ANGLING:You can have the perfect rod and the freshest worms, but after all that, fishing isn't really about catching fish, writes Eoin Butler
'THE FIRST THING YOU need to understand about fishing," reckons Gearóid Muldowney, "is that it's not really about catching fish." The van chugs along a bumpy Mayo back-road. "Sometimes you catch something. Other times you don't. But even when you do, the amount of time you spend hooking and reeling in that fish is minuscule."
I feel sort of obliged to ask the next question. So what's the point of fishing then, if not catching fish?
"We'll see," he replies, mysteriously. "Hopefully, we'll figure it out today."
Call it a hunch, but I strongly suspect the answer is going to be either "enjoying the tranquillity", or "appreciating the wonder of the great outdoors". Those kind of things are interesting to me for about 10 seconds.
Luckily, I've stashed some newspapers in the cooler box in the back of Gearóid's van. That's not all I've put in there. There's also a flask of gourmet coffee, a thick batch of turkey sandwiches and - the pièce de résistance - two packets of luxury crisps I picked up at the petrol station in Swinford. We're going to have a pretty swanky lunch-break, if nothing else.
At Tiernan Brothers' Bait Shop in Foxford, they report a bumper weekend for fishermen on the Moy. The salmon have been doing everything but jump out of the water on to the riverbank, they tell us. Unfortunately, we've left it a little bit late to pick up worms. They're fresh out. We're offered prawns instead, but prawns are not permitted to be used as bait on the section of river we intend to fish. This is my first introduction to the myriad rules and regulations that surround salmon-fishing. Space does not permit me to list them all. Suffice to say, they are legion.
Fishermen come from all over the world to fish in the Moy. And it's easy to see why. At the river bend in Clongee, the salmon literally are leaping out of the water. As we mosey along the riverbank, I become aware that we're not alone. We're being observed from a distance by an officer from North Connacht Fisheries. Given how late in the day we've arrived, Gearóid explains, coupled with our relative youth, the officer likely suspects that we haven't a permit to fish here. He has no business with us, however, until our line is in the water, so he hangs back like an apache in an old Western, stalking us from atop a nearby ridge.
As soon as Gearóid casts off, the man materialises from behind a bush.
"How are ye today, lads?" he greets us.
"Grand, grand," we reply. It's one of those quintessentially Irish encounters. He knows why he's here. We know why he's here. But damned if either party is going to let on, not without four or five minutes of irrelevant small-talk first. Eventually, Gearóid reaches into his bag and proffers his permit for the man's inspection. The officer scans it quickly and then shrugs as though asking to see our permit was the last thing on his mind. Then he bids us good day.
Most of the fishing strategies discussed in Gearóid's fishing magazines remind me a lot of gambling theories you hear from superstitious slot-machine junkies. My impression is that no one really has the first clue what they're doing out here. So when Gearóid gives me a turn casting the spinner into the water, I borrow a trick from the eponymous hero of Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea.
"Little fish" I whisper. "I know that you want to swim upriver to spawn. But my need is greater than yours, little fish. These turkey sandwiches won't last forever. And, er, I'm not sure if there are any nice restaurants in the area . . ."
Borrowing a trick from the most famously unlucky fisherman in modern literature proves not to be the greatest idea in the world. After a dozen or so attempts, I give up. I hand Gearóid back his rod and I pull out my newspaper. I think we're both happier with this arrangement.
"The trick," Gearóid tells me, "is knowing what bait to use in what conditions. Knowing where to fish, when to fish, what time to fish at . . ." He trails off. "But, then again, you can be pure lucky as well." We sit chewing our sandwiches in contented silence. "I'd go fishing every day if I could," he sighs. "Every single day."
SALMON-FISHING FACTS
• The River Moy is Europe's most prolific salmon river, attracting some 25,000 visitors a year.
• Famous fishermen who've fished the Moy include Jack Charlton, Nick Faldo, John de Chastelain and
(perhaps surprisingly) John Rocha.
• The salmon-fishing season lasts from February to September.
• Tiernan Brothers' Bait Shop is online at www.themoy.com