Scottish Catholic Observer

Speleology is the scientific study of caves. Being more than a little afraid of confined spaces, becoming a speleologist would not have been up there among my primary life choices. There are people who go deep into caves as a recreational pastime. They are called ‘cavers’ or ‘potholers.’ In another age people went underground for work in ‘caves’ they had carved for themselves. We called this mining. Last week I hit the pothole in the road.

Firstly I should have seen the pothole, it looked as if it went down half way down to Australia! Then I would have had enough time and space to take avoiding action. I did neither. My tyre shredded in protest and Big Wull and I were left high and dry on our way to fish. The wonders of modern car design and the space saving and weight saving philosophy which underpins it, meant that I had no spare wheel! Instead, I had a little can of ‘stuff’ that I was supposed to spray into my deflated tyre to get me home.  Fat chance with a tyre like shredded wheat! We had to be rescued! By the time the patrol came, removed the wheel and took it to Lanark to have a new tyre fitted returned and got us mobile again we had no option but to go fish locally. Linlithgow had been or intended destination. It was already too late and not practical to go on. The Daer was temptingly close. We gave into temptation.

Few sights inspire me so much. After a totally frustrating morning I was in need of inspiration. It was a beautiful day, there was just enough breeze to make the prospect of fishing enticing and full of possibility. The Daer Reservoir looks magnificent in these conditions.  I felt my spirits lifting. Big Wull broke the silence, ‘There are only five boats!’ Even I can count to five. There should have been six boats. Given its completely isolated location it was unlikely that anyone was out in the missing boat.  There was no car.  We drove the mile and a half to the top of the reservoir.  No boat!  We drove round to the other side where there is restricted access.  Still no boat visible. We concluded that it had broken free from its mooring and would have to be rescued later.  Given that we had been going to Linlithgow to fish, neither Big Wull or I had our keys for the boathouse.  Neither had we our keys for the boats. On this magnificent Spring morning with the world coming alive our spirits dropped.  Gloom descended.

By now it was approaching lunchtime. Neither of us needed persuading to eat. As we munched it felt almost warm, summery, although trees without leaves and the dead colour of winter on the hills told a different story.  There were oystercatchers and sandpipers and curlew all making territorial claims. Definitely Spring. In the sheughs and watercourses puddocks were singing their love songs. It may have sounded like croaking but its message was unmistakable to other puddocks. I began to feel more relaxed again. Things may not have worked to plan but there were plenty of compensations. There were worse places to be and I could think of many. We made some tactical readjustments after lunch. It is amazing what Big Wull can do with spanners and screwdrivers. We managed to access the boats and with that sense of expectation that anglers know and love we got ready for our first outing of the year on the Daer.  Priority was to go up the far bank and look for the boat. No joy. With the day wearing on we decided to fish.

At this time of year fishing is slow.  It is cold and there is not much insect life so trout are reluctant to expend energy until they get value, food, for their effort. My first fish of the season is always memorable. This one was specially so. It was that rich yellow that truly wild trout achieve in colour.  Along its length were black and brown and red spots.  Its fins were perfect and although a little thin, it looked to have over wintered remarkably well. I slipped it back into the water and watched it disappear into the depths. I savoured the moment. Sitting on my boat seat, there were no potholes, shredded tyres, missing boats, absent keys. There was no sense of frustration only the realisation that it does not get much better than this. It is a privilege to be out in the countryside and drink in its sights and sounds and week by week watch nature paint a different picture and watch the seasons come and go. I realise that I am very fortunate.

As I read the Gospel on this fourth week of Lent I realise I am doubly fortunate. I may be afraid of confined spaces but I don’t know how I would cope with the confinement that is physical blindness. For many in our world this is their reality.

Potentially every one of us takes his or her sight for granted. This week there may be an opportunity to thank God for all that we see. Much more insidious in our lives is what we choose not to see. On the weekend that SCIAF is the focus of our generosity, we need to firstly be grateful for all that we have and then we must choose to recognise the needs of our brothers and sisters. Exposure to global events initially makes us aware. It can also leave us feeling overwhelmed. This can lead to global indifference. Each one of us is capable of saying that as long as I am alright the world is alright. Nothing could be further from the truth. We can close our eyes and our hearts by choice but when they are opened by the gospel message, the reality of our world needs to be confronted. Perhaps our prayer for the week should be the prayer of the blind man, ‘Lord, that I may see.’