NATURE Marking out one’s territory

MADRA UISCE?The otter, ‘our own little water dog’, is partial to delicate white-footed crayfish.

Marking out one’s territory


Country Sights and Sounds
John Shelley

Four magpies, divided in to two pairs, are squabbling over property rights. We never saw them as bold as they are now; they must feel spring pressing in upon them after the cold. They do look smart, the best dressed gangsters in town, all neatly pressed black with a white waistcoat. Were it not for their predatory appetite we would tolerate them well, but as they are, we would rather one single, solitary songbird than a whole host of these unruly half-crows.
James views them with loathing and would have them, their unholy shrieking and their murderous, plundering ways gone for good. He badgers me endlessly to take him to the river, to find a trout, and so is agreeable about most other things. In turn I have looked at the sky, at the clock, at the untended garden, finding excuses.
Eventually we went to the Robe at Hollymount, where we often find early season sport and just occasionally meet up with one of those lusty lake trout that came into the river to spawn and decided to stay.
Some things never change. James impaled a bunch of worms on a large and heavy hook that ought to hold any fish that ever swam, dropped the lot at the side of an eddy in a deep pool and settled down to wait, while I went to fish the thinner and more lively water with small black flies.
It was good to be back at the river and I soon lost myself to that other world of dappled and speckled things, the river a rippled refection of the sky, green creeping into trees, the promise of that yellow light that brings the trout to feed before dusk...
A shout disturbed my thoughts. Downstream, James was standing on the edge of the bank, his stout rod bent double, leaning back against the strain. I knew what had happened. One of the crayfish that live hereabouts had found his bait and dragged it into its lair beneath a rock, where it might dine in private. There is only one way out of such a predicament, and that is to pull and hope everything comes free.
Following my advice James pulled; his line came back minus the hook, his only hook, the line, stout as it was, neatly sliced by the sharp limestone edge. He gave me a withering glare as if it were I that had caused his misfortune, held up the loose end to examine it and cursed. ‘Portan grΡiniúil, I’ve been catching them all day. There’s hundreds of ’em.’
We had only been there half an hour and while there might not be hundreds it is true there are plenty, and it is good to see them. The white-footed crayfish is a delicate creature that was once widely found across most of Europe. It is has now found its way onto the International Union for the Conservation of Nature’s Red List of endangered species, having suffered an unfortunate yet entirely foreseeable decline in numbers. Ireland, with its rich limestone rivers such as the Robe, is their last remaining stronghold.
The weight of a shower drove us to shelter beneath the bridge, where we found carapace and claw, the bones of more white-foots, together with orange-tainted spraint, the calling card of our local otter family. Small, starry footprints in the soft silt beside the water showed us we were not many hours behind our friends. Otters love to eat crayfish and as long as there remains an abundance of these, little damage will be done to trout stocks, and James and myself will remain on the very best of terms with madra uisce, our own little water dog.
We’d spare him the odd fish anyway, just for the privilege of having him swim through our pool now and again. Half a mile upstream is the weir at the old Lehinch demesne, a place much favoured by the otters. The weir was constructed in 1852 by the Board of Public Works as part of the drainage programme that tore the heart out of many Irish waterways. I should like to know the purpose for it being built.
It suits me to supper there on a summers evening. With swallow and bat hawking over the weir pool and the ready prospect of an otter for company, combined with the otherwise quiet solitude and those challenging brown trout rising to the fly, I can think of few comparable settings. On the rare occasion I meet another angler there I find myself suppressing that same spirit that drives the magpie into battle. Even James must fish elsewhere.