‘Once again, I found myself attached to yet another feisty barbel. It played the same game as its earlier companion had done, leading me a merry dance up and downstream. However, it was soon enough in the net and a lovely specimen as well‘
Following on from my earlier tale of the first visit of the season to the Wharfe in August 2023 “Flowing water and expectations”, I will now regale (and hopefully not bore) you with a tale of my further explorations of the Wharfe.
I had made my mind up to visit another stretch of the river, somewhere I had not fished for a couple of years, so hopes were high. As is usual for me, I decided that an early start was the order of the day. Preparing my tackles the evening before a planned fishing session is always quite rewarding in itself for me and this day was no exception.
What reel should I use? Which rod should I use? Baits: should I plump for halibut pellets or maybe spicy Spam for a good scent trail, as there had been quite a lot of rain and the river levels were showing as ‘up’. Do I need my brolly? Will the banks be overgrown and will I need to clear a swim?
These and a myriad of other questions played upon my mindbut eventually I had my gear prepared: baits were ready in the bait-bucket, rod, landing-net pole and rest all strapped together with my black golf umbrella, ‘just in case’ you understand, of course! Also needed were my trusty Mitchell300 and my aged, much used and abused wide-drum Gypsy D’or centrepin. Next, my small rig/bits box, large landing net and a rather sharp and fearsome home-made Parang-type blade for cutting back any undergrowth (I had some explanations ready prepared should ‘The Plod’ ask awkward questions). A chair and bag and a few other odds and sods completed the collection. The hardware was prepared and I was ready.
As always, I cannot sleep very well before a planned fishing session and 10.30pm saw me in bed and asleep. 00.30am saw me in bed and awake but I eventually dozed off again before waking at 02.20 knowing that real sleep was now just a bad dream. I quietly dressed and went downstairs, careful not to wake Ruth.
Toast, tea and the radio on, for the news, freshened and set me up for the morning’s adventure. My flask was prepared, containing hot coffee, together with comestibles prepared by Ruth the evening before, then gathered together and put in my bag. This was put with the rest of the gear in the car and I was away for 03.45am. The roads were quiet and soon I was well on my way to renew my acquaintance with a venue I had not visited for far too long. I like an early journey, the roads are mostly quiet, with maybe the odd goods vehicle, but that is about it. There is a local milkman who still delivers door-to-door and I passed him on his round and flashed my headlights; he waved back, we had known each other for the past forty years and he would suspect I had fishing plans for the day.
Arriving at 04.45, I was pleased to see the parking area (well, that should read ‘the side of the road’) was empty. I suppose that should not really be a surprise, because the few anglers I do know would probably much rather start a day’s fishing at a more civilised hour. For myself, it is the most rewarding time of the day. I like to fish evening into night and luckily have managed to do so for many years. It is a fact, however, that a percentage of anglers finish work and for a few hours in the evening spend time on the bank and why not? If you have a full-time job and family there are much more important things to be considered than catching fish, so a couple evenings every so often will scratch the piscatorial itch sufficiently. For me to fish the ‘evening shift’ would mean that I had to drive in the middle of the day or at teatime. The roads would be busy and in all probability the river banks would be also have their swims occupied by working anglers snatching a couple of hours on the bank. Let’s leave that time of day to those who do not have the luxury of angling simply whenever they want.
Back to the tale… parking up, I decided firstly on a walk to check out the swims I had known, and to see if new swims had been made in the period since I was last. Firstly, I inspected the upstream section after a ten minute walk, crossing a stile and navigating a field full of cows. Further on,I was a bit miffed to see that there was a lot of ground work going on above the section, on some private land abutting the river. A digger, dumper trucks and other associated heavyweight machinery were amongst the trees, and some tree-felling was going on; not good. I suspected that there would be quite a lot of noise and disturbance once the site was working in a few hours so did not bother to check out any more and returned to the car.
