"I only ever catch trout here, with white maggots" said Ian. His son, Thomas, squinted at me seriously, and nodded, confirming their shared devotion to the un-dyed larvae.
With exactly the same reasoning, I chose the fattest red maggots and began to thread them onto my hook. These dyed lip-red wrigglers differ from their white counterparts only in color. The bait box teemed with both denominations, but it was the red ones that were chosen and sacrificed to the great Salmo Trutta. Both members of the rival sect shrugged at my selection, wished me luck, and set off find their place of worship by the banks of the Liffey.
A fistful of maggots, red and white, sprinkled down onto the surface of the river. "Pacha Mama" escaped my lips.
I had long suspected that my success with the red maggots was due to my faith in them. My stubborn adherence to their slaughter made it likely that whatever I caught would be attributed to their seductive shade. If they did forsake me, there was a list of mitigating circumstances that could be trotted out to forgive them; 'The river is too high', 'It's too bright'.
Ian and Thomas must have a similar, and equally invalid dogma.
Funnily enough, when gutting the trout, it is quite easy to see the living chandlers, both red and white, that were hoovered up. They squirm in the gut of the fish seeking a miraculous Resurrection.
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