to welcome us, except Porgeen, who was in bed with an accumulation of small pains. Robert was dancing with excitement at the prospect of good grilse fishing, and told us that they were falling over each other trying to get up the Glenowen river, and that we must be ready to start fishing the instant the flood cleared.

I told Patsey to give the car driver a meal, and a good glass of whisky afterwards to keep the cold out, to be informed that devil a drop of whisky or poteen was there in the house: that old snake of

IX.

a Porgeen had it all scoffed. In fact, there was nothing left except Master Charles's Benedictine and Miss Mary's lemonade crystals. It would be a sin to give grand stuff like Benedictine to an ignorant motey man; but as no one had ever been known to leave the house without his fill of whisky, or maybe poteen, he would have to give him the Benedictine.

Shortly afterwards I heard Patsey and the driver go into the dining-room, and Patsey's explanation of the unpardonable absence of whisky and poteen, followed by, "But did ye ever taste Benedictine, Pat? Pat 'Tis made by the holy monks." Then through the half-open door I saw Pat swill off a liqueur glass of Charles's best Benedictine. After contemplating the empty glass for some time, he said to Patsey, "That's gran' stuff; God bless the holy monks whatever, but to hell with the man that blew that glass for shortness of

breath." And Patsey had to give him two more glasses before he was satisfied and would start for Eastport.

So fine was the next morning that you would never imagine it could rain at all in the country, and after an early breakfast we set off for the Glenowen river with Robert and Jack in attendance. And as the wind was straight downstream we settled each to take one bank.

The Glenowen river was of quite a different type to the Duffmore: broader, broader, shorter, and not nearly so rapid, it resembled more a river running through flat country. And draining two large lakes, it had the additional advantage of keeping up to fishing level for a much longer time.

When Robert and I reached the river bank, we found the water was still too thick for fishing, and after picking out a dry spot under a sheltering bank, we sat down to wait and smoke.

After about ten minutes Robert drew my attention to the opposite bank of the river, which was honeycombed with rabbit-holes. At first I only saw about half a dozen rabbits, apparently carrying on in the way rabbits usually do. But when I watched closely, I saw that the numbers were increasing rapidly; not a second not a second passed but a rabbit came stealthily out of a hole, crept forward a few feet, and then crouched as still as a log. And Robert pointed out to me that

all their heads were turned towards one hole in the centre of the burrow at the top of the bank.

At last they ceased to come out, and for several minutes nothing happened, but not a rabbit moved. Then suddenly out darted a single rabbit, as Robert said, as though the devil had him by the tail, its ears flat on its back, to run round frantically in a circle twice, and finally to subside in a heap in the middle of its companions. Again for some minutes nothing happened, and I began to think that every rabbit in the burrow had gone mad. A gentle nudge from Robert, and my eye caught something moving out of the centre hole. moved a little more, to send a perceptible quiver through the crouching rabbits, and I saw that it was the wicked little head of a weasel, its eyes on fire. Another pause, and the weasel started to draw himself slowly out of the hole in a careless fashion, as though he had only been paying a call and was now on his way home.

It

Twice the rabbit in the centre of the circle made a wild bound, to send an answering uneasy shudder through its hypnotised brothers and sisters; each time the weasel stood stock-still with a foreleg held up in the air, and its victim at once collapsed into a heap again.

Slowly the weasel began to draw near its unfortunate victim, but when it got within three feet the rabbit gathered

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