Dull, damp, October. A pheasant in the middle of the road. I always have the wrong lens, and he flies off before I can find another. The road ends, a track begins. Fading signposts point out the Western Way. A gaggle of houses perched over the Corrib. Honeysuckle. Leaves on the ground turning to sodden…
Here it comes, there it goes. The Christmas break, with its long buildup and heavily marketed stature, has already left the building before it seemed to even arrive. The rains barely paused for breath, though the good winds provided enough breath for all. Under the twinklings of dangling lights blowing in the breezing rain, ’tis…
Spring Fishing Am I in a trap? Did I build it myself? The punt bobs on the waves between Broochen and the point of Fournaugh This is no weather for fishing; no weather for anything bar the Seat next to the Stanley and the kettle hissing for tea And the steam of decades sunk in…
–Photos of Inchagoill and Lough Corrib— After the long winter and slow-rising spring the green explosion finally happened. The mayfly season on Lough Corrib rolled around again. Birds and fish feast on the short lived flies as they rise to the surface en masse. They are easy pickings, their defence lies in being so numerous…