Lough Corrib – An Angling Love Affair
My love affair with Lough Corrib began shortly after my traumatic break up with my first true love. the sea trout lochs of Sutherland.
It was simply that the sea trout were no longer there for me, so we quietly drifted apart. We’re still on very good terms, but perhaps some of that early passion that I shared with the likes of Stack, More and Dionard isn’t as strong as it once was – over the years our ardour may have cooled somewhat.
I was far too young to waste the rest of my life not fishing some wild place from a drifting boat, so, sort of on the rebound, I fell for the beguiling waters of Lough Corrib.
The first cut may be the deepest, so Corrib can never quite replace those summers spent in my spiritual home on the great highland lochs of the far north. Time hasn’t healed the wounds, but luckily I’ve moved on and found a couple of other different, special places, one being Lough Corrib which has drawn me back to Oughterard for the last twenty five years.
Scale and Grandeur
So What is Corrib’s allure; what made me fall for its charms?
I think above all else it’s the scale meant in its widest sense. Firstly, there’s the obvious physical grandeur. The Lough covers sixty-eight square miles and extends for thirty-five miles from Maam Bridge in the north to the outskirts of Galway in the south. It has hundreds of islands, even if not quite the reputed island for every day of the year.
Despite its vastness, when I fish the Lough I find it to be remarkably intimate. There are no long featureless drifts, the place may be wild, sometimes in a big wave seemingly on the edge of intimidating, but land is always near to hand.
It may be the contours of the islands of Illaundabreack and Inishanboe, the long shoreline running from Barrusheen to Cormorant Rock, or the outlines of bays such as Kittens and Moons.
Even if you do find yourself in open water, it is likely that you will still be almost in touch with terra firma. Just a few feet under your keel you’ll be drifting over boulder strewn shallows rippling yellow under the waves.
But for me, Lough Corrib’s true scale lies in the range and variety of its fishing, with its huge and complex angling tableaux offering endless possibilities.
Other waters I write about I would be confident being your guide – but not on Corrib; it’s too vast and multi layered in its fishing. OK, during the mayfly season I’d rate myself as being a pretty decent visiting angler over the fraction of the Lough that I know well. But as for the rest of the Lough and its different seasons, it remains unchartered water.
I’ve often thought that if my life was to fall apart, it would be to some imaginary white-washed thatched cottage on Corrib’s shores that I would flee. Perhaps this mythical haven would overlook the ridiculously picturesque Currarevagh Bay.
It would undoubtedly have its own stone jetty jutting out into the bay, and bobbing alongside it would be my pride and joy, a beautifully varnished eighteen foot clinker boat.
Imagine me as a shorter, older and frankly less attractive Ben Fogle, making some documentary where I go and live off grid for a year, exploring the changing moods of the Lough and discovering the full extent of its angling opportunities.
My year would start with the duckfly of March and April. I’d spend these early weeks searching out the elusive duckfly holes which I’ve read so much about. I’m sure I could tempt a few early season trout to a small Black Pennell or a Connemara Black.
Then into the early season olives, before the glorious emergence of the mayfly of May and June. Just think of the luxury of actually being able to pick the worthwhile fishing days instead of desperately flogging the place in bright sun and flat calm, all because in a few short days you have to catch your ferry home.
I know Corrib isn’t known for its spent gnat fishing, but I’ve read somewhere that Glynn’s Bay offers one of the few places on the lough where you may come across a fall of spent flies. Luckily for me this would be just round the corner from my Currarevagh Bay idyll, so on a calm evening it could provide an hour of delightful late night diversion.
During early summer I could unravel the mysteries of sunrise early morning caennis. I’ve spoken to people who say it can be stunning fishing, but for me it’s something I’ve yet to witness.
The dog days of summer could be filled with the odd outing exploring the depths for ferox, or in pursuit of the doubtless elusive grilse said to lie along the Glann Shore.
