Reflections From The River

MEMORIES
BY HUGH W. MCKERVILL
REFLECTIONS
FROM THE RIVER
A GOOD REASON TO TAKE UP FISHING WHEN YOURE YOUNG, IS
TO HAVE MEMORIES OF IT WHEN YOU ARE OLD.
34 ATLANTIC SALMON JOURNAL | AUTUMN 2016

DURING THE YEARS I ATTENDED DUNMURRY PUBLIC ELEMENTARY
SCHOOL IN NORTHERN IRELAND, THE SCHOOL PRINCIPAL WAS A MAN CALLED
TRICKY BURNS. WHEN I REACHED EIGHTH GRADE, TRICKY BECAME MY HOME-ROOM TEACHER.
THAT WAS ALSO THE YEAR HE RETIRED, THOUGH I DISAVOW ANY CAUSAL RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN THE TWO EVENTS.
Tricky, as you may have guessed, was not this mans actu- didnt get back by such-and-such a time the slaps
al name. His real name was Sir, or sometimes, Mr. Burns. would be administered; possibly with interest. The only
The nickname had been assigned by generations of pupils place to buy stamps in Dunmurry in those days was at
on account of his penchant for using trickery to nab and the post office which lay at the opposite, far-end of the
punish class miscreants. For example, when he occasion- village. Consequently, a lad would need to run at a pretty
ally left the class-room for a few minutes, bedlam would good pace all the way there and back in order to avoid
usually erupt. Upon returning, Tricky would immediately the pending punishment. The strategy was brilliant, for a
single out those who had misbehaved and bring them to well-exercised boy was less likely to squirm at his desk,
the front of the room for punishment. We were always or to cause other types of distraction.
astonished at his ability to unerringly pick out the cul-
prits, and it was ages before we discovered that he had
devised a peep hole in the frosted glass through which he
could observe from the corridor what was going on in the
class-room during his absence. FISHING SLOWS A MAN DOWN, SO THAT
My public school attendance occurred in an era when
the use of corporal punishment was deemed to be the WHILE RESTING BESIDE AN IDLE POOL HE
foundation of sound pedagogical theory and practice. Spare MAY HEAR THE SWEET LARK SING IN THE
the rod and spoil the child, was recited like a religious
creed by parents and teachers alike. The weapon of choice CLEAR AIR OF THE DAY.
for combating potential outbreaks of child spoilage at our
school was a bamboo cane that could be, and often was,
applied with conviction to the open hand of any pupil Having observed this sort of thing on a couple of occa-
accused of misbehaviour or insufficient attention. This sions, and thinking that a run to the post office would be a
kind of discipline, the adult world believed, was essential refreshing change from algebraand also believing that if
for building character. I ran extra hard I might even have time to lean over the
Tricky, of course, subscribed to this educational theo- old stone bridge on Main Street to see if any trout were
ry, though, mercifully, less devoutly than many of his lurking in the pool belowI brazenly broke a couple of
peers. He was a big man; a World War I veteran, with a rules one day. Apparently, my timing was off. I was imme-
ruddy, outdoors complexion that was the resultpeople diately called to the front of the room where Tricky applied
saidof weekends spent in the fresh Irish countryside in a good whack of the cane to each hand. (Just the same,
pursuit of trout and salmon. Mind you, it was difficult for when I thought about it later, I realized he could have
us to visualize him plodding around river banks in rub- slapped a lot harder. He just knew what I was up to.)
ber boots, because, in the class-room, he always wore a From time to time, usually late on a Friday afternoon,
dark, authoritative suit complete with matching waistcoat Tricky would set aside his lesson plan (or maybe this was
in one pocket of which resided a ponderous railway part of his plan) and tell us to put our books away. He
watch securely anchored by a silver chain across his would then sit on the front edge of his big oak desk with
midriff. To maintain classroom discipline, a man of his its Rorschach-like ink stains, and he would chat with us.
stature and bearing had only to scowl and start limping There we all werea mature man near the end of his
towards the cupboard where the dreaded cane was kept. teaching career encouraging boys and girls on the cusp of
Mercifully, Tricky used the cane sparingly. In fact, I dont puberty to talk of many things, urging us to think for
remember girls in our class ever being physically pun- ourselves and to express our ideas. He in turn shared
ished, though a restless boy might be called to the front wisdom drawn, not from textbooks, but from his rich life
of the room to have his character built up a bit. Even experience. One day, after a discussion about hobbies, in
then, instead of immediately administering the cane, and which I had nattered at length about why I liked fishing,
depending upon the seriousness of the offense, Tricky Tricky summed up before dismissing the class. Its always
HUGH MCKERVILL
would sometimes give the luckless lad a half-penny and a good idea to have a hobby, he said. It doesnt much
send him to buy a postage stamp, warning him that if he matter what it is, and you can change it from time to
AUTUMN 2016 | ATLANTIC SALMON JOURNAL 35

