Sean Meeghan
Sean was born 50 years ago in St Helens, Merseyside and learnt to fish on the River Moy, close to his Uncle's farm in Ireland. When he was 8 years old his family moved to Leicestershire and he continued his angling education on the headwaters of the River Soar near Stoney Stanton. Four years later he returned to St Helens and the culture shock of colliery flashes and the warm, sub tropical waters of the St Helens canal. Roach, tench and pike became his preferred quarry until another culture shock came when he went to Bradford University and his reintroduction to moving water in the form of the Yorkshire rivers. Climbing, Rugby League and women competed for his attention, but he always found time to fish and came to love the Dales' rivers. A spell in Peterborough and a Fellowship at Cranfield University convinced him of the error of his ways and he returned to settle in Yorkshire.
Sean is a true 'thinking' angler and good all-rounder with both coarse and fly tackle. He is a popular member of FishingMagic and often gives valuable advice on the forum.
My Story - Sean Meeghan
Part 1, How it all began
A Song For Ireland
GREY SNOW SIFTS lightly from an iron hard sky and drifts in dusty swirls across the dark Bradford streets. I slump in my car in an endless queue of traffic staring glumly out of the windows at the dismal scene. I'm out of work and my relationship is in tatters which does little to help my mood. Then Dick Gaughan's A Song for Ireland drifts dreamily from the speakers. My mood brightens instantly and I'm back gazing spellbound at the great expanse of Clew Bay, the clear light searing my vision as the lazy Atlantic rollers break in vast tables of foam on the bright sweep of sand. But it all began a few weeks before that. It's so long ago that I only see in flash-backs like some disjointed slide show.
Farewell to Princess Landing Stage
I'm 8 years old, walking down the floating landing stage clutching tightly at my grandmother's hand. The night boat to Dun Loaghaire squats on the muddy brown waters of the Mersey, a scruffy hulk obscuring the view of Wallasey over the water. We descend into the warm, smoky fug of the interior and make camp on a cracked vinyl bench; no starched sheets for poor paddy. I remember standing at the rail as the ship pulled away, but I can't remember the waves from my mum who surely must have been there. Instead my mind's eye can still see the peeling grey-green walls of derelict warehouses as we move slowly out into river.
Darkness falls as we push out into Liverpool bay and the channel buoys gradually fade into the gloom their bells tolling the knell of passing day. I remember that it was very rough and the decks are closed as we leave land behind. I can't sleep and sneak off to explore as my Nanna dozes. Sailors guard the few exits that aren't locked, but I'm allowed to watch as great green waves sluice across the lower decks. The bar is a heaving hell of smoke and drunks. As the ship lurches through the night a wave of vomit, spilled beer and the odd unconscious form sweeps across the sodden carpet. The moans of terrified cattle add to the apocalyptic atmosphere. “Hey kid!” I scurry back to my makeshift bed and bury myself in a pile of coats.
A vague memory of a bright morning washed sparkling clean by the storm, with rambling Victorian mansions lining the shore. Then, bleary eyed, I wake on a train and gaze spellbound at the limpid waters of the Grand Canal lined with lily pads and a lush, green bankside jungle. Then Athlone, a grey town redolent of the smell of peat smoke as we change from the modern diesel to a soot stained peat burner. Its suddenly morning and I wake again in a creaky iron bed in a bright, bare, stone flagged room. I'd arrived!
The Enchanted Land
Rural Ireland in the mid 1960s was becalmed in the doldrums of the 19th century. The abject poverty of the potato famine had fled across the Atlantic leaving a comfortable but threadbare rural idyll. My uncle Martin's small farm huddled on the banks of the river Moy as it meandered through the bog country of the Mayo - Sligo border. The low single storied cottage had no electricity, no running water and no toilet. Its lime washed, stone flagged rooms were lit by ancient oil lamps and water was lugged in two tin buckets from a spring in a hedge bottom about a quarter of a mile away. The toilet was a trench behind the turf heap, not a nice experience on damp windswept nights. But hey I'm 8 years old; creature comforts aren't high in my list of priorities! Behind the house a low cow byre sheltered a muddy yard, but to the front an enchanted bóithrín (track) led down to the iron bridge over the Moy. On either side of the track flower-clad banks guarded small fields patrolled by mad mobs of heifers. “I'll set the heifers after ye,” was my cousin Peter's standard threat.