In the autumn, back on the familiar ground of some proper old style wet fly fishing, imitating sedges with Green Peters and the like. Possibly I could bring the trout season to a triumphant end by luring one of those September fat trophy brownies to a dapped daddy long legs.
Through the year I could make myself master the art of fishing buzzers – I might even come to like it! I’ve been told stories of fish of a size beyond my comprehension being caught, but I think that to find them I may have to venture further south, beyond my usual fishing grounds.
I could even be tempted by the occasional foray into the world of competitive angling. It’s good to see that the competitions often get won by the boatmen who seem to use traditional methods. A far cry from my year of humiliation, fishing the big competitions on the English reservoirs.
With the trout season over for another year, let’s widen our horizons and put our trout snobbery aside. So, whisper it softly, but during the winter months I could amuse myself with the local pike. I’ve already caught one by accident on a mayfly – so how hard can it be? I can’t deny that the thought of casting a fly over them, perhaps just off the reed beds in Kittens Bay, does have a certain appeal. There must be worse ways to while away a couple of hours on a winter’s day.
I could even have fun with the Lough’s other coarse residents. As a youngster, I spent many a happy evening catching perch under a balsa wood float. They were my portal into the angling world, and I’ve always had something of a soft spot for them.
Last year, during a sun drenched flat calm, I stood on the Inchagoill pier and watched a lone perch, far bigger than anything I had ever caught in my youth, cruising aimlessly around the bay. Even at some distance and a couple of feet down, you could still see its black stripes vibrant in the glare. Sometimes I think we forget the simple angling pleasures.
And so my year would end, hopefully with memories of many fish caught, new drifts discovered, and my angling horizons expanded.
My Lough Corrib
OK, I’ve now woken from my dream and my world still seems to be intact, so what is my real life experience of Lough Corrib in May?
One of the Lough’s early attractions was that Oughterard, the gateway to Corrib, had a whole history and subculture rooted in the mayfly season.
Amongst the many delights of Corrib was seeing a knot of youngsters massed outside the Lake Hotel in the centre of town, all vying to sell their live mayfly to the visiting anglers.
Can you imagine the power of a childhood memory of your dad dragging you away from your homework to clamber into his boat and be taken to collect mayfly together somewhere on his favourite island?
I’ve just watched a news item on YouTube filmed around 2000. It starts with the kids meeting up to fix prices, setting an inflation busting 50% rise to €1.50 a dozen. No price undercutting allowed, a true cartel in action. One lad, who looked to be about ten, had made €600 in the first two weeks!
The piece then cuts to an interview with the young entrepreneurs’ teachers, who were more than happy for their charges to use selling mayfly as an excuse for turning up late to school – it was tradition. Of course, in days gone by, they used to get a whole week off school to pursue their business interests, and they even got to sell them in their own mayfly market.
The town had a fishing buzz. The hotels, bars and restaurants were full of fisherman. Mayfly logos were dotted all over these establishments, and the talk everywhere was of fishing and the hatch.
It reminded me of a comment my wife made on a visit to Liverpool. It was on a Saturday, and every shop she went in had the match on the radio. Liverpool has Anfield; Oughterard had Corrib.
I use the past tense because I see it slipping away. I can still see remnants, more than remnants, but Corrib unfortunately isn’t what it was, and you can see the impact on Oughterard’s ever more shuttered bars and restaurants.
Even the young mayfly sellers are harder to find, and now you have to search them out beside their shoreside homes.
I don’t know the Lough well enough to make a final judgement, I’ll leave that to the locals, but I know my Corrib is in trouble. The good years seem to be interspersed with ever lengthening barren years, and in the last two I’ve caught almost as many fish as I’ve seen mayfly.
But I’m still drawn back, possibly I’m in denial, but I do catch fish, and when I do they are still something wonderful to behold.
Corrib is always my first away trip of the year, and I still feel a mounting childlike excitement as the days of May tick nearer.
