Captain Midnight here on the final evening of our sojourn in the Emerald Isle.
Himself and I spent a jolly couple of weeks keeping one step ahead of the rain in Rosie the Campervan. It’s been a pretty good trip: lots of beaches to run around on; long walks along country lanes; and cosy sleeping arrangements for the pack. Himself claims to have done “lots of writing” but he always says that.
Best of all was two nights of wild camping by the River Blackwater, so we could meet up with our old friend and guide, Glenda Powell. Himself spent hours thrashing around with a two-handed fly rod, under her watchful eye, chasing non-existent salmon while I got down to the serious business of sniffing out interesting things to roll in.
Otter shit is my new favourite perfume: distinctive, pungent, lasts for days. Astonishingly, not everyone seems to like it. Himself actually swore at me until I got off the bed and settled down to sleep on the front seat. I think his exact words were: “Jesus Christ, Ted. Are you trying to kill me?”
Himself took the picture of me in the Fishing Hut, relaxing after a hard day in and out of the river. He’d drawn a blank on the salmon front, but Glenda and I encouraged him to wait for the evening rise and go after trout instead. He left at dusk, lightweight fly rod in hand, and returned happy and triumphant a couple of hours later at 11.00pm.
When I asked for some evidence of the “half dozen good-sized trout” he claimed to have caught, he pointed out that photographing wriggling fish, in the dark, using only his left hand, whilst up to his waist in water, would have been tricky to say the least.
I suppose we’ll just have to take his word for it.
He said that fly-fishing alone on the river, casting by moonlight, with just a tug on the line to indicate a take, was… now what did he call it… oh yes… “A glimpse of heaven: the most fun you can have with your waders on!”
He had a large whisky to celebrate. I got a bit of leftover bacon.
Generous to a fault, that man.
Sláinte. Cheers.
Coming Home to Story 