Stoat's Tails and Streamers on the Wharfe.

A short video I made of an evening session on the Wharfe through the week.

High Water: Time for the 'Garden Fly'.

High and murky.

The weather over the last week has been, from the trout angler's perspective, frustrating. In fact, the whole season has been so far. First there's no water at all, and now far too much! Still, at least it'll be giving the gravel a flush and ridding it of all the horrible green slim which makes wading so hairy in periods of drought. The problem has been that every time the rivers look like dropping, another system blows over and sends them up to their bank again, so yesterday, as expected, the Wharfe was still high and brown, with all manner of god knows what being carried downstream.

What's a guy to do? Well, if an angler is willing to abandon the aesthetics of the fly in favour of something altogether more practical, there's still fish to be caught. During this flood periods, trout will gather along with all manner of fish in the slacks and back eddies, feasting on a banquet of slugs, catepillars, worms and whatever else is washed into the river. So, the intrepid trout botherer must match the hatch. This found me in my garden yesterday morning, hastily digging up as many worms as I could before my mother (not a sympathiser with the angler's plight) discovered what I was doing to her beloved lawn. I then took my time in getting the rest of my gear together, allowing myself several cups of tea and a lengthy breakfast before eventually leaving to catch the train at about 11 o'clock. I was in no rush the reach the bank, for the longer the river had to drop, the better.

By the time I arrived at the river, thanks to one of Northern Rail's daily cock ups, it was well past lunchtime, and the river in front of me was in a far worse state than I had initially envisaged. In most places it was tearing past, and there was water in places I'd never seen water before. The bank behind me wash strewn with debris, and the vegetation had obviously been steamrollered by the current over the previous days. This could be tricky - I would have to pick my spots carefully and fish well. The set up could not have been more straight forward. 5lb line straight through, with a single swan shot pinched about a foot above a size 6 hook baited with a juicy lobworm. Tentatively I began to place searching casts here and there. Many fly anglers would have you believe worming is a mindless 'chuck it and chance it' technique... the fact is most of these people have either never done it or not done it properly! Worming can be a highly enjoyable and thoroughly absorbing way of fishing. You feel every bump and scrape of the bait as you twitch it through the swim, and the rap-rap-rap at the fingers when a fish strikes can be utterly electrifying.

A nice trout to the garden fly!

After a while, halfway through an interesting looking crease in the current, the line halted. I waited a second before twitching the bait to move it along, at which point the rod unexpectedly sprang briefly into life before the line again went slack. Well, there was a chance today then. I moved along in search of new spots to fish -  not easy with so much water about, but there were enough likely places to focus my mind. I came to a deep, steady area beneath an overhanging willow and proceeded to work my worm through. Nothing after a  few minutes, but I was convinced there was a fish to be had, so I set my rod in the rest, lit a cigarette and waited for things to develop. After a while, a twitch.. hmm... a sharp jag on the rod tip - that's the one! I lifted into a strong, satisfying resistance, then the rod sprang straight again. Bugger. I wound in to find the battered, mangled remnants of my worm, but nothing else amiss. I quickly sharpened the hook just to be sure, then made another move to a deep area with a strong crease in the current. I flicked my bait in, and immediately the rod wrenched downwards. A brisk fight followed before a plump brownie around the pound mark surrendered to the net. This was soon followed by another fish of about the same size further upstream after I put my rod in the rest and left the worm fishing under the near bank. Not a bad result for a short session in tricky conditions! Interestingly the mouths of both fish were stuffed with caterpillars, presumable washed in from low hanging trees.

A fine brace of Wharfe trout - a reasonable reward on a tricky day.

We Need A Montage (small stream video).

Just thought I'd share this short video I knocked together of my River Doe trip earlier in the week. I'm no editing whizz and it's a bit rough around the edges but it gives you an idea of the place and my day. Hope you enjoy it!

