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-
al name. His real name was Sir, or sometimes, Mr. Burns.
The nickname had been assigned by generations of pupils
on account of his penchant for using trickery to nab and
punish class miscreants. For example, when he occasion-
ally left the class-room for a few minutes, bedlam would
usually erupt. Upon returning, Tricky would immediately
single out those who had misbehaved and bring them to
the front of the room for punishment. We were always
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.
My public school attendance occurred in an era when
the use of corporal punishment was deemed to be the
foundation of sound pedagogical theory and practice. Spare
the rod and spoil the child, was recited like a religious
creed by parents and teachers alike. The weapon of choice
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
accused of misbehaviour or insufficient attention. This
kind of discipline, the adult world believed, was essential
for building character.
Tricky, of course, subscribed to this educational theo-
ry, though, mercifully, less devoutly than many of his
peers. He was a big man; a World War I veteran, with a
ruddy, outdoors complexion that was the resultpeople
saidof weekends spent in the fresh Irish countryside in
pursuit of trout and salmon. Mind you, it was difficult for
us to visualize him plodding around river banks in rub-
ber boots, because, in the class-room, he always wore a
dark, authoritative suit complete with matching waistcoat
in one pocket of which resided a ponderous railway
watch securely anchored by a silver chain across his
midriff. To maintain classroom discipline, a man of his
stature and bearing had only to scowl and start limping
towards the cupboard where the dreaded cane was kept.
Mercifully, Tricky used the cane sparingly. In fact, I dont
remember girls in our class ever being physically pun-
ished, though a restless boy might be called to the front
of the room to have his character built up a bit. Even
then, instead of immediately administering the cane, and
depending upon the seriousness of the offense, Tricky
HUGH MCKERVILL
would sometimes give the luckless lad a half-penny and
send him to buy a postage stamp, warning him that if he
didnt get back by such-and-such a time the slaps
would be administered; possibly with interest. The only
place to buy stamps in Dunmurry in those days was at
the post office which lay at the opposite, far-end of the
village. Consequently, a lad would need to run at a pretty
good pace all the way there and back in order to avoid
the pending punishment. The strategy was brilliant, for a
well-exercised boy was less likely to squirm at his desk,
or to cause other types of distraction.
FISHING SLOWS A MAN DOWN, SO THAT
WHILE RESTING BESIDE AN IDLE POOL HE
MAY HEAR THE SWEET LARK SING IN THE
CLEAR AIR OF THE DAY.
Having observed this sort of thing on a couple of occa-
sions, and thinking that a run to the post office would be a
refreshing change from algebraand also believing that if
I ran extra hard I might even have time to lean over the
old stone bridge on Main Street to see if any trout were
lurking in the pool belowI brazenly broke a couple of
rules one day. Apparently, my timing was off. I was imme-
diately called to the front of the room where Tricky applied
a good whack of the cane to each hand. (Just the same,
when I thought about it later, I realized he could have
slapped a lot harder. He just knew what I was up to.)
From time to time, usually late on a Friday afternoon,
Tricky would set aside his lesson plan (or maybe this was
part of his plan) and tell us to put our books away. He
would then sit on the front edge of his big oak desk with
its Rorschach-like ink stains, and he would chat with us.
There we all werea mature man near the end of his
teaching career encouraging boys and girls on the cusp of
puberty to talk of many things, urging us to think for
ourselves and to express our ideas. He in turn shared
wisdom drawn, not from textbooks, but from his rich life
experience. One day, after a discussion about hobbies, in
which I had nattered at length about why I liked fishing,
Tricky summed up before dismissing the class. Its always
a good idea to have a hobby, he said. It doesnt much
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
your life more interesting. The words sank in, and for
just an instant, through the magic of imagination, I was
beside the gurgling stream that trickled down from Colin
Glen, through our village, along the mossy floor of the
woods, then out across the green meadows towards the
Lagan River where, according to Tricky, before the linen
mill was built there used to be salmon.
On what turned out to be one of his last days of
teaching, with our books all packed away, Tricky took up
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.
I will miss you all. He paused while his eyes roamed
affectionately over the roomful of freckles and acne. You
know, he continued, one of the nice things about retiring
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
how Wordsworth defined poetry in his Lyrical Ballads. It
takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility. At
this point Tricky leaned forward, and he seemed to engage
every young eye in turn. The thing is, he said, his voice
gathering emotion, if you dont do anything interesting
when you are young you wont have much to recollect or
reflect upon when you are old. I cant swear to it, but I
believe I saw a trace of moisture in his eye as he eased his
rump off the desk. Class dismissed, he blurted as he
limped away, his old war injury obviously bothering him.
