Country Sights and Sounds
John Shelley
THE Mediterranean conditions of the last while don’t really suit us. We aren’t used to the weighty humidity or the lengthy hours of broiling under that inferno of a sun. Isn’t it strange; last month we were wondering if summer would ever come, and now we are suffering under its burgeoning heat, and, as I write, it seems as if it might never rain again.
‘A wet and windy May fills the barns full of hay’ says the rural sage, picking an already seeded stalk of grass from between his teeth. And he is right, for already the fields are a hive of activity with all kinds of heavy machinery rushing to and fro, gathering valuable animal fodder for the shorter days and harder times to come.
We picked wild strawberries from the woodland path and saw the promise of wild raspberries nearby. The raspberries are a favourite with the finches; we shall have competition for them in two or three weeks. While these wild fruits may lack the bulk of cultivated varieties they surpass them by far in the quality stakes, bursting with flavours of magnitude. Besides, what could be nicer than to walk the woods in the failing light of a summers evening, sharing in this secret harvest?
Unless, that is, one happens to be a fisherman – or better, an angler. It must be the mystery, the unknown, that drives anglers compulsively onward. What fish are here? How big are they? When it comes to fishing the ocean, these questions are especially applicable. For who knows what might turn up next?
When we fished for mackerel from the north Mayo coast, a friend pulled in a ling, a deepwater member of the cod family that weighed nearly 20 pounds. On another day, I caught an octopus that clambered up my arm, its eye, I felt, on my throat. On yet another occasion it was a cuttlefish that took my bait. I poked it to encourage its shimmering colour changes; red and blue, yellow and green, finally brown with rage and a gaping beak that closed on my hand to deliver a painful bite.
Tales of lobsters and giant crabs, suicidal mackerel and buckets full of stranded sprats must wait for another day. All the foregoing were incidental catches that served to further brighten days already full of interest. Even on those days when the fish stay away altogether, there is always something – seabirds and seals, strandlines and shellfish...
And those days are few. We might hope for exotic species, but we should never overlook our regulars. Take the flounder, for instance. Common enough to be derided by many, it is often treated as of little account. Yet, filleted and laid on the fishmongers slab, who could really tell it apart from the highly esteemed plaice?
The flounder, in my opinion, is the better fish for the table. I’m not talking about the slimy specimens that inhabit the mudflats of estuaries, but those that can be caught on the open beach. A flounder as big as my hand is just the right size and shape to sit on a slice of buttered toast. Any larger than that will provide a meal, and one or two pounds or more is a prize indeed.
Twenty years ago there were enough of these ubiquitous flatfish to make fishing for them by hand worthwhile. At low tide they could be found buried in the sand below just a few inches of water, with just their eyes visible.
A sharpened stick, or a hayfork for those who had one, would be used to spear the fish through the body – a nasty end for the poor flounder, but a valuable addition to the larder for a poor family.
There were specific locations where the fish would gather, and locals knew where to go and find them. Sadly, the population has dwindled, and fishing with a spear is no longer a profitable exercise. But we still get our flounder, at night, from the beach, on a small hook baited with a sliver of fresh mackerel. These balmy evenings are ideal. A regular surf on a summer night might yield half a dozen fat flatties.
Grilled, with a wild raspberry sauce and strawberry salad, who could ask for more?