Small Stream Fun

I had a very pleasant afternoon today on the River Doe, a beautiful limestone beck in North Yorkshire. It was a nice change on this tight, intimate water to bring out my 6foot brook rod, which always makes for an entertaining time battling fish of all sizes. I concentrated most of my efforts on fishing my way through the fast pocket water with a Mary Copperhead nymph presented 'New Zealand Style' underneath a size 14 Klinkhammer. Plenty of fish came to hand throughout the session, mostly to the nymph but with a good number of lively trout exploding to the dry fly too. Beautiful trout they were too - perfectly shaped, fully finned, wild golden gems. It's a tenner for a day ticket - if you're in the Ingleton area I strongly suggest you give it a crack. A ticket also entitles you to fish the Doe's sister river, the Twiss, along with a stretch of the River Greta. There's also a chance of a seatrout given some water - that'd be nice eh!

The brownies of the Doe are true wild gems.

Looking downstream on the Doe.

Canal: Day Two.

Had some time to kill again today (come to think of it, I always have far too much time to kill... why I don't fish more often I have no idea), so went back down to the canal for a couple more hours between 5 and 7pm to see what it would produce. Opted this time for a smaller red spotted mepps spinner. It was absorbing trying out different retrieves to see what would produce follows and takes. No perch today, but two Jack pike came out to play. The first, one of the smallest pike I've ever laid eyes on, took the spinner right in at the bank with extraordinary agression but was comprehensively outgunned by my gear! Slipped him back, then soon had another more solid hit in a tight spot underneath an overhanging bush. A lively little fight was had before a second, better fish was in the net. It was still only around the pound and a half mark, maybe two at a push, but there's a lot of pike in that size bracket in the canal and they're a good laugh. Besides, at least my catches are getting bigger... I might be up to five pounders by November!

My snappy little micro-pike... dare I say 'would make a good deadbait'?

Streamlined predator.

Canal Perch Today

Grabbed a couple of hours on my local stretch of canal today just to do a bit of spinning. It was relatively uneventful, but still a relaxing way to spend a little time, and along with a few follows from Jack Pike, I did manage to bank this pretty Perch. Not big, but a reasonable reward for a low effort session. Roach and bream were still spawning as they had been last week when I was targeting them on the fly (see here for more!). Also I spotted a thumper of a carp lurking in some margin weed - very broad across the back and must have been well into double figures! I may return tomorrow depending on weather and time constraints... watch this space.

Perfect predator in minature.

Big mouth for a wee fella!

A Yorkshire Scorcher (In which Eric embraces the traditional North Country style... and wishes he'd brought a drink).

Wednesday was hot. Bloody hot. In fact, pottering around the house, unpacking various bits and bats from university, I was convinced I’d have been far more comfortable in a Turkish prison cell. I mean, Christ! What was the weather doing? Only a week ago it had felt more like February than May, and now all of a sudden Bradford had decided to become its own scorched little enclave of the Middle East. So far since my return from Cumbria I had managed to avoid doing very much at all, sheltering from the sun like a hermit. But evidently this heatwave wasn’t going away any time soon... and there’s only so many episodes of Loose Women you can sit through, pondering why men are (apparently) such bastards on so many levels before you realise you really ought to get some fresh air to cleanse yourself of gender-based guilt. Time to dig the gear out.

Thursday was, if anything, hotter than Wednesday, and by the time I was stood on the banks of the Wharfe at Ilkley at 8 in the morning, the temperature must have already been pushing well into the dreaded 20s. Not a cloud was in sight, no wind, and the river was very low indeed – not ideal! But hey, at least I wasn’t gawking at Jeremy Kyle for the fourth day in a row. I wandered for a while and tried to decide what could be done to produce some sport in these conditions. Very few fish were rising and there was little sign of fly activity – even if there had been, dry fly fishing on days like this is frustrating at best. Fish deep with heavy nymphs then? Well, that would probably have been a prudent move, but in all honesty it’s a technique I’ve grown rather weary of, having been my ‘go to’ tactic for rivers for a couple of years now, and it certainly wasn’t something I wanted to spend a whole day doing. Something else then, but what? I flicked through my fly box in search of inspiration, and my eyes were drawn towards a row of wisps of inconsequence in one corner – ah, spiders.