Knowing that I would now be fishing somewhere downstream, I gathered my gear and walked. Crossing the road, I took the footpath through a gate and along another large field-side. As I started my recce, to my left there was the river and, looking through the trees and down the steep slope, I could see it was in flood and teeming along. It was about eighteen inches up, according to the E.A. river levels gauge; the water was the colour of Bournville chocolate.
Walking on, and leaving the woodland, it was clear that here there had not been much angling pressure at all; the banks seem almost untrodden. Where once I remembered, from a couple of seasons past, there had been accessible areas, most were now gone. There were only two now and these were a bit on the ‘jungly’ side, the rest were thick with Himalayan balsam and undergrowth that would need a hack in order to get through.
I chose a spot that looked as though it had been ignored. It looked promising but it was down a steep bank. I was sure I had fished either this, or another, swim nearby before. However, there was no discernible way down as the bank was high with thick growths of nettle, balsam and prickly brambles with which had long stalks which caught my trousers and attempted to trip me up. I left my gear on top of the bank and started to wield the machete like a well trained jungle explorer (…scrap that… more like a 70-year old who wanted to get to river level…).
It took a good ten minutes to make a gap through the vegetation, down the slope and then search around for a level area and create enough space for me and my gear. Job done, it was back up the steep bank to bring my gear down to my now comfortable (ish) pitch. I realised that this pitch would probably become one used by all and sundry for the rest of the season but that did not worry me as it was mine for the day now, plus the scant evidence of other anglers was enough to convince me that this stretch of river was not as well used as once before.
Setting up my gear was a pleasure; the day was fine, squirrels were thundering about in the trees opposite and birds were making their appearance, fluttering, squawking and chirruping. My rod choice was a good reliable Mk 1V carp rod purchased second-hand some years ago; I had rebuilt it and it was now one of my ‘go to’ rods. The Mitchell reel was chosen as I wanted to be fishing and exploring the swim confidently, without making a pig’s ear of any early cast with the Gypsy D’Or. The bamboo rod-rest was firm in the bank, my net and pole were close to hand, resting on the undergrowth to my left. I do like to be comfortable so I had made enough room for my chair, with the bait bag to my right,along with the bait boxes, my carry-all to my left and everything was set.
The final thing I did was to put the undergrowth cutter back in its sheath and away; it had done a good job but I did not want that length of sharpened steel anywhere near me when fishing.
I spent some time just watching the water. There was a lot of foam coming downstream, mainly across the river and running quite fast with the current. A slight crease in the centre of the river showed where the faster, pacier water on the far side met up mid-river with a slower and much more sedate section. Indeed, as it got closer to my bank, it became a long back eddy where the surface foam was actually going upstream. I decided to fish on the outer edge of the crease,conventionally thinking that any barbel would sit in the edge of the quieter water, waiting for food items to be washed down. This would be the thing to give me an edge…I hoped.
My baits were laid out ready…
It was not a fantastic bait selection but I was certain that there was enough to hopefully find a gourmet barbel just waiting to appreciate my offerings. I had my usual feeder mix of brown crumb, micro pellets, some bigger pellets and a generous helping of hemp seed, mixed with the liquor from the hemp preparation. This would be later packed into one of my home-made feeders. For hook baits I had spicy garam masala and turmeric-fried spam, some plain Spam and a selection of different sized halibut pellets. Last, but not least, was a ball of halibut pellet paste which I always wrapped and moulded around any pellet bait.
I decide to use a large piece of spicy Spam for my first cast. I had catapulted in several smaller offerings slightly upstream of my target area earlier, and left these to sit and hopefully draw any fish into the swim. The hookbait was carefully mounted on a size six barbless hook; a good, big heavily spiced, smelly mouthful for a big fish in a river that was carrying extra water. I almost always use largish baits when using Spam as they have mostly worked and I saw no reason to do otherwise that morning. The hook-length was attached with a small link ledger and cast into just this side of the crease, the weight being just enough to allow the bait to roll downstream until it found a spot to hang in the current. Trap set, I sat back and poured a cup of coffee, never taking my eyes of the Mk. IV rod-tip.
