| My Story – FishingMagic Members |
We get to know each other on the forum to a great extent, and sometimes we meet at fish-ins, but how much do we really know about each other? We have members from across the world, ranging from manual workers, office workers, solicitors, policemen, writers, editors, photographers, soldiers, actors, film producers, angling guides, technicians, medical people – you name it and we’ve got ’em in our ‘family’. Yet most often we don’t really know who it is we’re debating with or having a laugh with on the forum. So now’s your chance to put that right. This is where FM members can tell the FishingMagic community all about themselves. Tell us who you are, what you do, what your fishing is all about and what it means to you, tell us what makes you tick, warts and all. Stories can be anything from 1000 to 5000 words long, preferably, but not necessarily, with a selection of pictures. Email the words and pictures to me at graham@fishingmagic.com and I’ll do the rest. |
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Sean MeeghanSean was born 50 years ago in St Helens, Merseyside and learnt to fish on the River Moy, close to his Uncle’s farm in Ireland. When he was 8 years old his family moved to Leicestershire and he continued his angling education on the headwaters of the River Soar near Stoney Stanton. Four years later he returned to St Helens and the culture shock of colliery flashes and the warm, sub tropical waters of the St Helens canal. Roach, tench and pike became his preferred quarry until another culture shock came when he went to Bradford University and his reintroduction to moving water in the form of the Yorkshire rivers. Climbing, Rugby League and women competed for his attention, but he always found time to fish and came to love the Dales’ rivers. A spell in Peterborough and a Fellowship at Cranfield University convinced him of the error of his ways and he returned to settle in Yorkshire. Sean is a true ‘thinking’ angler and good all-rounder with both coarse and fly tackle. He is a popular member of FishingMagic and often gives valuable advice on the forum. My Story – Sean MeeghanPart 1, How it all beganA Song For IrelandGREY SNOW SIFTS lightly from an iron hard sky and drifts in dusty swirls across the dark Bradford streets. I slump in my car in an endless queue of traffic staring glumly out of the windows at the dismal scene. I’m out of work and my relationship is in tatters which does little to help my mood. Then Dick Gaughan’s A Song for Ireland drifts dreamily from the speakers. My mood brightens instantly and I’m back gazing spellbound at the great expanse of Clew Bay, the clear light searing my vision as the lazy Atlantic rollers break in vast tables of foam on the bright sweep of sand. But it all began a few weeks before that. It’s so long ago that I only see in flash-backs like some disjointed slide show. Farewell to Princess Landing StageI’m 8 years old, walking down the floating landing stage clutching tightly at my grandmother’s hand. The night boat to Dun Loaghaire squats on the muddy brown waters of the Mersey, a scruffy hulk obscuring the view of Wallasey over the water. We descend into the warm, smoky fug of the interior and make camp on a cracked vinyl bench; no starched sheets for poor paddy. I remember standing at the rail as the ship pulled away, but I can’t remember the waves from my mum who surely must have been there. Instead my mind’s eye can still see the peeling grey-green walls of derelict warehouses as we move slowly out into river. Darkness falls as we push out into Liverpool bay and the channel buoys gradually fade into the gloom their bells tolling the knell of passing day. I remember that it was very rough and the decks are closed as we leave land behind. I can’t sleep and sneak off to explore as my Nanna dozes. Sailors guard the few exits that aren’t locked, but I’m allowed to watch as great green waves sluice across the lower decks. The bar is a heaving hell of smoke and drunks. As the ship lurches through the night a wave of vomit, spilled beer and the odd unconscious form sweeps across the sodden carpet. The moans of terrified cattle add to the apocalyptic atmosphere. “Hey kid!” I scurry back to my makeshift bed and bury myself in a pile of coats. A vague memory of a bright morning washed sparkling clean by the storm, with rambling Victorian mansions lining the shore. Then, bleary eyed, I wake on a train and gaze spellbound at the limpid waters of the Grand Canal lined with lily pads and a lush, green bankside jungle. Then Athlone, a grey town redolent of the smell of peat smoke as we change from the modern diesel to a soot stained peat burner. Its suddenly morning and I wake again in a creaky iron bed in a bright, bare, stone flagged room. I’d arrived! The Enchanted LandRural Ireland in the mid 1960s was becalmed in the doldrums of the 19th century. The abject poverty of the potato famine had fled across the Atlantic leaving a comfortable but threadbare rural idyll. My uncle Martin’s small farm huddled on the banks of the river Moy as it meandered through the bog country of the Mayo – Sligo border. The low single storied cottage had no electricity, no running water and no toilet. Its lime washed, stone flagged rooms were lit by ancient oil lamps and water was lugged in two tin buckets from a spring in a hedge bottom about a quarter of a mile away. The toilet was a trench behind the turf heap, not a nice experience on damp windswept nights. But hey I’m 8 years old; creature comforts aren’t high in my list of priorities! Behind the house a low cow byre sheltered a muddy yard, but to the front an enchanted b  When you purchase through links on our site, we may earn an affiliate commission, which supports our community.
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