36 ATLANTIC SALMON JOURNAL | AUTUMN 2016
Over the years Tricky Burns equipped countless boys
and girls with the essential tools of reading, writing, and
arithmetic, but just as importantly, he introduced us to
precepts, principles, and ideas that would help us live
decent, useful, and happy lives. Now, older by far than
Tricky Burns was when he said good-bye to us in my
eighth grade, in moments of recollection in tranquility, I
sometimes hear his broad Ulster brogue echoing down the
decades, congratulating me on still enjoying my fishing
hobby, urging me to be sure to make time for reflection.
FISHING ALSO GIVES RISE TO REFLECTIONS
AND RECOLLECTIONS THAT ARE LIKE A
SALVE FOR THE WOUNDED SOUL.
Fortunately, fishing is a hobby that encourages reflec-
tion. For who can tread the shore on a misty morning, or
watch the tipping sun pour molten gold upon the surface
of the lake, without reflecting upon the profligate beauty
of this earth! When clouds, as blue as bad bruises, climb
up from the horizon to obscure the sun, and forks of
lightning jab the earth, sending us scurrying from the
river, what man or woman will not be awed by the prodi-
gious power of the universe? What fisherman can fail to
be moved by the diapause migration of a fragile Monarch
that flits past his nose on its way to Mexico while he is
W W W. A S F. C A
 changing his battered Butterfly? And, who will not marvel
at the mysterious navigational powers of a strong salmon
returning from the trackless ocean, determined to reach
the very place where it was born four years before, there
to lay the seeds of a new generation?
I see these things when Im on the river, and I reflect
that theres more to life than meets the eye.
Likewise, theres more to fishing than catching fish.
Sport fishing, as a gentle hobby (as opposed to a frenetic
fixation) can liberate a soul from the chains of mindless
routine and ceaseless hurry towards ill-defined destinations.
Fishing slows a man down, so that while resting beside
an idle pool he may hear the sweet lark sing in the clear
air of the day. The melodious moment may even be
amplified by recollecting Shakespeares Hark! Hark! The
Lark at heavens gate sings. Of course, the guy who has
brought along his cell phone, laptop and iPod, will proba-
bly miss the moment. But, thats just me reflecting!
I reflect a lot while Im fishing. Often, when Im
alone on the river, weary from hours of wading, images
of long departed friends and loved ones visit my mind,
infusing my soul with a poignant blend of recollected
companionship and present loneliness. At such moments
I reflect upon the brevity and preciousness of individual
life, and I muse that a salmon that fights so vigorously
when hooked must, in its own way, desire life as desper-
HUGH MCKERVILL (2)
ately as any human. Some days, as my lengthening line
reaches for a promising ripple just beyond the ability of
my cast, I recall the words of Alexander Pope: Hope
springs eternal in the human breast; man never is but
always to be blessed. And I reflect how frequently our
best casts come short of our better aspirations. I reflect
upon the perversity of my own species, and ponder why
we persist in polluting the earth that is our only home?
Why are we locked into a senseless system of perpetual
growth and gluttonous consumption in a finite world?
Why do a handful of individuals possess obscene wealth
when millions of mothers dont have milk for their babies?
Why do those who chose to make war not do the fighting?
The river raises many reflections, some of them disturbing.
Fortunately, fishing also gives rise to reflections and
recollections that are like a salve for the wounded soul.
For, even in winter, when the river is hard as iron, and
sharp winds sheer the hemlocks brittle limbs, I often
gaze upon that inward eye which is the bliss of soli-
tude. Then, with an involuntary chuckle, I recall the
shore lunch of dried-out bologna sandwiches I shared
with my lazy guide, and how utterly delicious they were,
washed down with swigs of scalding, ashy teaand what a
fine fellow the guide was after all. Or, I sniff again the
subtle peat of a single malt sipped with companions on
the camps broad deck while the the stars oerhead were
dancing heel and toe. Such sweet reflections!
Of course, as Tricky Burns would say, if I had never
taken up fishing when I was young, I wouldnt be enjoy-
ing these recollections now that Im old.
Hugh W. McKervill is an award-winning, regular contributor to ASJ.