SEA ANGLER
NEW SERIES
STORIES FROM A LIFETIME OF ANGLING
ADICK MACK’S TIDE
Sometimes the best memories of fishing trips have nothing whatsoever to do with catching any fish. Dave Lewis picks up the tale of a trip to Ireland where the bass fishing was put on hold for a day for a different kind of session
Sunday morning, the breakfast room at the B&B next to TP’s bar in Ballydavid where the four of us are seated around the table: yours truly, Terry Thomas, Kevin Linnane and Clive Gammon. It had been a late night, a very late night. The kind of night where ‘just one for the road’ at something approaching a sensible time had degenerated into another two to three hours of overindulgence of Ireland’s finest.
Exactly as had been forecast the previous evening, the weather outside was terrible. Strong westerly winds were thrashing the surface of Smerwick Harbour into a maelstrom, driving the kind of relentless monsoon rains that the west of Ireland, and County Kerry in particular, are famous for. The latest weather updates offered little hope of respite, at least until the following day.
It was the fourth day of our trip, an annual and occasionally biannual get together, and so far it had been quite successful. With a decent surf on the strands we’d all caught a few bass, including one or two that had been larger than usual. A short session one evening on the rocks, just a short walk from where we were now breakfasting, had produced plenty of wrasse and pollack. As I said, thus far the trip had been a success, but clearly today was going to be another matter altogether.
Sat in almost complete silence with each of us warily contemplating an industrial sized plateful of protein and cholesterol, it was apparent nobody had much enthusiasm. The prospects of climbing into a bulky pair of chest waders and spending five or six hours standing on an open and exposed beach while getting battered by wind and rain did not appeal.
Sensing the general mood in the room and with impeccable timing, Clive put down his knife and fork, took a long swig of strong coffee, and addressed the room: “Today, I declare, will be a ‘Dick Mack’s tide’. Bugger the fishing, we’re due a day off. Today we’re going into Dingle for some well-deserved craic!” The relief within the room was both immediate and palpable!
Dick Mack’s, as anyone who has ever fished the Dingle peninsula will undoubtedly know, is quite possibly the finest Irish pub you’ll ever step foot in. No trip to that part of County Kerry is complete without at least one visit to Dick Mack’s. The term ‘a Dick Mack’s tide’ was apparently first used by Clive’s great friend, Des Brennan, on a similar wet and wild autumnal day many y