time, but always have at least one hobby. It will make Over the years Tricky Burns equipped countless boys
your life more interesting. The words sank in, and for and girls with the essential tools of reading, writing, and
just an instant, through the magic of imagination, I was arithmetic, but just as importantly, he introduced us to
beside the gurgling stream that trickled down from Colin precepts, principles, and ideas that would help us live
Glen, through our village, along the mossy floor of the decent, useful, and happy lives. Now, older by far than
woods, then out across the green meadows towards the Tricky Burns was when he said good-bye to us in my
Lagan River where, according to Tricky, before the linen eighth grade, in moments of recollection in tranquility, I
mill was built there used to be salmon. sometimes hear his broad Ulster brogue echoing down the
On what turned out to be one of his last days of decades, congratulating me on still enjoying my fishing
teaching, with our books all packed away, Tricky took up hobby, urging me to be sure to make time for reflection.
his customary position at the edge of his desk. He seemed
to be in a pensive mood as he talked about growing older.
You have probably heard that Im about to retire,
he said.
Yes sir, we responded in discordant chorus.
FISHING ALSO GIVES RISE TO REFLECTIONS
I will miss you all. He paused while his eyes roamed AND RECOLLECTIONS THAT ARE LIKE A
affectionately over the roomful of freckles and acne. You
know, he continued, one of the nice things about retiring SALVE FOR THE WOUNDED SOUL.
and growing older is the ability to look back and reflect
upon things that have happened in your life. Always the
teacher, he couldnt resist a literary reference. Remember Fortunately, fishing is a hobby that encourages reflec-
how Wordsworth defined poetry in his Lyrical Ballads. It tion. For who can tread the shore on a misty morning, or
takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility. At watch the tipping sun pour molten gold upon the surface
this point Tricky leaned forward, and he seemed to engage of the lake, without reflecting upon the profligate beauty
every young eye in turn. The thing is, he said, his voice of this earth! When clouds, as blue as bad bruises, climb
gathering emotion, if you dont do anything interesting up from the horizon to obscure the sun, and forks of
when you are young you wont have much to recollect or lightning jab the earth, sending us scurrying from the
reflect upon when you are old. I cant swear to it, but I river, what man or woman will not be awed by the prodi-
believe I saw a trace of moisture in his eye as he eased his gious power of the universe? What fisherman can fail to
rump off the desk. Class dismissed, he blurted as he be moved by the diapause migration of a fragile Monarch
limped away, his old war injury obviously bothering him. that flits past his nose on its way to Mexico while he is
36 ATLANTIC SALMON JOURNAL | AUTUMN 2016 W W W. A S F. C A

changing his battered Butterfly? And, who will not marvel springs eternal in the human breast; man never is but
at the mysterious navigational powers of a strong salmon always to be blessed. And I reflect how frequently our
returning from the trackless ocean, determined to reach best casts come short of our better aspirations. I reflect
the very place where it was born four years before, there upon the perversity of my own species, and ponder why
to lay the seeds of a new generation? we persist in polluting the earth that is our only home?
I see these things when Im on the river, and I reflect Why are we locked into a senseless system of perpetual
that theres more to life than meets the eye. growth and gluttonous consumption in a finite world?
Likewise, theres more to fishing than catching fish. Why do a handful of individuals possess obscene wealth
Sport fishing, as a gentle hobby (as opposed to a frenetic when millions of mothers dont have milk for their babies?
fixation) can liberate a soul from the chains of mindless Why do those who chose to make war not do the fighting?
routine and ceaseless hurry towards ill-defined destinations. The river raises many reflections, some of them disturbing.
Fishing slows a man down, so that while resting beside Fortunately, fishing also gives rise to reflections and
an idle pool he may hear the sweet lark sing in the clear recollections that are like a salve for the wounded soul.
air of the day. The melodious moment may even be For, even in winter, when the river is hard as iron, and
amplified by recollecting Shakespeares Hark! Hark! The sharp winds sheer the hemlocks brittle limbs, I often
Lark at heavens gate sings. Of course, the guy who has gaze upon that inward eye which is the bliss of soli-
brought along his cell phone, laptop and iPod, will proba- tude. Then, with an involuntary chuckle, I recall the
bly miss the moment. But, thats just me reflecting! shore lunch of dried-out bologna sandwiches I shared
I reflect a lot while Im fishing. Often, when Im with my lazy guide, and how utterly delicious they were,
alone on the river, weary from hours of wading, images washed down with swigs of scalding, ashy teaand what a
of long departed friends and loved ones visit my mind, fine fellow the guide was after all. Or, I sniff again the
infusing my soul with a poignant blend of recollected subtle peat of a single malt sipped with companions on
companionship and present loneliness. At such moments the camps broad deck while the the stars oerhead were
I reflect upon the brevity and preciousness of individual dancing heel and toe. Such sweet reflections!
life, and I muse that a salmon that fights so vigorously Of course, as Tricky Burns would say, if I had never
when hooked must, in its own way, desire life as desper- taken up fishing when I was young, I wouldnt be enjoy-
HUGH MCKERVILL (2)
ately as any human. Some days, as my lengthening line ing these recollections now that Im old.
reaches for a promising ripple just beyond the ability of
my cast, I recall the words of Alexander Pope: Hope Hugh W. McKervill is an award-winning, regular contributor to ASJ.

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MEMORIES

34 ATLANTIC SALMON JOURNAL | AUTUMN 2016

AUTUMN 2016 | ATLANTIC SALMON JOURNAL 35

36 ATLANTIC SALMON JOURNAL | AUTUMN 2016 W W W. A S F. C A

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