We arrive at Aughris Head on the coast of County Sligo mid-afternoon as planned, following an accidentally roundabout route which wasn’t quite as well planned as anticipated. 

In the intervening period, report must first be made of an unexpected stopover at an almost anonymous location in the forested countryside outside Tobercurry, County Sligo. Here, we are welcomed unconditionally to the home of people we have never met before, who invite us to park our grimy, down-at-heel Knumptywagen on their property for the night, then ply us with strong drink and hospitality in an almost fantasy garden under uncharacteristically brilliant mid-afternoon sunshine.

This semi-spontaneous engagement has come about by indirect introduction from relatives in Dublin knowing friendly natives in the hinterland and putting us in touch just in case we happen to be passing by. Which we endeavour to be. So our acquaintance with the exceptionally welcoming Mary and Martin is established by us simply trundling onto their thankfully extensive property and parking up.

Martin, it turns out, is a native of Walsall (adjacent to our hometown of Lichfield, Staffordshire) where he continues to be a regular visitor with relatives. With art and art history as his former career, we share a passion – especially as he remains a prolific abstract artist, filling their home with a veritable gallery of vivid, vibrant canvases on every wall. Mary clearly tolerates (if not actively supports) an inherent artistic messiness in an amazing studio annexe, escaping to the great outdoors of gardens so extensive, we’re fairly sure we’ve visited smaller and less-impressive garden centres.

We pass an exceptionally still and peaceful night on their patch, rarely experiencing the hi-fidelity birdsong which surrounds and permeates us as a cloudless dusk falls around us.

The following day we depart as directed, headed for inland Lough Talt, where we enjoy a sun-streamed sojourn parked up in a roadside layby lazing uncharacteristically with books and sunhats, the rippling waters of the lough at our feet and the occasional cloud shadowing the verdant mountainside on the opposite shore.

Thankfully, the road remained quiet overnight and having awoken refreshed alongside the wind-ruffled surface of the lough, the next day then became shaped by external influences, initiated by your favourite author’s abject incompetence coupled with the unexpected arrival of a new friend.

Incompetence? Surely not? But yes, surprised as you are, dear reader, having diligently packed almost every item of fishing tackle we possess into every available Knumptywagen cubbyhole, it becomes apparent that I’ve left behind our fly-fishing reels – without which, as you will imagine (even if you’ve never fished in your life) – that we’re pretty much inoperable on the fly-fishing front, despite having every other necessary item of tackle aboard.

Thus, when a blue-car-and-trailer combo perform a neat U-turn behind the van in ‘our’ layby, we are curious enough to wave and subsequently engage in friendly banter with the driver, a lone gentlemen of advanced years, woolly hat and sparkly eyes who brightly informs us he’s going fly-fishing from his boat, beached not fifty metres from our current position.

Forlornly, we enquire of his prospects and further craic ensues, with the CNO offering to assist with boat-launching, to which our lone driver accedes with alacrity. We thus assist him with transporting gear fifty metres across rough ground from trailer to boat, learning as we go that Tim is 81 years of age, an avid all-round sportsman with golf and fishing his current passions despite a dodgy shoulder and knee. As such, we stare unbelievingly as he single-handedly hefts a bulky outboard engine down to the lough edge, wades into cold knee-deep water and clamps the engine to the stern of his solid-looking boat.

During the conversation, he invites us to join him aboard but we sadly (deliberately!) didn’t pack our lifejackets. As a consolation prize he unconditionally gifts us a ‘spare’ fly-reel, clearly much-used and already loaded with line, along with a further invitation to park-up overnight on his drive overlooking the sea at Ennisclone – and for the CNO to join him at his golf-club at Tobercurry anytime we’re next passing.

Having exchanged phone numbers, we push him off and wave a poignant farewell as we return to the van and prepare for our own launch back towards the wild Atlantic coast.