Twenty five minutes later the rod-tip had not moved: so much for the Spam. I wound it in and it was still pristine and still giving off pungent aromas, so it went back into the bait-box. Idecided that my next cast should feature a small pellet bait wrapped in paste, fished behind a feeder packed with my feeder mix. Satisfied that everything was as it should be, I cast the feeder to the same spot and once more set the rod in the rest. Strange how a change can produce such quick results for, within five minutes, I had a positive pull around on the tip and had my first fish of the day. The fish fought well and tried to get into the faster water across the river but the carp Avon rod had the backbone to bring it back into the slacker water this side of the river. It thrashed about but I managed to single-handedly (in more ways than one) take a quick snap of it in the water.
This was a barbel of about five pounds or so and was quickly unhooked and left in the net, resting whilst I prepared another bait. Buoyed by a result, I sat back and treated myself to another coffee from the flask. The resting barbel was released and powerfully swam away, vanishing quickly in the highly coloured water.
Ten minutes or so passed and an identical indication on the rod tip resulted in another spirited fight and another barbel, this time slightly larger but with some slight scale damage to its left side, gracing my net. ‘Not enough to warrant any medication’, I thought. This fish was also unhooked and rested. I was quite pleased with myself, having two fish in three casts, and everything looking good. I had also managed a couple of quick snaps for my diary. The hook re-baited, pellet wrapped in paste, the feeder packed with goodies, and the whole lot was cast once more to the ‘hot spot’. The rested fish was released and swam off, leaving me sat anticipating another quick indication on the rod-tip.
The best laid plans of piscators sometimes do not come to fruition, and nothing happened for the next forty-five minutes. The bait had been refreshed already, so once more I wound in, rebaited and cast into the crease. After about five more minutes, I noticed that the rod-tip was slowly straightening, then suddenly it jerked downward twice. This had to be a fish,so I lifted the rod and felt a pull on the other end but it did not feel like a barbel, or a chub for that matter.
The fish was brought in to the net, almost uncomplaining and I was surprised to see I had caught a pike! Not big at about four pounds or so… After my previous encounter with a pike I wondered what was happening to the river; were the pike losing their hunter/killer instinct? This time, unlike my last encounter, the pike was fairly hooked in the scissors of its jaws. As I unhooked it, I noticed that it had several lacerations to its flanks, along both sides of its body, not deep, in fact more like something had grabbed it, maybe twice or more, but had not managed to keep hold.
The fish did not really seem to be suffering at all but, nevertheless, I treated the marks with some antiseptic that I always keep in my bag. I had set up my phone for a quick selfie shot, and managed to capture the fish but probably it was with luck I had cut myself mostly out of the photo. I intended resting the pike but when it was put back into the landing-net it suddenly woke up and created, so instead I released it straight away, when it arrowed away like an Exocet missile.
I sat back and wondered whatever would be next, rebaited and cast the feeder in once more. Looking around, I suddenly noticed a large raft of foliage floating downstream, on a direct path to snag my line. Quickly winding in, I noticed as it passed that there was a large branch surrounded by lesser branches and well covered in leaves in the middle, with a clear view of its trunk, and freshly cut as well by the look of it. Had this come from the ground-works that I had seen upstream earlier?
If that was the case, I could not think anything but that it had been dumped in the river intentionally. Two more rafts of undergrowth and bushes followed it down so I decided not to recast for ten minutes, just to see if anything else came along.
In the meantime, I decided it was time to change from the Mitchell 300 fixed spool reel to an old friend, my much battered and abused Grice & Young ‘Gypsy d’Or’ wide-arbour centrepin. This reel has been with me since I was about thirteen or fourteen years old, certainly for over 56 years. It has had extra holes drilled in it, in a vain hope that it would make it noticeably lighter (…It didn’t…). It has been repainted several times, the latest being about thirty years ago, in a battleship grey colour, using rattle-can spray paint. I found the reel in the bottom of one of the Five Rise Locks at Bingley when I was a passenger in a canal boat that became ‘grounded’ after the lock had been emptied by a rather incompetent canal boat ‘captain’! Looking at the bottom of the lock, I saw the reel laying there in the gravel and decided it was worth the effort of promptly jumping into the water which was only about three inches deep, and recovered it; well worth a pair of wet shoes!
