Among the many rivers and streams watering the south-west of Ireland
and falling into the Atlantic, few present greater attractions to the
wandering angler than the bright little Caragh of County Kerry. This
beautiful salmon river takes its rise in Lough Cloon, and after a rapid
winding course of seven or eight miles through the lovely valley of
Glencar, at length falls into Lake Caragh, one of the finest and most
picturesque sheets of water in the south of Ireland. The river leaves
Lake Caragh at its northern extremity, and after gliding for two or
three miles farther through a deep rocky glen, finally discharges
itself by an arm of the sea into Dingle Bay.
Lough Cloon where, as already mentioned, the river Caragh rises, is
a small but very deep mountain lake, and surrounded on all sides by
heather-clad hills, which gradually slope down to its rocky shores.
Farther away, the mountains become more precipitous, till at length
the eye rests on bare cliffs and towering crags which rear their
snow-capped peaks to the skies, and complete a picture which for wild
grandeur it would be difficult to surpass. On a still day, the silence
around the lake is peculiarly impressive if not awe-inspiring; not
a breath of air ruffles the dark waters of Lough Cloon; not a sound
catches the ear but the distant bleat of a goat from the opposite
crags, the shrill cry of the curlew from the moor hard by, or the
sullen plunge of a leaping salmon far away in the loch.
To the ornithologist this wild spot possesses unusual attractions.
Here he may at times see the golden eagle soaring aloft, a mere speck
in the sky; or perchance observe a pair of the royal birds beating
the hill-side in search of mountain hares to bear away to their eyry
on the steep side of old Carrantuohill. Such, comparatively speaking,
rare birds as the peregrine falcon, the buzzard, raven, and many others
that might be named, are also to be met with, and have their nests
among these Kerry mountains, and afford a pleasing study to the young
naturalist.
But to return. The upper part of the Caragh river, from Lough Cloon to
where the stream is spanned from bank to bank by a picturesque old arch
called Bealalaw Bridge, offers few inducements to the salmon-fisher,
on account of the shallowness of the water; though doubtless after
a flood, when the fish are moving up stream, there are two or three
casts well worth a trial. Immediately below the bridge, however, and
stretching almost in a direct line towards the south-west through a
deep rocky gorge, lies the celebrated Bridge Pool. This far-famed and
somewhat singular salmon-cast is of great length, perhaps reaching
two hundred and fifty yards from end to end, but is nowhere broader
than fifty feet. The sides of the pool are for the most part steep and
jagged, rising almost perpendicularly to a considerable height above
the edge of the river. The water is dark coloured and of great depth,
so much so, that on the brightest day it is impossible to see the
rocky bottom. At the top of the pool, where the river surges through
the narrow strait below the bridge, there is a considerable current;
but lower down the stream gradually dies away, till at length the pool
becomes almost dead water, flat and motionless.
The Bridge Pool, on account of its great depth and rocky bottom, is a
favourite resting-place of the salmon. Here many an exhausted fish,
after escaping the deadly nets so murderously plied by the fishermen
of Lake Caragh, and surmounting the numberless obstacles and dangers
besetting its path up from the sea, at length reaches a retreat where
it can recruit its strength, and thus be enabled later to push on to
the end of its journey. Even here, however, the poor wanderer is not
altogether out of harm's way. Though safe from the fangs of prowling
otter and beyond the reach of poacher's net or cruel leister, it is
ever in danger of being in snared by the angler's glittering lure.
And see! here comes one of _Salmo salar's_ deadly enemies, a Glencar
fisherman, accompanied by an aged guide, a veteran follower of the
craft, bearing his long shining rod. Let us watch their movements, as
they consult together what is to be the fly wherewith to tempt from his
hiding-place one of those noble fellows lying at anchor in the pool
hard by. They have chosen a good day for their sport. There has been
rain in the night, not a heavy downpour, but sufficient to colour the
water a brown tinge. The morning is cloudy, with occasional gleams of
sunshine; and a fresh breeze from the south-west blows steadily through
the old arch, and ruffles the surface of the pool from end to end.
