The Baltimore Echo.


...." Ok I'll have a Guinness."


Being an incomplete record of our

sojourn in South West Ireland during

September 2002.


Those in attendance being, we use the word in its' weakest sense, Sean , Craig , Brian , Barry, Ray, Neil, Ginger, Andy, Steve, Topper (Steve), Tony and lastly Chris, who writes this diary.



A view west across to Sherkin Island from the Baltimore side.


Wednesday 18th September.

08:10

Packing now finished, I'm waiting for Barry to pick me up for the meet at the Chequers. My suitcase weighs more than the aircraft that will carry it. The weather is cool and overcast -- I wonder if the same is true in South West Ireland? I fidget, waiting, wondering if nine sets of underpants will be enough.

09:15

Barry arrives early; a car transporter has shed it's load and blocked the M25 south of Stansted, our departure airport. We forego the Chequers and leave from Farningham traveling clockwise round the M25. Although the clockwise journey is approximately fifteen times longer, we are going the quick way! A fitting start to an Irish holiday. As Sean boards the bus I can see he is missing the Guinness . The journey is tedium. A large man sits two seats on in front of me, he growls occasionally and made a few remarks about "Barrymore tendencies"; the entertainers court case holding the tabloid headlines of late. I asked Barry who the large chap was, "Silverback" was the enigmatic answer.

12:20

Stansted! We arrive, Sean has two pints of Guinness and Ray blags a bag of fishing weights on to the aircraft without an excess baggage charge; I am developing a hernia due to carrying said bag of weights.

16:27

Approaching Cork, a slow descent and my tuna and sweetcorn sandwich is slowly rising, outstripped by the usual terror associated with flying. Having begged all the usual deities for survival I am working my through the more obscure gods of the Inuit peoples when the aircraft touches down with a gentle bump. The feeling of relief drives my thoughts back to normal. Somewhere in the deep arctic, the Walrus God is shouting "hello, hello?" into the spiritual equivalent of the mobile phone. Stop Press: Sean has drunk a cup of coffee. Today is Craig's birthday and his brother Sean is keen to begin the celebrations, I am watching for the next pint. Tony seems in good spirits, he hasn't mentioned Kathy, ....... , yet.

17:00

With our bodies and bags into three hire cars we drive out of Cork towards Bandon. A red Peugeot 106 ambles along in front of us at 25 m.p.h. . After 10 minutes of this, Ray explodes in a cloud of expletives. The car finally departs our route at Skibereen to shouts of "fuck off". For us, coming from the London area, the Irish seem to drive at two speeds: absolutely exasperating and absolutely terrifying. The road to Baltimore drops south from Skibereen winding through shallow valleys with wooded slopes and finally the sea comes into view. As we drive into Baltimore the sea stretches out dotted with low islands. The sky is a pale blue with thin clouds flecked pink. As we draw up outside `O Driscolls Guest House, the sound of pubs cranking up for the evening mixes with the ageless sounds of the sea shore; gulls calling, water lapping the groan of moored vessels sliding by one another, offset by the tap-tap-tap of rigging vibrating in the breeze and Sean ordering six pints of Guinness.

20:30

Into our rooms - I'm sharing with Barry and Tony - and out as soon as. Barry, Tony and I search for food. The rest of our party seem to be in a bar. In fact, Baltimore seems to be one large bar, as buildings, apparently distinct, all seem to be part of one contiguous pub. We plumb for McCarthy's bar. Good food and Guinness is followed by an excellent set by Mike Hanley, a West of Ireland singer songwriter with enviable flat picking skills. Around 11:30 p.m., exhausted, I make an early bed. Barry and Tony elect to have a last pint with Sean and the rest, who've turned drinking into an art form in under four hours.





"The Beacon" which stands at the entrance to Baltimore `loch'.


Baltimore is a small and busy place. Historically it made its' living from fishing and boat building. There are still ship repair businesses on the quayside, plenty of yachts moored in the harbour area, and enough restaurants to feed the entire County. Clearly, tourism is an important part of the local economy.


A view South along the harbour .


Thursday 19th

Our first full day in Baltimore. The charter boat arrives, "The Rooster", is skippered by Nic Kent, an Englishman, who gave up the South East of England for the South West of Ireland; he seems very relaxed. As we motor out of the harbour the news from late last night filters through. Sean spent part of the night on the bathroom floor, possibly driven there by snoring of another sharing his room. This is disputed, it was suggested that he was trying to escape from the noise that he was making. He was awakened , later, by brother Craig trying to open the door.......Our room was very quiet!



We prepare for our first day on the water.



