Presented by Lesley Wishart
Ephemera danica
Ephemerae danica have featured significantly in the lives of my family, past and present and at that time of year when the Hawthorne is in bloom and Queen Anne’s Lace bobs along the verges of country roads my thoughts inevitably turn to this short-lived creature.
Ephemerae danica, commonly known as mayflies hatch from eggs laid on the surface of limestone lakes in the midlands and west of Ireland. They develop into nymphs, which burrow into mud and sand on the lake bottom where they live for two years. Sometime during the month of May depending on the vagaries of temperature and light they ascend to the surface. On a calm day and close up they can be seen wriggling out of their stick-like case to a new life, opening their wings one at a time before lifting off in an upward spiral to be taken to shore by their own effort or by the wind, whichever the greater, there to spend their one and only day as a Mayfly.
A cage for storing mayfly for fishing.
The imminent arrival of the May Fly caused a frenzy of activity in and around our house: boat engine despatched for servicing, the last coat of paint applied to the boat, fly boxes and dapping rods recovered from outhouses, reels, new lines and hooks placed in readiness in battered fishing bags. Hillocks of crumpled raincoats, waders, picnic baskets, nets, petrol cans, blackened kettles grew in corners of the house. Being ready for the event and the visitors that came to stay was all-important.
Children were not included in the fishing ritual known as “dapping”. It was a special treat to be taken out in the boat when one was expected to sit huddled on the floor, there to remain silent as father and uncles pursued the serious task in hand. Being a boarder at secondary school during the dapping season also precluded me. Later however an unexpected illness presented an opportunity too good to decline.
A dose of chicken-pox at the age of twenty-one kept me from returning to college until the end of May. My father had passed on but his business partner, Charlie, suggested I could fish with him and his companion who turned out to be no less than Lord Longford’s gillie by the name of Hayden. The burning question each day was, “Is the fly up?” That year on the afternoon of May 10th it was confirmed that it was indeed “up” when mayflies were spotted arriving, breeze assisted at Coolure shore to land as expected belly-up, wings down on the underside of the leaves of the hawthorn. Ten great days followed as each morning I set out bescarved and wearing big dark glasses to hide the spots. Charlie was a patient teacher as eager for me to catch fish as himself, but Hayden, silent and ill-humoured most of the time was the real expert. I suspected he resented my presence, female and inexpert, in his or rather his lordship’s boat.
Early mornings saw us skirt the hawthorn bushes along the Coolure shore of Lough Derravarragh picking the freshest flies, green and juicy and popping them undamaged into our fly boxes. Then with the boat packed with provisions and tackle for the day we would push off and head out between the reeds and the buoys marking the rocks in the general direction dictated by the wind for the first fall of the day. Our mood was sombre when the sun shone. Cloudy, with intermittent rain made us happy. Hayden would decide where the first fall would begin and with the boat turned broadside and the wind at out backs we mounted our daps: the point of the hook through the right-hand rusty spot below the wing of the mayfly and out through the corresponding left spot, push up and across the hook, a No.12, then the next two pierced in the same way and all three manoeuvred to snuggle up, wings and bodies in line with just enough room to squirm and so to attract the trout once on the water. This operation is easy on a calm, sunny day but then there would be no rise. The skill is being able to mount a dap when the boat is rocking in the wind, the rain is damaging the flies, the trout are rising all around and you are trembling to get fishing.
Fly fishing nowadays on a Midlands lake.
That year there were upwards twenty boats covering the same fall, each a respectful distance behind the other. The hook bearing its tempting morsel was attached to a blowline which kept the dap a good distance from the boat. I sat at the bow, Hayden worked the oar in the centre from where it was obious he could manoeuvre his dap to pass over a trout on the take; Charlie beside the engine from such position he felt compelled to shout advice at me: “Keep your eye on the dap!” (difficult with uneven darting waves and the sun in your eyes); “Give the fish time to swallow the flies!” (Impossible or so it seemed in the heat of the moment when you’ve clearly seen them disappearing into the trout’s mouth). All too often I would strike too early and then try to hide my disappointment and frustration. After three days of missed chances Hayden took me aside. I had a sense of being accepted. We stood together on the limestone shore, a light breeze, the smell of wild mint in the air. It promised to be a perfect day, dull with showers. “Now look here, me girleen,” he said slowly, “if you want to catch fish, here’s what you do: keep your eye on the dap and when it disappears say this to yourself, fairly slowly… “one, two, three, up deValera!” and then strike”.
Not too long after came the thrill as, following my incantation of support for the then almost blind president of Ireland, the rod bent and vibrated so much I thought it would jump out of control and the reel screeched as the trout made a run for it. Together my two companions stood up to give a crescendo of directions: “let out more line”, “ah! dammit it’s a beauty….don’t look, watch the top of your rod, keep the bend on it”, “start to reel in….slower, slower for Christ’s sake”, “bring him around to the back of the boat” “Now keep his head up, keep it up…round now over the net” And there a second later beating at my feet a perfection of evolution brushed with silver, brown and purple.
14th February 2017
Objects and Stories 