The winter will have seen me pointlessly overfill my fly box with my home tied efforts, and then make stupidly unnecessary fly purchases from Frankie McPhillips. There is nothing in fishing as visually appealing as an Irish fly box filled with mayfly and olive patterns in all their myriad shades of yellow and green.
What makes this even more ludicrous is that I pretty much always stick to the same cast – Yellow Leggy Octopus on the top, a JC Sooty Olive in the middle and a McPhails Mayfly on the point.
If you start flailing round in fly selection it’s normally a sign of desperation, and how often does it work?
Over the years I’ve always hired my boat from the ever optimistic Mike Molloy at Burrusheen. It has to be said that Mike often seems to be fishing a different Lough from the rest of us; I’m sure he’s on a retainer from the local Tourist Board! He once introduced me to a drift he claimed was called the Deep Shallow – only in Ireland!
From Burrusheen I spend my days covering water from Creeve Bay north west as far as the Snadauns, and a bit beyond. From here out to Inchagoill and back to Inishool and Cussafuar. An area forming a rough rectangle some four miles by two.
The urge is to go far when the trout are often near. My best ever day on Corrib was spent drifting down the Burrusheen shore, starting no more than an oar’s length from the jetty.
But, of course, part of the attraction is the exploration of the Lough; this is not a place to get bored by hammering the same drift all day.
It says a lot about Corrib that I don’t have a favourite spot. For me it’s just an almost seamless mosaic of wondrous shallows, shores, islands and bays.
But some places deserve a special mention.
I know it’s an obvious one, and undoubtedly sees far too many boats, but Inchagoill is a magical place. So many drifts, but if I could just have one, it would be the long run from Illaundaulaur onto the southeast corner of the island. The drift between the islands is some 400 yards long.
Fish can be caught all the way across, but expectancy surges as in front of you the inky black waters lighten and islands of shallows emerge, surely the home of emerging mayfly, how can you possibly fail here? But of course I often do!
Inchagoill has always attracted reverence, and not just from heathens like me. First the druids made it their island home before according to tradition St Patrick visited in the fifth century. Early Irish monks settled here making it their place of worship. Apparently they fished, but I suspect there wasn’t much fur and feather involved.
The island also looms large in my thoughts for another reason. It’s the place where we dare the conditions. It lies two miles off our home shore, and sits astride the prevailing westerly wind. So in a big wave, it often becomes a test of nerve to leave the shelter of the western shore and venture out into the open water. With the waves at your back, the boat surges forwards making the crossing deceptively effortless. Getting back can be a different story.
I know the boats are stable, and in reality everybody seems to get home, but in a strengthening wind I can’t deny the occasional rising feeling of trepidation at the thought at the trip back.
So you set the bow dead into the oncoming rollers and bounce from wavetop to wavetop. Every time the bow crashes down, a drenching wall of spray flies backwards hitting the unfortunate angler manning the engine (normally me!) full in the face. As you near the lee of the shore, the waves gradually quieten, and dripping wet you give a little sigh of relief – it was always going to be OK!
Amongst the bays, Moons has always had a magnetic attraction for me, it seems that at some part of the day I will always find myself here. Partly because it’s sheltered, but mainly because I just like it, and what better reason can there be? It’s off the beaten track, has its own shallows, tree clad rocky shore and even the picture perfect house set back from the shore complete with its own boathouse – what more could you ask for?
But perhaps I get the greatest pleasure from the days I spend meandering between those small islands I can’t even name. Fishing delightful short drifts where deft boat handling is as much part of the joy as the fishing. Every island seems to have its own array of shallows, and you know they all have their own resident trout. The fish I catch here seem to stay long in the memory.
Lough Corrib has given me endless hours, days and weeks of pleasure. Like many of the places I fish I fear for its future. To the powers that be – this place is too precious to lose, please protect it – it’s just a wonderful place to be.