Young Sean'
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On that first morning I hopped across the cold flags, pulled on my clothes abandoned the night before and edged shyly out into the warmth of the kitchen. Auntie Kathleen was making breakfast at the black peat burning range and she hugged me and placed me at the large table that dominated the room. Breakfast was soda bread, potato cakes and eggs washed down with strong tea from a chipped white mug. “Get yerself out into the yard and help old Peadar with the cows,” she said as I slowed in my assault on the great buttery pile of potato cakes. I leapt from the chair and burst through the door into the yard. On reaching the open door of the byre I slowed, leaning against the weathered wood of its frame until my eyes adjusted to the gloom. Old Peadar, my great uncle, is crouched on a ancient stool, leaning against the side of a large cow and doesn't seem to have noticed me, but he still manages to squirt a warm stream of milk into my face.
“D' yez want to have a go?”
“Can I?”
“Sure ye can. Come over and set yerself down, the auld girl won't hurt ye”
I skid across the muck strewn floor and take his place on the stool. He guides my hands on to the soft warm teats and my cheek is pressed against the warm hairy flank. My nostrils fill with the heavy, moist scent of cow, mixed with the rich, flower scented notes of the meadow. Leathery hands enfolded mine and demonstrate the ancient rhythm of the milking stool. I can still hand milk a cow: calm her with soft words, squeeze a small drop of milk on to your right thumb and make a sign of the cross on her udder to stop the milk souring. Then the peculiar pulling squeeze, impossible to describe, which squirts milk at high velocity into the pail. Keep a constant watch for the sly kick if she's a 'divil up the back'.
“Shall we go fishing later?”
“Yes please uncle Peadar!”
The milking done, we usher the cows back into the field and Peadar grabs two hazel rods which leant against the back of the house. Tied to their supple tips is a length of heavy nylon, a cork bobber and a heavy iron hook. We stroll down to the river and peer over the rail of the bridge. The Moy flows swiftly beneath its span, green streamer weed writhing over the bright gravel. Peadar takes me below the bridge to a slack, baits my hook with a worm and shows me how to cast. Then I'm waving my rod around in a frenzy of excitement with my first 'trout' (probably a salmon parr) impaled on the hook. Peadar restores order and I'm holding my first fish. Sorry, but I can't really remember how it felt. 40 years have turned my palms into a fishy palimpsest, their grubby parchment written and over written with the imprint of countless scaly flanks.
Summer passes. I went on to wreak havoc on the trout population of the Moy. Thirty years later sitting in a pub my wife asked Martin how often he went fishing. “Tree toimes a day” was the reply. She was visibly shocked as she was expecting three times a week to be nearer the mark. I fished three times a day seven days a week and in between I ran wild as only an eight year old can. Flashes of recall illuminate the dim recesses of my memory. A man running from the peat diggings ahead of a grey wall of rain. Men kneeling in the fields to pray as the Angelus bell tolls. The great grey church on Sunday and the dash to the pub after mass: a wall of dark serge guarding the bar at the back of the general stores. Warm evenings in the kitchen in front of the black range with Peadar teaching me to swear in Gaelic to amuse my granddad and shock my mum. The thread that joins them all is the beautiful river Moy and her trout.
My last memory of that first Irish Summer is of white marble steps in Dublin and the dark wooden panelling of a large department store as I bought my first fishing rod and reel with the remains of my spends. A white fibreglass rod with red whippings, a white ribbed handle capped with red plastic and a beautiful blue plastic centrepin reel. This outfit was to last me until I was twelve, except for the reel, and that's another story.
Poaching
I visited Ireland many times during my childhood on family holidays and more visits to my uncle Martins' farm. Over the years I built up a store of memories that sustain me in my darker moments to this day. One memory still burns as bright as the day it was forged.
Its late evening and I'm standing in uncle Martin's kitchen. I'm twelve or thirteen years old and, now I've been confirmed, I'm allowed a tot of poteen to fortify me against the chill of the night. The kitchen is crowded and the atmosphere is heavy with smoke and the smell of damp serge. We're going to poach salmon.
“Stay with Peadar and do what he says.”
I'm trembling with excitement as we push out of the door. It's soft as only an Irish evening can be. A gentle drizzle beads our clothes and blurs the sharp edge of reality, but perhaps that's just the poteen. Peadar keeps a hand on my shoulder as we troop along a track which brings us down to the river a mile or so away from the farm. With practiced ease the men split into teams: one team slips into the water below the tail of a pool, another patrols the banks with sharp gaffs, the final team guards the head of the pool. The scene is lit by the glare of Tilley lamps as the beaters move up through the tail of the pool, driving the Salmon before them. As the fish sense the line of men at the head of the pool they panic and turn along the bank; easy prey for the gaff men. Glittering silver forms thrash on the bank, are despatched and stuffed into sacks. We move upstream from pool to pool until a shout echoes down the river.
