By Gerry Doyle

Five or six miles off the north-west coast of Ireland is an island called Tory, Oileán Thoraí, and on the north-east side of Tory the forces of nature have built a home for sandeels in the form of a massive bank of sand piled up against the steep cliffs of the island. Tory Island to some people means a remote stronghold of the Irish language, or a unique people with a very special outlook on life. To others it means painters of noteworthy accomplishment or a Mecca to be visited like Inishmore. To us fishermen it meant blonde skate of the most marketable kind and turbots of unrivalled size. These were the predators of the sandeels who dwelt in the sand bank, and on nights of a good bright moon we got many a good night's fishing there.

My first visit was in the summer of 'fifty nine. We were on our way to the more extensive grounds off the west coast when we decided to investigate the Tory sand bank. An echo sounder was our investigative tool, for all fishermen become adept at interpreting the signals from these ingenious machines. We can discover the nature of the sea bed and estimate quite well whether it is suitable for the type of gear we are using at any give time. Our information was that the bank only yielded skate in bright moon light. Tonight would be such a night so, having sussed out the sandy area and made a tow around the perimeter of it for a few turbot, we decided to wait for the dark and try a serious tow.

I had seen three men in silhouette walking along the cliffs earlier on and when we were lying loose in the water they were standing on the rim of the cliff, apparently watching us. There had been an aura of surrealism and timelessness about them when they had been walking and I got an impression of three pilgrims plodding, arms locked behind. Now that they were standing still the aura became threatening, and the bright August sky behind them accentuated the image. The indigenous people were watching us and my primitive territorial instincts became very wary; but reason asserted itself and I went to bed in order to be alert for the night's work.

I wakened three or four hours later and went on deck to find Jim Maginnis and John McDowell having great conversation with five Tory men. Well, with four Tory men, for the fifth one was a teenager who had not yet acquired English. John introduced me. It turned out that they had been aboard for a couple of hours and John and Jim had already had a mug of tea with them.

They were the opposite of primitive territory defenders. They were informed, civilised and friendly people who wanted to buy some gurnards from us for creel bait. When they found we were just starting a trip and had no fish aboard, they wished to make an arrangement with us to keep some for them. That was not so easy to arrange definitely, so we agreed to keep the bait for them but could not promise to deliver it. We gave them a couple of turbot. They gave us more than a dozen fresh eggs and they rowed away for the island while we were shooting our gear.

Most of the landing places on Tory are on the south side but there is a little good-weather landing place on the north side and that is where they pulled for and why they had only a rowing boat. The creel boats were kept in a safer place on the south side.

Most trawlers were rigged for side trawling then, and most were rigged for starboard side working only. Our boat Madame Prunier was rigged for both sides and stern. The fine ground gear we were using on the sand bank was on the starboard side, which meant that we were exploiting the relatively small ground clockwise, so that when we were towing south-east we were a mile or thereabout from the island, and the massive Tor at the south-east end was silhouetted against the silvery reflection of the moon on the sea.

It was an incredibly beautiful scene, changing slowly and constantly as we towed the outside leg of our pitch. The lighthouse was sending its four flash, thirty mile signal from the north-west end of the island, so that when we reached the north-east end of the pitch and turned in toward the island the light merged into the higher part of the island and gradually disappeared behind it. Every flash lit up the silhouette of that part of the island as we towed the inside leg north-west close along it. The moderate south-easterly wind made enough small waves to reflect a million points of moonlight like jewels.
Three times I conned our boat and gear

 around the pitch during the five hour tow, and each time this exquisite scene subtly changed as though trying to improve on itself. I will not forget my first night on the pitch at the back of Oileán Thoraí. It was magical.

We didn't get any skate, though we did get some nice quality haddock and a few very good turbot-but not enough to stay, so we set off for an area about twelve miles west of Aranmore Island and spent five reasonably productive days there. We would have liked to spend longer but the weather was warm and the 24 tons of ice we had crammed into the ice room in Fleetwood was disappearing fast.
The marketable fish we were getting on that ground at that time were, in order of bulk, haddock, cod, leather-back roker, johnny dorys, lemon sole, dover sole, hake, pollock-both black and white, dogfish, an odd turbot or brill, and two halibuts. We reckoned that these fish pair off because we usually caught them in pairs. Non-marketable species were blue whiting and gurnard which were normally discarded to the noisy excitement of the seagulls, mollies and gannets, but this trip we were saving the gurnards for lobster bait.

On our way to the market port of Fleetwood we passed Tory just after noon, so we dodged in as close to East Harbour as I thought safe and swapped almost a ton of gurnard for a few dozen fresh eggs. Unwritten ethics obliged the Tory men to press money on us, but proscribed the acceptance of it. We were not short of eggs, but such things carry a dignity that money cannot.