We are fast approaching the may fly fishing season in the West of Ireland when hundreds of intrepid fishermen descend annually on the famous Corrib Lake hinterland seeking specimen trout and salmon during the hectic fishing period associated with the short life of the famous little may fly. So in order not to be caught unprepared and unpractised for this event, I set off recently to my own favourite fishing spot near to the ‘Quiet Man’ fishing bridge made famous in the old John Wayne movie. However, much to my chagrin, I could not persuade even the smallest of the little trout to rise to my carefully presented tasty offerings and so after a few hours of fishing failure I set off for a stroll around the lake edge and include here some photos taken at the time. It is strange during this period of calm reflection how the very process of capturing these images on a mobile phone can recall recent and indeed past experiences in a vivid way. For example, the skull of the dead sheep in the bog recalled to me the paintings and indeed the Ghost Ranch of the famous artist Georgia O’Keefe which I had visited in Abiquiu, New Mexico many years ago. The ghostly theme also brought to mind the wonderful book by Joseph O’Connor called ‘Ghost Light’ which I am currently reading and which I can highly recommend. It is a work blending fact and fiction based around the character of J.M. Synge, the Irish playwright and his romantic association with one Molly Allgood. It is magnificently written and captures in a very clever and humorous way the evocative magic of a lost era. If ever I were to aspire to write a book of this quality then attempting to match this work of fiction would surely represent the pinnacle of my ambition. Indeed while I was walking around the lake, I noticed a fishing boat partly submerged in the bog water and could not but recall the words of the novel quoted below:
“There was a day many years ago, in Connemara or Kerry, when you happened upon an old rowboat that had been dumped in a bog. Cross-bench crushed and buckled, rotting tiller wrenched askew, it had sunk to its oarlocks in the oozing, black peat.”
I also walked along part of the line of the old Clifden railway and took some photos of the ghostly images of the stones and aqueducts which are all that remain of this historic line. Thus, despite the absence of fish, perhaps my day was not without rewarding personal stimulation from the wild rugged landscape of lovely Connemara and its fond memory associations.
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