“Seachain na gardai!”
“The polis,” whispers Peadar. Men scatter into the fields. Adrenaline surges and I tremble on the brink of flight. A hand clamps my shoulder. “Ciunaigh. Softly now.” He pulls me back and we melt into the shadows. “They'll not find us if we stay quiet. Stay still now.” The flashes of torches and the sounds of pursuit fade gradually into the distance.
“Ní raibh ann ach ar éigean! A close shave that!” I sense Peadar's grin in the dark. “Come on, we'll go the long way home.” We set off across the fields until we come to the iron bridge at the bottom of the lane. Soon we're drinking tea and eating soda bread in the kitchen, waiting for the stragglers to return. There are no fish in the house, but there will be Salmon on the menu in a few local restaurants over the next few days!
The Match
I suppose it's now safe to confess that I cheated in my first match. It wasn't a big cheat really, more like an accidental omission. Here's how it happened. One of my school friends announced that a local angling club was holding a junior match and asked me if I wanted to fish it. Kirby Mallory where the match was to be held was about 8 miles away from my home in Stoney Stanton so early one Saturday morning my rod was strapped to the cross bar of my trusty bike and I off I went. I don't remember much about the gravel pit where the match was fished, just a gravel car park where I left my bike and a tree shaded bank where I was drawn. Although my tackle and techniques were a little more sophisticated than those I used in Ireland I still relied on worms as my first choice bait. The blue centre pin and my short rod dictated a margin fishing approach, and so I dropped my float fished worm in the shade of one of the bushes that defined my swim. At some point in the match my float dipped and I landed a perch of about 4oz. Then a slight problem became apparent: I didn't have a keepnet! A bit of negotiating with the lad next to me and I was allowed to slip the perch into his keepnet.
By the time the match finished my new found friend had caught a small perch which had joined my fish in the keepnet. It was obviously smaller than mine and when the scales came round and the club official asked whose fish they were he pointed to me. We trooped back to the car park to hear the results. I've come third! I'm handed a piece of paper which entitles me to collect a fixed spool reel (an Intrepid Prince if I remember rightly) from a local tackle shop. This reel was to stay with me through my angling apprenticeship.
The Trout
Take the Broughton Astley road from the crossroads in the centre of Stoney Stanton. Walk for about a mile out of the village and you'll come to a track on your left. Follow this and soon you'll come to a farm bridge over the River Soar. The upper Soar in the mid 60's was still unspoilt and was a classic small lowland river with gravelly runs linking deep mysterious pools: a slower, softer cousin of the Moy. I haunted its banks at weekends and school holidays. The top predator in this stretch of river wasn't the toothy killing machine that is the pike, but a huge cannibal trout who ruled her watery domain with an utter ruthlessness. Many times I had crouched on the bank and watched as she charged shimmering shoals of dace, wreaking death in a shower of silvery scales. She haunted my dreams and I ached to hold her, but the opportunity had never presented itself. Until…..
I'm statue still at the top of the bank hardly daring to breathe. Just below me at the head of a deeper run along a gravel bar a sleek form holds station in the current. Even now 40 years later I can still see every spot on her broad flank as she hovers over the bright gravel. I sink lower trembling with anticipation: I've got to have her! Ancient instincts, honed on fickle trout of the Moy, click into place. Suddenly I'm calm, the sounds of the Summer meadow fade to a distant hum as my focus narrows. Gauge the depth and set the float. Bait the hook with a juicy worm. Edge back into the meadow and crawl upstream a short way. Inch forward and swing my float into the glide. An ecstasy of anticipation as the float drifts down, but the worm is ignored. I carefully retrieve and try again, again she ignores the bait. Not many chances left. This time as the worm passes her head I hold back and let it lift enticingly in the current. As I release the line again she turns and the little rod slams over.
At that time I had no concept of how to use a slipping clutch and my little Intrepid probably wasn't designed for battling a powerful fish like my trout. Luckily the clutch must have given a bit of line and absorbed the first lunge of the fish. Time passes in a blur until she rolls on the surface. How to land her…. I draw her gently on to the gravel until she lies poised between her world and mine. A quantum being, neither wholly here or wholly there: a sort of Schroedinger's fish. I leap, and as I loom over her horizon the spell breaks, and as she thrashes so does my line. I sprawl on the gravel, a brief hint of cold scales and she is free. She still haunts my dreams.
The line of tin boxes and their grey faceless occupants creep forward, but my box glows with my memories. I smile……
Part 2 of Sean's 'My Story' Soon
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