The sea is calm at first, Barry is obviously happy with this, he's smiling. As we pass beyond the Beacon toward the open sea we halt in the lee of a small outcrop of rock. The mackerel lines go over the side and quite soon ......Nic says "no good here" and we move a few hundred metres. It was a one minute angle! He was right of course, as we dropped feathers over in the new location the fish came immediately. They were shimmering bright blues and greens with a furious energy. Some were very small, I put them back and they vanished like bullets. Tony was top man at this point, he caught skip loads.


`Hello Sailor'

Barry stands next to a door, which looks like it was hung by Beray, Barry and Ray's building firm.


The sea becomes agitated as we move out beyond the influence of the shoreline and Islands. Another wavelength is added to its movement with a long deep swell pushing in from the South East. Barry withdraws to the cabin door and looks pale. We anchor up, it's about force 4 or 5, Beaufort, and the underlying swell seems to be gaining amplitude. Pa Flewin was the first to go; he and I had wrestled with a large tangle of lines, got it unraveled and separated and were about to restart fishing when his breakfast shot out of his mouth in a horizontal trail borne by the wind. He'd had a good breakfast! Ask those further down the boat. Next to show signs of discomfort was Topper followed by Steve. Meanwhile Craig had caught the first of many Conger Eels, probably about six, maybe seven pounds. Shortly after Neil caught a Ling and then a Conger. Neil declines to declare a weight for the Ling but claims the Conger to be the largest of the day. However, Andy Medhurst, who caught a Conger just a little later, estimated at 15lbs, claims his to be the largest of this day. Neil says it was the same fish that he caught , "but weighed less because it had had a crap". Apparently, many of our party can peer into hundreds of feet of water and observe the detail of the lives of individual fish. I remarked that I hadn't had a bite all day and Ray declared "'course you fucking aint, ugly bastard, fish don't wanna look at you". Perhaps he's right. Sean was catching some nice fish, one, a large Pollack, was later claimed also by Tony. It seems daft that a fish, once hooked, will a little later get caught again. In fact this happened a few times during our stay, indeed sufficiently many times for it not to be mere coincidence. The boat is now heaving in the swell and wind to the extent that standing around waiting for a bite gives the abdominal muscles a good steady workout. We decide to repair to the lee side of one of the Islands. We speed back, the wild rocky coastline fringed with crashing surf and the air alive with Fulmers, Puffins and Gannets. They catch fish entrails thrown up into the air and dive-bomb those that fall into the sea. The sea is clean, cold and aquamarine as it shallows into the rock outcrops which litter the near-shore waters. It smells fresh and clean and turns the purest white as it splits into foam against the shore. We reach some calmer waters behind Sherkin Island. There is little wind here and no swell but also no fish. This can't go on. It doesn't.


Ray Bainbridge taking a leak as we return to port.




18:00

We moor up and decant immediately to Bushes Bar for a debrief. Nic the skipper turns up also and for an hour or so Ray holds court. It's very amusing, everyone is very relaxed except Andy Medhurst. He needs some vodka and solpadiene.

After a wash and brush up it's off to find food. We plumb for "The Algeria". This might have got its' name from the sack of Baltimore, June 20th 1631. Some Algerian pirates attacked the town killing two people and carting off over a hundred which they sold into slavery. There is no sign of pirates as we arrive bar one dodgy character , who turned out to be Topper. The grub was good and dealt with quickly. We return to Bushes Bar. In the side room Barry , Steve and I get our instruments and (try to) perform. Steve plays a good harmonica, Barry and I play guitar - moderately. At last, Barry and I are about to play in public! Several of our party are starting to repeat themselves. I suspect alcohol is the cause. Luckily, they are asking us to repeat songs we have already done, we only know three ! We turn in around midnight, everyone bar me seems very drunk. I've started a mild `flu', great! Just what I needed.


Friday 20th

Several activities present themselves this morning;


Barry and Chris recorded one take on a nymph fished by Barry, they remained a trout free zone.. Topper tried off the beach below the Beacon, lost his end gear on the first cast and said "fuck it" and went back to lodgings for a kip. He was seen having his first pint of the day at 17:00.

Brian Flewin says there are 23 pubs in Skibereen itself and they managed "eleven or twelve of 'em". He looked stunned when he arrived back at about 19:30 - after an 11:30 start. Sean looked ......like he always does. Ginge arrived back......very very pissed.

