Those if you of a certain age will recall the famous Monty Python dead parrot sketch. Like the Norwegian Blue, I had been pining for a fjord. But this fjord is in Ireland – Killary harbour. Killary is a long, narrow and deep salt water inlet which forms part of the border between counties Mayo and Galway. These days it is intensively fished for farmed mussels, the long neat rows of buoys marking the ropes on which the shell fish are grown. Despite this human encroachment it is a great place for shore fishing and I wanted to try for a few Mackerel this evening.
Rain had been threatening all day and by the time I set off in the evening cloudbursts were drenching the county. Silver rivulets ran down the slopes of the mountains as I drove along the serpentine road to Leenaun. The full moon meant big tides this week and there was no shortage of water when I reached my favourite spot. However the big tides also brought a familiar menace – drifting weed. Every cast brought that slow heavy drag and another few minutes wasted clearing wrack from the hooks. I moved to a spot further down the harbour to see if I could find some clear water but the problem persisted. At last something fishy grabbed the lure but instead of the hoped for mackerel it was a small Pollock. Half-a-dozen of these chaps gave me some small measure of fun before I beat a retreat, defeated by the weed. I needed a plan ‘B’.
Rod dismantled, I sat in the car for a few minutes to think over my options. In the end I decided to give Roonagh one more try so I headed up past the falls and on through the narrow defile which opens out as you near Louisburgh. More thundery rain chased me along the road but it dried up as I neared the pier. Disappointment awaited me though as the pier was deserted, a sure sign the fish are not around. Sure enough, cast after cast was unmolested but there was little weed here so it was pleasant just being out in the warm evening. I was probably day dreaming when the fish came along, that sudden jagged pull on the line, unmistakably a mackerel. It was to present a solitary figure by the end of the night.
A couple of locals came down to give it a try but I had just been lucky to bump into what seemed to be the only fish in the bay. We three fished stoically on as sun slowly set, turning the sky pink and amber. A perfect early Autumn evening to be out in the open, all it needed was a few more of the stripy fellows but it wasn’t to be. A velvet darkness descended as I drove home through the quiet of the Louisburg and the revelry of Westport. There is time yet for the shoals of mackerel to show up, some years they can be very late indeed. Somehow I sense they are just in short supply though.