NATURE: Puckish duck scuppers an evening’s fishing on Lough Carra

Eager to meet another trout before season’s end, I took the boat beyond the reeds to find the western shore. There, where bulrush form clumps of dense, dark green, where shallow water shelves to three-metre depth, I came upon a cluster of little grebes. I did my best to count them, but so rapidly did they take turns at diving under the waves with others bobbing up around them, I could only see ten or twelve at any given moment.
Then they saw me and fled, running helter-skelter across the water, using wings and legs together to skitter, like so many of those whirligig beetles that congregate in quiet corners.
It feels good, that these small diving birds are back in force. Nor is it the little grebe alone that has fared so much better this year. For too long, mink were the dominant force on this part of Carra. The Lough Carra Life project has included a programme of invasive-species control that has reduced their numbers to a minimum.
They are still around, and increasingly trap-shy to boot. But cutting their numbers has allowed water birds to gain ground from all-time lows.
Mallard had almost vanished as a local breeding species. But here was one now, one of this year’s ducklings near full grown. During the day these ducks are completely unapproachable. At dusk they feed happily within yards of the boat.
I gave a greeting. ‘Hello, Duck,’ and raised my hat.
Duck replied with a laugh, ‘Ha, ha ha haaa!’ and followed.
The trout in this part of the lake are almost nocturnal, sleeping away the day and only coming out to feed in twilight. Catching them requires a semi-scientific approach. They eat only flies, and so richly diverse is the fly life on Carra they lock on to one particular species and will look at nothing else.
Not only that, but when those same insects are hatching in abundance the fish choose to take them at a particular stage of their development. Sometimes they want flies on the point of emerging as adults. Another day they choose only pupa. Yesterday it was larvae, tomorrow will be females returning to the water to lay eggs.
Carra trout are contrary. The moment we discover what they are dining on, they finish their meal and descend to the depths, or move along to the next course, or depart to who-knows-where, en masse.
Today, though, one of those large, rough-winged, ruddy-coloured caddis that we normally see in May flew out from the rushes and pitched onto the surface, where it took to running in circles as these creatures like to do. It hadn’t gone but a yard before a broad and spotted snout appeared at its tail, a snout as belongs to one of Carra’s famous trout. There was a loud slup as the fish inhaled, and the caddis fly disappeared.
Some 30 yards away, the very scene was reenacted, and then again close to hand. A swift change of artificial fly was followed by a few eager pulls on the oars, to where more caddis were emerging; one and all were being swallowed by what seemed an army of great fish, each half the length of my arm.
My fly was thrown into the path of a traveling fish, where it must surely be taken. Duck appeared from the left with another laugh, and paddled swiftly toward my offering. The trout moved closer, the duck closer still, with neck outstretched and beak agape. ‘Ha, ha ha haaa!’
There was nothing for it. I pulled the line away and waited for Duck to leave the scene while Trout splashed eagerly at natural insects all around.
A second cast was made in a different direction. No sooner than it had touched down, Duck was almost upon it, using feathered elbows to scurry at incredible speed. When I cast again Duck responded immediately, taking obvious delight in this new game. Wherever I sent my fly, there was that darn duck, while all around the finest of trout enjoyed a banquet.
I tired first, and pulled away through a gap in the rushes, where I found more fish feeding. I got a bite first cast and pulled in a small perch. In the process of being caught this creature chewed my floating fly over so well it would no longer float. Annoyed and vengeful, the fish transferred the hook to my index finger, where it stuck fast. While I was extracting the hook the boat drifted into unproductive water.
Duck laughed. Grebes skittered. I rowed slowly home, lost in the beauty of dusk.

Michael Kingdon, a naturalist and keen fisherman, lives on the shores of Lough Carra, Co Mayo.