The boat fishing with Nic was very successful. Craig caught Pollack, Coalfish, Ling, Cod, Conger and a rake of Mackerel. Notable was the Ling at around 12lbs and Conger at around 15lbs. Ray caught a 20 lbs Conger, Pollack in the 4lbs - 8lbs range, 2 Dogfish, 2 Cod and half a bottle of Jamesons. Tony reports Pollack, 4lbs - 6lbs, Tony and Andy caught the same Ling, approximately 15lbs. Tony also lost a Conger which became unhooked near the boat. Mr Medhurst claimed several Pollack and an Octopus. Neil blanked! Strangely, because he of all of us clearly knows what he's doing. Nic took the party past Fastnet rock off Mizzen Point. The seas threw the boat around all day, leaving the anglers with a settled weariness as they came ashore.


Craig and Neil discuss throwing Chris overboard.


We eat our evening meal at McCarthys'. It was good food. I turned in early still unwell. Ginger resurrected himself to eat with us; a remarkable achievement. Apparently, Sean kept on drinking until late. He `pulled' a large margarita piazza with extra cheese, which he took to bed with him. The morning revealed that their relationship was purely platonic, the piazza was unmolested, well almost. A tangle of anchovies and tomato sauce was found in Sean's hair, all questions were met with denials.


21st September.

I woke after a poor nights sleep but feeling much better than the previous day. I now have a very sore throat and a dripping nose, good, things have resolved themselves. Some of us decide on a walk about Sherkin Island. The 10:30 ferry sees Barry, Steve, Craig, Brian Andy and I headed for Sherkin. Ray and the others went to Skibereen while Topper went on the piss. Sherkin is quite large by the standard of islands in this area and supports about 120 souls and the population is still growing. Island life starts at the pier: I couldn't find one vehicle with a current tax disc. Tyres are changed when they wear out into holes and every car is scraped and dented because of the narrow roads and tracks. Barry Steve and I parted company with Craig Brian and Andy shortly after the ferry. They decided to explore the Baltimore side of the island, I think it's called the Jolly Roger.

There seems to be more houses than families, some houses are locked up, some derelict, some being built. Notices, flapping in the breeze, invariably announce that someone is applying for permission to make a dwelling. Our walk indicates why; splendid views, peace and a quiet that is better than a hundred medicines. We explored a small cove at low tide, our feet making a rough hiss as we walked on the sand. Steve is a mine of information, retrieving animal life from the bladderwrack and fissures in the rocks. We paddled and dallied like ten year old boys, I shed the years and felt again the wonder of my first encounter with the sea; my Mothers voice imploring me to "be careful" echoes in memory and I can hear quite distinctly the slow `click' of my artificial heart valve as I stand head-down peering into a rock pool.

The rock that this island is made of is a gray sedimentary stone and seems to have been used for some of the older dwellings. At some time past it has been forced up from its' horizontal beginning into the near vertical. It comprises many thin layers which begin to break and fray as it weathers. It is the perfect habitat for grasses and other vegetation to take a hold and in the littoral zone provides shelter for anything whose normal number of legs differs from two.

We stroll back to the Jolly Roger to find Brian, Craig and Andy relaxing in a bar. The walls are clad with dark brown timber, the windows looking out across to Baltimore. I feel time-shifted despite the modern radio piped into the bar and the attractive young landlady in her tight jeans with bright small sparks of ribbon in her hair. I had a pint of Guinness if I recall correctly, very nice. We take the ferry back to Baltimore watching a large shoal of Mackerel herding baitfish against the rocky shore. Every so often the water would explode with fry as Mackerel gave chase and then explode again with greater force as something below chased the Mackerel.

The evening was spent at an hotel on the road out of Baltimore where Barry, Steve and I eat seafood. It was good and Barry and Steve provided good company. I forgot the dietary strictures that my GP urges upon me and at Steve's suggestion had a crab and chowder starter before the Haddock main course. Bliss. A bottle of Sauvignon went well with it and I reached a state of `slightly pissed'. After we staggered back to the harbour I turned in leaving the rest of our party to finish the job.


Sunday 22nd September


The Countryside march in London drew around 300,000 people according to R.T.E. . Good, I'd have been there but for our holiday. Around 10:00, we all took to Nics' boat and revisited the marks we fished the Thursday previous. It was a gentle sea and a lot of fish came aboard. Many were released. Steve managed a conger eel comparable to Rays largest fish of Friday and the sweep was looking as if it might split. Of course there was disagreement about the eels' size between Ray and Steve About that evening this diary is silent! Perhaps it was especially good?