Anyway…as I was waiting to see if any more debris floated downstream, it was time well spent. I slid the reel bands over the Gypsy’s reel-foot, gave the reel an experimental spin (it’s the law, as all piscators know, to pick up a centrepin anywhere, and that it has to be given a spin, has it not? The reel had a slight, very slight, wobble and had had for years, but was spinning well enough, smooth and reliable and the build was such that it was still surely robust enough for any fish I was likely to encounter.
Line was threaded through the rings and the end gear was in place, ready for the next cast which worked well enough. I cannot cast Wallis-style with heavy feeders on the line, so my unhooking-mat was laid on the ground and quite a few yards of line was coiled upon it, then the feeder and pellet/paste hookbait sailed away. The line set nicely in the current, the check on the reel was set and rod went onto the rest with a small flex in the rod-tip.
It did not take long; suddenly the check on the ‘pin sang out, the rod tip whacked around and fish number four of the morning was well and truly hooked. I love playing fish on a centrepin and this fish certainly put up a good show, taking me up and down the river whilst I was silently praying that there would be no more floating rubbish come downstream to foul the line. Soon the fish was heading toward the waiting landing-net, slid in gracefully and was soon on the unhooking-mat.
This was a nicely proportioned, sleek barbel of about five pounds. There seemed to be a good year class of barbel, all about the same size, in this stretch of the Wharfe. Again the fish was rested in the landing net and swam away quickly.
I rebaited and was about to cast in when something in the water caught my eye: there was a huge raft of weed wafting gently back and forth, about thirty feet upstream of me. It was close in to the bank and seemed to be slowly bumping its way downstream. It would periodically vanish beneath the surface and re-appear a short time later a couple of feet closer to me. It was enough to make me think that it may be time to quit whilst I was ahead. Placing the rod in the rest without casting in, I decided that I would have a break and recce the river again; maybe I could find another spot that would afford me some shelter from errant tree and weed rafts.
After a walk around I ‘discovered’ a spot that was fairly easy to access, it was downstream of a thick overhanging beech tree that had managed to drape its branches and leaves into the water, affording a sheltered spot and slightly slowing the pace of the river at the same time. It was just below a slight bend which also pushed the current across to the far bank and left a very fishy looking slack almost beneath my feet. This will do, I decided; the tree will catch and deflect any floating debris and any subsurface rubbish will hopefully track across the river to the faster water. There was a small but level area just downstream of the tree which, although overgrown, looked as if it had been a used swim, maybe last season?
I made my way back to my first pitch and watched the water in front of me, wondering if the huge weed raft had drifted downstream. A few minutes showed that it had drifted a bit, just far enough to be smack in front of the rod rest. It looked as if it had become caught on some underwater obstruction and was periodically showing above the surface, then vanishing only to reappear in the same spot. That made my mind up for me…
I collected things together and after huffing-and-puffing them up the steep bank, made my way to the new swim. As I liked the look of the slack and fancied it may hold a fish or two, I went back to the spicy Spam. I had kept this on its trace when I removed it earlier and now it was a simple matter to just clip it back onto the main line. The Spam had been held in place with a piece of nettle stem as I have found that nettle stem is so much tougher than the usual grass stalk and always use it.Once again, using a small link-ledger, I simply dropped the bait only a few feet from the bankside, allowed it to trundle downstream a little, then set the rod in the rest and sat back. There was no strain on the rod-tip and the line was simply dropping directly into the water; any fish taking the bait would be only a matter of ten to fifteen feet away from me horizontally and probably only a matter of fifteen feet or so vertically.