And now the pair have completed their preparations, and the angler,
rod in hand, carefully descends the steep bank to a small sandy bay
just below the bridge, from whence he can command the upper reach of
the cast. The fly, skilfully directed by the wielder of the rod in a
diagonal direction down stream, falls light as thistle-down close to
the far bank, and the current brings it across in a bold sweep to the
near side. The line is lengthened a few feet, and the process repeated
again and again, till presently the foot of the rapid is reached, but
with no good result. After a brief consultation the two now cross the
bridge, and skirting the far side, presently approach one of the best
casts in the river. Nearly opposite to where they are now standing, a
giant rock boldly projects into the stream, and just below, where the
dark water slowly curls round the point of the stone, lies a favourite
lodge for a 'fish.'
Commencing a few yards above this spot, and keeping well out of sight
as he advances, the angler carefully covers each foot of water, till
presently his fly slowly glides past the projecting angle of the
rock. Ha! What was that bright flash of silver, swiftly darting
upwards from the depths of the black abyss? It is the monarch of the
pool, a glorious silvery sixteen-pounder; in a second he clutches the
treacherous bunch of shining feathers concealing the barbed hook; and
with a flourish of his broad tail, down he goes to his lodge again; but
now the angler plays his part, and with a firm stroke of the rod drives
the hook deep into the fish's jaws. Away goes the affrighted creature
swift as lightning down the pool. The reel groans as it rapidly pays
out the line, and the rod is raised over the shoulder till bent nearly
double; but on goes the gallant fish despite the tremendous pressure
put upon him, and then suddenly rising to the surface, he makes a
supreme effort to release himself by leaping high in the air; in
descending he strikes the taut gut-cast with his tail, dashes the hook
from his mouth, and once more free as air, dives to the bottom of the
river.
And how does friend Piscator bear himself the while? Who but a
salmon-fisher can realise the bitterness of that moment when after
a splendid burst by a plucky fish, through some blunder or accident
his line, all limp and draggling, comes slowly back to him! But, my
friend, you have just been taught a good though severe lesson: had you
been ready at the critical moment, and slackened the line, by adroitly
lowering the point of your rod when that sixteen-pounder practised so
dangerous a manœuvre, the probabilities are that the effort of the fish
would have proved abortive, and the slender link between you would not
have thus been abruptly severed. But it is all over now, and you may
rest awhile from your labours, and try to calm your feelings with a
pipe of tobacco, while the veteran your companion moralises in your ear
on the truth of the motto, _Nil desperandum_.
Presently a dark cloud rolls up the valley, and heavy drops of rain
give notice that a shower is at hand. Our friends yonder are again
bestirring themselves, and once more the heavy rod is brought into
play; but fortune seems to have deserted the fisherman, for in spite of
all his endeavours, yard after yard of the best water is left behind
without sign of a rising fish, till at length he reaches the far end of
the pool, where the river gradually widens, and the dark water changes
to a brighter hue, as it glides more rapidly over a shallower bed. Here
there is one last chance for the angler, and if he can only pitch his
fly artistically under yonder dark holly-bush, he may yet gain the day.
It is a long cast; but the fisherman throws a fine line, and the fly
admirably hove skims through the air and drops like a natural insect
just where the little holly-tree overshadows the water. Again that
glimpse of a silvery form mounting swiftly upwards to the surface; and
mark the swirling boils, indicating the rise of a heavy fish. There
is a pull at the fly; the angler sharply raises the point of his rod,
and once more he has hooked a lordly salmon. Again the gallant rush,
the dangerous somersault, the determined struggle for dear life; but
the tackle is good, the barbed steel has taken a firm hold, and all is
of no avail; gradually the fisherman gains the upper hand, and inch
by inch reels in the quarry, till presently the still struggling but
exhausted prize lies gasping at his feet. The old man steals cautiously
forward, and all trembling with excitement, approaches the water's
edge; he stoops, makes a quick sure stroke with the gaff hook, and the
next moment uplifts a noble fish and casts him on the sward.
But we will leave them to exult over their victory; for see! it is time
to be moving; evening draws on apace, and the sun is already sinking
behind the blue Kerry mountains.