We'd travelled from Belfast in convoy. Four cars, six men and enough fishing tackle to equip double our number. We'd agreed to meet early that morning. But Rodger, my travelling companion, enjoyed nothing more than stopping of for 'a bit o' breakfast'. We were only a few minutes late. Nevertheless, a series of good-humoured jibes greeted us. But our early morning feed of bacon and eggs, washed down with lashings of hot, sweet tea, more than made up for the taunts.

Rodger and I travelled together regularly and although he was some thirty years my senior, we had, over the past few years, become more than just travelling companions; we were buddies - friends - amigos.

With his florid face, years of sitting on river banks had taken its toll, and graying hair he could have been mistaken for my grandfather. Indeed, I think I looked upon him as such, having no recollection of my male grandparents, other than ageing brown photographs. We always found plenty to talk about, engrossing ourselves in conversation - world affairs, sport, books and of course, all things fishy. All while listening to a seemingly unending collection of 60's classics.

The previous week had been filled with great anticipation as I waited for the day to arrive. I became an angler at the age of five, after capturing a two inch trout. Fifteen years later, I'd caught fish from Enniskillen to Edenderry. But I'd never visited the famous and prolific River Shannon. Reels were filled with new lines, bait prepared, rods cleaned and polished. I wanted to be ready for anything; I knew the river's Tench had a reputation for being some of the hardest fighting in the country.

At last, the day had arrived, and after checking into our lodgings and grabbing a bite to eat, Rodger and I were sitting in Killeen's Bar; a pint and some fishy tales was the agenda. I'd heard stories about the place; an angling mecca, cabinets packed full of lures and one of the best pints of Guinness to be found anywhere. It was all true.

The next morning, not too bright or early - perhaps we had more than one pint - we were on the banks of the Shannon. Ripples glinted silvery tones in the sunshine, there was the faintest of breezes. Bacon sizzled on the small gas stove, it's irresistible aroma lingering in the trees around us. Starlings chattered and on the far bank, almost hidden by Bullrushes, a Heron stood tall and proud.

We'd travelled a few miles away from Shannonbridge and found a quiet little cove. It looked and was, by all accounts, perfect for our purpose. The previous night in the pub had proved useful, in acquiring some local knowledge of the best fishing.

The locals were right, two hours later and we were catching a steady flow of red-finned Roach and big Bream. Then it happened, the moment I was waiting for. My line had hardly touched the water when tip of my float bobbed, then shot under the surface and I hooked into what felt like a bag of coal. Line screamed off the reel! My heart pounded as it headed for the far bank and those Bullrushes.

Five minutes later, my forehead dripping sweat and with trembling hands, I held my first River Shannon Tench. Six pounds of pure muscle. Brownish in colour, velvety to touch with red, Teddy bear-like eyes. Rodger skipped and yelped, such was his joy for me.