The signs of spring’s arrival are visible by the river

Winter really hung on this year. Where I live we had snow at the beginning of March. I wisely proclaimed, to anyone who’d listen, that if March comes in like a lion it will go out like a lamb. Wrong again. It went out with bitter north-westerly winds and rain.

It was quite frustrating. I was behind in the vegetable garden and cancelled a planned trip on the boat— apart from the discomfort of the weather, the river levels were too high to be safe.

Then, at Easter, at the end of the first week in April, it happened. Spring arrived, almost over night.

My son came home for Easter and we decided to celebrate by digging our fly rods out of winter storage, getting into our waders and going down to the Liffey. As a fishing trip it wasn’t very successful — neither of us caught anything, though he came close a couple of times.

But as a way to enjoy the arrival of spring it was brilliant.

The evidence for the change in the season was everywhere. The river banks were carpeted by lesser celandines. For me their bright yellow flowers are, even more than primroses or dog violets, the epitome of early spring. They shine with hope when the weak sunshine strikes them.

Less welcome were the dark green shoots of young stinging nettles poking up between them. The pale brown stalks of last year’s growth, a metre and more in height, were still there as evidence of the menace to come.

Luckily neoprene body waders offer good protection. You can even sit on nettles when you come out of the river for a breather on the bank.

I was doing just that, scanning the river for any emerging insect life, when I noticed that something else was doing the same thing. A grey wagtail, that most elegant of all river birds, perched on a boulder in mid stream, its slim, ash grey and yellow body, bobbing and curtseying for a few seconds before it flew off and intercepted something invisible in mid air.

I started scanning the water again and I began to see them. First some small grey midges and then a large spring olive, and another. It was about 12.30 and a small hatch was starting. Soon afterwards the first trout rose. It was time to get back into the water.

The river was still high and the flow strong, but the water was clear and I could see the golden gravel on its bed where clumps of vivid green ranunculus were starting to grow. These attracted a very different sort of water bird. A pair of swans, battling against the current, were dipping their necks into the water and grazing on the new growth. I could imagine what a delicacy this must be if you are a swan.

All the life of the river was united in enjoyment of the new season.

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