A wet and windy night in Foxford and looking at the forecast its going to be a nasty day. It’s that time of the year and we have to accept it, winter. Thanks everyone for all your emails last week, we have a lot of people who are loyal customers. It was a mixed week of mostly bad weather so getting out fishing was difficult. We did have one marathon session on what was the best day.

A Late-Season Pilgrimage to Wexford

For years, we have listened to stories about Sea Bass. Tales spun by customers returning from the south-east, their eyes alight, speaking of vast, silver-flanked bass exploding in the surf. Wexford, they’d say, is the holy grail.  Us, Stuck behind the counter, nodding enviously, our own rods gathering dust. That’s the curse of the tackle shop, hearing about all the best fishing but never being free to go at the perfect time.

We had discussed it many times throughout the season and promised that as soon as the Salmon season finished, we were off. Life has a habit of getting in the way and even though one has ideas, they do not always develop as hoped. October passed and so did November, we knew the clock was ticking. The bass would be thinking of deeper, warmer waters, but determination as they say, is the older, slightly stupider brother of wisdom.

We called a friend (Brendan)  who lives and fishes around Wexford. We knew he would have the ever crucial “Local Knowledge”. “It’s getting late, lads,” he said, the caution clear. Then came the “but, things are late this year”. A few hopeful words about spring tides and certain marks, followed by a video from a local beach where a feeding frenzy was taking place. He sounded optimistic, optimistic enough anyway, for two willing idiots with a boot full of gear and a dream.

The Lunatic’s Tide Guide

Our strategy was built on tides. We aimed for a spring tide, the big powerful surges that occur when the sun and moon align, creating a stronger gravitational pull. This means a greater difference between high and low water, more current, and (in theory) more active fish stirred from their slumber. A neap tide, with the sun and moon at right angles, is a gentler, weaker affair, often resulting in quieter fishing.

The writing was on the wall

Naturally, this spring tide coincided with a full moon. Now, any fisherman will tell you planning a trip around a full moon makes perfect, scientific sense. The increased light, the tidal pull… it’s all very logical. The fact that we are Lunatics went unnoticed. Rising at 2:30am and driving half the night under its luminous glare, was merely a happy coincidence.

The Pilgrimage Begins

Guided by that magnificent, crazy-making moon, we drove for four and a half hours. Dawn was breaking as we pulled into our first mark, a rugged beach. At 3 degrees, the air was biting, but we wrapped up well and the sunrise promised a gem of a day. Spirits were high, especially when P.J. connected with a plump turbot on his first cast! That’s it we thought, the stories are true.

The ocean, however, had other ideas. A huge, rolling swell marched in and as the sun rose higher, we could clearly see that the water was brown. Not the clear, crisp surf we had imagined. This beach wasn’t ideal for lures so we fished the last of the ebb tide with our beachcasters, armed with peeler crab and sand eel. Nothing, time to move.

The Weed of Our Discontent

Undeterred, we headed to the car and with our gear still on us drove 10 km to our next mark. A stunning, secluded cove. Picture-perfect, but the swell was even greater. We switched to spinning rods, casting soft plastic sand eels, savage sandeels, and the ever-reliable, Pachenko along the rocks. Then came the seaweed. At first, it was a minor annoyance, clinging to our lure. But as the tide rose, the weed rose with it. Thick, blanket-like rafts of the stuff. We spent more time picking weed off our lines than fishing. The final straw was when I thought I had a bass which turned out to be several kilos of kelp racing in the tide, some struggle to land that!.

The lesson

We’d picked a perfect day, but had not considered the preceding week. Two lads from the west coast of Ireland should have known (I’m blaming the moon). Storms far out in the Atlantic had been churning up massive swells for days, and that energy takes a long time to dissipate. The wind might have dropped, but the sea had not.

The Long Road Home (and the M50 Carpark)

Defeated by conditions, but not in spirit, we turned for home. A sightseeing tour and a look at a few other marks for a future trip. The day was not wasted and we would be back. We drove along chatting and making plans for our next outing. Then, we hit the M50. For one glorious, stationary hour, we were initiated into the daily ritual of thousands. As we inched past the Red Cow, drinking two cans of Red Bull, I looked at P.J and said “Our little walk to the shop isn’t so bad, is it”. I don’t know how people can do that day after day, I couldn’t.

We rolled into Foxford at 8pm, tired, fishless, but strangely happy. We didn’t catch our bass. But, as we all know “Theres more to fishing than catching fish”. It was a learning curve, next time, we won’t be chasing the last of the season and we know where they live.

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