I’ve never had much confidence in spiders. Of the few I do own, only the black spider has taken trips out of the box with any level of frequency, and even then only to be fished upstream as an emerger style pattern, and never used in the ‘traditional’ way. The few times that I had done the whole North Country thing properly, the results had been poor and left me unconvinced. Nothing about it grabbed me in any way, and I would invariably find myself caving in and reverting to more familiar techniques in an all too short space of time – I suppose it never worked because I never gave it the time, and of course I never gave it the time because it never worked... something of a vicious cycle, and such things are hard to break. But today was different; today I would buck the trend of my rigid angling ways and embrace this as a new way of fishing. Somehow, it seemed the right thing to do... or perhaps I had a touch of sunstroke.

So, having tied up a two fly leader (three’s a little excessive don’t you think?... Okay so maybe I just get tangled every five casts and can’t be arsed) with a snipe and purple in point position and a partridge and orange on the dropper, I stepped into the river, sending frisky minnows skittering away in every direction. The wading was diabolical, with all the rocks being coated in a layer of green slime in these low conditions, but I just about managed to stay on my feet and make it to a reasonable position to make a start from, working my way slowly through areas of fast water and the dark, shaded areas beneath far bank trees where I felt the fish might be sheltering. After about ten minutes of this, a rather over ambitious cast towards a tight spot resulted in me losing my point fly to a low hanging branch. A sign, surely! No, thought I – plod on, give it time. And that’s exactly what I did. On went a new fly, a black pattern with a small wing this time, and I continued my slow journey downstream. Things began to happen – first a sharp pluck, then next cast a firmer pull which resulted in a small, lively fish throwing itself clear of the water before throwing the hook. Maybe there was something to this after all. A little further downstream came another pull. No mistake on my part this time, and the first pretty little brownie of the day came to hand, having confidently seized the partridge and orange on my dropper. Only around 5 inches in length, but it gave me confidence, and I slipped him back safe in the knowledge that I now had a new weapon to add to my armoury of piscatorial warfare.

A few more small fish followed (along with a brief, ill-fated altercation with a better trout) before I reached a point where the river slows down to an almost total standstill. Here I alighted from the river to walk downstream to the next suitable area. God, it was hot! When I’d been absorbed in fishing, and more importantly catching, I hadn’t noticed it as much, but now I was out on dry land I could feel my neck and arms frying and my clothes sticking to me. Ugh, and in my rush to leave the house that morning I hadn’t even thought to pack a drink. Great. The river bank was also starting to get rather busy with people enjoying the weather now – Wharfedale seems to turn into a scaled down version of Blackpool at the first hint of sunshine, so I decided another hour or so would be worthwhile, then I would make my escape before the crowds of ‘had owt mate?’ folk, well meaning as many of them are, made a safe backcast impossible.

I found an enticing looking vein of dark, swift water overshadowed by ash trees and began to work my way gradually through it on a short line. Suddenly this method was becoming rather appealing. It had a relaxed, leisurely air about it, but it was not dull. It was somehow focused, yet not rushed. And sharp rapping tug of the takes was electrifying. Speaking of which, halfway down this deep channel my line slammed tight and I lifted a bucking, thumping rod into a fish which I immediately and very happily realised was not one of the eager five inchers I’d been catching all morning. In such fast water, a stiffly contested scrap followed, in which I was sure the hook would pull at any given moment. Thankfully it did not, and soon I was holding up a lovely trout of around twelve inches, much to the appreciation of a rather tipsy looking bloke perched clutching a can of lager on the bank behind me. I slipped him back and was rather chuffed – having the faith to persevere with a new method had brought me sport on a day that had started with my hopes at rock bottom. And with that I packed up and headed for the station, spurred on by the prospect of a cold can of coke and a glorious air conditioned train ride. Hey, maybe I’d even be home in time for Jeremy Kyle...

A golden reward on a scorching Yorkshire day.