Taking The Piseog

First there was the engine trouble with the boat, then his shooting skills failed completely; Barry Stoffell wonders if he has been cursed

- Barry Stoffell

I am not, by nature, a superstitious man. I have been blissfully unburdened with thoughts of either ill omens or lucky charms.

Everything changed in the latter half of this year, however, when I found myself in the midst of an extraordinary spell of poor sporting fortune. Our fishing boat developed inexplicable engine trouble. Driven to fishing from the shore, I made several trips and failed to catch anything big enough for supper (Surf and turf in Kerry, 31 July).

Frustrated with my poor return from the ocean, I thought to console myself with a trip to the reliable paddocks behind the house. My neighbor had reported that rabbit numbers were healthy and I hoped to lift my spirits — and the curse — with a few bunnies for the pot.

But my luck with the gun proved to be similarly blighted. Several outings passed without so much as the sight of a single bunny and, when I finally encountered one, in my haste to despatch it I missed behind with both barrels.

By mid-September, my every sporting endeavor had been met with failure, and the sika rut was just around the corner. I raised the matter with a good friend and local farmer in the pub one evening. Laughing at the sight of me staring miserably into my pint, he jokingly suggested that I must have been cursed.

Though I laughed this off at the time, his words came back to haunt me as I laid awake that night. Who would have reason to curse me?

Try as I might, the only person I could think of was a lady behind the counter in one of the various shops I visit. The self-proclaimed “only vegan in the village”, she’d made no secret of the fact that she didn’t agree with hunting, selling me goods with a heavy air of disapproval.

Malediction