When in 2008 I first moved to south Tipperary from Dublin, most of my friends, who knew only suburban life, asked why.
What’s down there?” they quizzed.
“Fields, space, the outdoors,” I told them, perhaps not entirely convinced either.
In truth, myself and my wife Trina wanted out of Dublin. We were sick of the traffic and the endless commute-work-sleep cycle. More and more, we were spending every weekend down on her family farm, until eventually we asked ourselves, ‘Why not move down to see if we could make it work?’ We could rent out the Dublin house and start afresh in rural Ireland.
After months of planning, everything was in place. We were leaving Dublin and city life behind.
“I’ll give you one winter down the country and you’ll go running back to Dublin,” Trina said with a laugh, as we packed the final box for the two-hour journey south.
But the countryside was in my blood. My mother’s family was from Galway and every summer would be spent outside Oranmore roaming the fields and climbing the trees. As a kid I had also been introduced to fishing by a family friend, and some of my favourite days were when I was taken for a few hours of a summer’s evening to the Grand Canal outside Prosperous in Kildare.
Was there ever a more apt name for a fishing location? With the warm sun setting in an orange glow against the backdrop of a clear sky, I would sit rapt beside the still water’s edge, watching my float intently to see if it would dip under dramatically – the sure sign that a fish in the depths below had taken my bait.
Nine times out of ten it didn’t and I went home empty-handed. I was never disappointed or sad though. Every time I went fishing I found happiness and contentment that I didn’t get anywhere else. Being outside, surrounded by nature, trying to catch a fish – it fulfilled something in me that only other anglers can understand.
None of my friends understood and would shake their heads in bewilderment if I showed them a picture of me beaming, holding a tench, roach or perch.
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Lough Currane in Waterville, Co Kerry.
Fast-forward a quarter of a century and whilst I may have done very little fishing in my teenage or college years, the yearning was still there. Moving down to Tipp, I discovered the River Suir flowed only minutes from where we would be living.
Also close by to our new home was a golf course next to the Suir, so I had a choice to make: golf or fly fishing? I knew I wouldn’t have time for both and while my friends in Dublin all played golf, my memories of fishing as a kid brought back fonder memories and I decided to take up fly fishing instead.
Ireland’s third longest river (after the Shannon and the Barrow), the Suir is majestic and discerning. It rises in the Devil’s Bit in north Tipperary and flows through some of the best farmland in the country, surrounded by limestone and fields of crops and dairy cows. It is also known as one of the best wild brown trout rivers in Europe and it was where I began to fly fish.
What has followed in the years since has been a journey of delight that has taken me to some of the most beautiful and rugged parts of Ireland (and abroad) with a fly rod in hand.
I might not be able to hit a driver off the tee or chip my way to the green, but I found something more. I found a pastime that not only forces me to switch off and forget the worries of the world for a few hours – but fly fishing takes me right into nature itself, a place we have become all too cut-off from in our digital worlds.
Casting a fly on a river to a brown trout or salmon, I am part of the flowing waters rushing by. Insects are hatching on the surface and a trout rises to meet it. A heron eyes me suspiciously on the far bank while overhead two swans swoop low on a fly-by upstream to their cygnets. In the reeds by the water’s edge, bright-blue damsel flies dance around, while sheep and cows graze contentedly in the fields behind.
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The Dodder valley in Dublin
In the years since I started fly fishing, I have learnt how to cast with single-handed and larger double-handed rods; I learned how to read a river and where to target fish in the seemingly anonymous rush of water; I learned about entomology and which flies trout prefer to eat, and when; I learned about the salmon’s life cycle from river to the sea and back again to its river of birth to spawn.
Most importantly, I learned about nature. How to appreciate our place in it and how vital are clean rivers, lakes and the sea – not just to ourselves, but to the fish and the rest of the natural world that depend so much on its cycle.
I have fished the mighty Lough Corrib, famed throughout the world, and a place where anglers come from afar during the mayfly season that heralds the start of summer. And I learned that the waters of the Corrib were “like London” for the local anglers, who didn’t have to emigrate but instead could sell the fish caught to Billingsgate market, or offer their services to guide visiting anglers to earn a living.
I have fished for sea trout on Lough Currane in Waterville in Kerry, and when I asked about the ruin on Church Island, was told that there was a 12th century monastery founded there and that Saint Finian first built important monastic settlements in the area from the sixth century on.
I learned about the historical and economic importance of salmon as a provider of food, but also learned its cultural significance that stretches back to the earliest dawn of Irish history.
According to Irish mythology, Amergin was the Milesian bard who was part of the original settlers to Ireland and who, upon setting his right foot on the ground nearby at Ballinskelligs Bay proclaimed his poem, ‘The Song of Amergin’ (translated by Paddy Bushe here):
‘…Am salmon in pool
Am lake in plain
Am fortified hilltop
Am learning’s essence
Am sharpened spear dealing death
Am god who kindles fire in the head.’
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Anglers near Delphi, Connemara
I also learned about bass in Cork and Waterford, pike in the midlands – and trout in the Dodder flowing through suburban Dublin, caught under the orange glow of streetlights as a double-decker bus drove past.
Most importantly though, I learned about myself. To slow down, to immerse myself in nature when I can, to appreciate the beauty of life outdoors and to allow myself that space and time, if even just for an hour of an evening’s rise down the road from where I now live.
This is what I found when we moved to Tipp and yet it’s something I still find hard to convey to friends and non-anglers alike. They ask what it’s all about – and I realise when I start to explain the casting, the fishing, the catching and release of wild fish, that’s not where I need to start.
But how can you describe the wonder of flowing waters stirring your soul every time you cross over a river and wonder about the fish that lie beneath? It’s about fishing and it’s about so much more.
‘Haunted by Waters: A Journey into the Irish Countryside’ by Daire Whelan is published in hardback, €16.99, by Hachette Ireland
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The Blackwater, Co Waterford
Letting Fly: Daire’s Top Fishing Spots
1 River Suir, Co Tipperary
It’s where I began my fly fishing journey and where I escape to for an hour’s solitude in the morning or evening when I can. One of the best rivers there is for wild brown trout.
2 The Blackwater, Co Waterford
I learned my salmon fishing here and I’ve been back every season for the chance to land an Atlantic salmon.
3 Lough Currane, Waterville, Co Kerry
Catching sea trout on the fly in an area steeped in centuries of history is a very special thing to do.
4 Connemara
There are so many places to fly fish in this wild and rugged landscape that it’s impossible to name just one. Take your pick from Delphi, Ballynahinch, the Erriff, or Costello and Fermoyle.
5 River Dodder, Dublin
It’s not quite rugged or untamed, but Dublin is the only European capital where you can catch a salmon, sea trout or brown trout within the city boundaries.
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