The Ways of the River Dodder
Long ago, I learned a vital angling lesson: Never leave home without a fly rod. In my travels, I’ve often stumbled on fishable water by chance — in Nigeria, say, where as a Peace Corps teacher I hooked a carp-like creature fit for the television show River Monsters in a muddy creek. So when I moved to Ireland to pursue the woman who’s now my wife, I packed my four-piece travel rod in case the River Liffey, so dear to James Joyce, held trout.
I rented an apartment in the leafy Ballsbridge neighborhood of Dublin, not far from St. Stephen’s Green and the city center, and tried to work on a book I owed my publisher. Instead, I spent hours wandering around my new neighborhood, stopping as necessary for a refreshing Guinness at one of the many pubs along my route. You’re never far from a pint in Dublin.
One afternoon, I spotted the actual Ball’s Bridge. Built in 1791, it spans a sparkling little stream that all but shouted out to me, Mesmerized, I walked to the bridge and stared at the dancing riffles below, hoping to