Monday 23rd


The last sea fishing trip of the holiday but Barry and Chris are determined not to be beaten by the trout in those lakes just outside of Skibereen. We give Ginger and Brian a lift to Skibereen and then drop them on the shores of Loch Ine. They are going to walk back to Baltimore. Barry and I arrive at a Mrs Connolly's house to purchase day tickets and hire a boat. She is the essence of Irish calm and welcome. We ask how it has been fishing and are met with several opaque remarks. An earlier query about whether there were footpaths in the area (that Brian and Ginger could use...) produced a response that was insurmountably vague albeit delivered with several "yes,yes"'s a few "no,no"'s and a wide smile. Our fly fishing begins well: we anchor up and fish towards the shore. Quite soon I had a pike on a nymph and our anticipation rose. We worked it quite hard, there were swirls around our flies, some tightening of lines but not one trout came our way.


Barry unhooks the only fish of the day ...............................While chris admires it.

The sea fishing was more successful; it was reported to me that Andy "incompetent" Medhurst, caught a conger around 26lbs providing a dramatic end to the sweepstake The sea was the roughest of the trip with tide and wind combining to make the angling difficult and staying on the water uncomfortable. The faces of those who went told its own tale. By the evening fatigue had taken over and a fine meal in Casey's finished all but the most hardened drinkers off: of course there were several in this category.

Brian and Ginger completed their walk, when asked how it went one of them said "I'm not doing that fucking walk again".


Tuesday 24th


No organised fishing today. Some make trips to Skibereen, some to small hamlets around the bay. At 14:15 a party set off for Cape Clear Island. These last few days of the holiday has seen exceptional weather; cool sunny days with crystalline light quality, the colour and clarity of the views was remarkable. In the afternoon I took some fishing tackle and made off along the eastern side of the bay toward the Beacon. Finding a small cut in the cliffs I scrambled down to fish a small `vee' shaped inlet about 30 metres long and 5 metres deep. It contains lots of small fish. I try for about two hours, the fish seem to like the pieces of limpet I throw out but are very reluctant about the same on a hook, a very small hook! When God rolls up Time and Space at the Final Reckoning, I must ask about why fish are like this. I make my way back knowing that this is really the last of our holiday. A faint breeze makes sitting outside comfortable in the early evening sun, there is a sense of winding down and the evening goes slowly.


I found a nice restaurant a little way up from "Mac Carthais"

I eat alone in a nearly posh restaurant just past MacCarthy's. The waitress is from Turkmenistan, once a part of the Soviet Union, she is Asiatic, a beautiful mixture of Chinese, Mongol and Indo-European features. Like many people from the former Soviet republics she is well educated and ferociously bright. We talk for about an hour before I wander back to find the rest of our party.

Our crowd have collected by Bushes Bar, very soon, we are in Bushes Bar. We are joined by two couples "from Buckinghamshire". Mr Medhurst, fortified and advanced by several small bottles of Chardonney begins to bang his large flat (right) hand on the table at which he sits, there is no logical reason for this. A little later, this is augmented with demands for Steve, Barry and I to make "some fucking music". I choose the less noisy alternative and get the guitars. We make a small concert which goes down with some approval. Our audience grows, two `mature' Irish ladies join in our songs. They know every song that we do and 500 that we don't! Despite our poor guitar work, they are very forgiving. Barry plays the Classical piece, `Romance'. It was very good! At last, a night in an Irish pub with some genuine `crack'. Mr Medhurst continues to visit superhuman inhumanities on his own body by combining vodka, solpadiene and chain smoking. We retire around midnight still slightly `high' from playing. I lay awake thinking of how we can improve our `Kilgary Mountain'. Drifting into sleep I produce a fart that would have sunk the Titanic, thank God the windows were open.


Wednesday 25th


Our last day, a strange day of waiting. Our flights are for 21:30 so, after packing up and settling, we drive to Kinsale. On the way we stop off and look at the River Bandon. There are salmon sitting in small groups in the flow. The water level is low and it is a guess as to whether they are on their way up or down. The tide is falling as we reach Kinsale, large mullet cruise around in the falling water, stirring up gray clouds of silt as they touch bottom. We decide to split up and meet again at 18:30. Kinsale is a small town and it is impossible to walk around it without meeting one or more of our party every five minutes; I've never said "hello" with such frequency. I saw more of Topper than I had in the last week. We wile away the day, drinking coffee, buying gifts and contemplating the return to work.

At Cork airport we did some more waiting. We were getting very good at this: Andy Medhurst sat stock still chain smoking. He seemed somehow to be able to light and smoke a cigarette without moving his arms. We retuned to being separate individuals. Barry borrowed around ten euro's from me just before we boarded the flight. I suppose I'll get it back next time.

The plane rumbled out along the tarmac and with a roar we left the land of dreams.