The choice of swim turned out to be a good one. It was only a matter of ten minutes or so before the rod-tip registered a couple of tap taps. I slowly took the rod from the rest, taking care not to disturb the bait in the water, cupped the ‘Gypsy D’or’ in the palm of my left hand and held the rod in my right. A couple more tap taps followed then came an almighty whump as the rod was nearly torn from my grasp. I had been expecting something but nothing so violent and not so soon. The fish took off straight across the river and made off downstream, the reel spinning in my hand and the check screaming whilst I attempted to stem its initial rush for freedom.
Eventually I managed to turn the fish and get it back across to my side of the river, only to have it attempt to get under the beech tree to my left. I had to push the rod-tip down into the water as far as I dared so as to keep the line out of the branches, at the same time putting as much pressure upon the fish as I was able, in order to try and turn it. Turn it I did and soon the prize was in the net.
The barbless hook fell out of the barbel’s mouth and I was able to take a quick snap. I did not think it would make the magic double-figure mark, although it did seem plump, so the fish was rested and returned to swim off and, no doubt, tosulk.
Feeling very pleased with myself, I decided to rest the slack water but first I thought a few free small offerings of Spammight just help to tempt another fish later. The free offerings were just dropped in below where I was sitting; after all, that is where the last fish had found them. At this point I decided to sit and have a sandwich and another coffee. I find it quite relaxing just sitting, enjoying a snack with a hot drink and watching nature pass the time of day.
A kingfisher was jetting upstream and down, its blue flash lighting up the morning which had now become a tad overcast. Finishing my snack, I hooked another large piece of spicy Spam as before and plopped it into roughly the same place, set the check on the reel and sat back. Soon enough,another fish showed an interest but this time it was a positive,whack around of the rod-tip with no tentative plucks. The ‘pin was screeching its song and the rod-butt lifted from its resting place on my right straight into my waiting hand.
Once again, I found myself attached to yet another feisty barbel. It played the same game as its earlier companion had done, leading me a merry dance up and downstream. However, it was soon enough in the net and a lovely specimen as well, probably about the same length as the previous fish but slimmer. I let it rest in the net while I set up my mobile phone for a ‘selfie’trophy shot, took the photo and the fish was returned. Idecided to have a look at the photo… What photo? Somehow I had managed to mess it up completely, with an excellent image of bushes and grass!
Time had been passing and looking at my watch I realised that it was approaching eleven a.m. I had had a very busy morningand was more than satisfied with what the river had offeredfrom a different stretch to my normal haunts and my choice of swims seemed to have paid off. I could really go home without having another cast but really there is always time for ‘just one more’ and that is what I did. Like the comedy song ‘Spam…Spam…Spam’, I once again selected a chunk of spam and plopped it in the edge.
I started to tidy up my bag, bait bag etc. (I must be the untidiest angler in the world with feeders ending up in the zipped compartments where other items should be, baits ending up nestled comfortably with my flask or sandwiches, the scales and sling in the bait bag etc etc.)
I was busy sorting through the above when for the last time that day the pin screamed aloud again. The fish did not feel any larger or smaller than the others, but carried out a carbon copy of what the others had done, ploughing up stream, then downstream,putting an almost terminal bend in the old cane rod and testing the reel to its limits. In fact, it was testing me as well, as by now I was feeling the effects of an almost sleepless night.
I finally brought the fish to the net and it seemed just a tad larger than the others. I thought it might just reach double figures so the weigh-sling was soaked and the scale zeroed. The wet sling was hung upon its hook, the barbel was weighed and I was pleased to see it register ten pounds and a few ounces; I had managed to break the double-figure barrier. The fish was again rested whilst I prepared once again to take another ‘selfie’.
I am the world’s worst at taking photos of my catches, as the previous effort had proved. I hate setting up the phone on a bank-stick, hate trying to get the phone/camera to actually point where I will, or should, be standing and finally I am not the most photogenic person in the world, usually I either scowl or grimace at the camera. I did my best though and this time checked that I was actually successful. I was pleased to see that I had secured the fish’s image and I had actually smiled as well!
Well, call it a grimace if you like.
The last and, I think, largest barbel was rested and released unharmed to swim away and hopefully grow and thrive.
The day had been quite eventful, I had managed to hook and net seven fish, the six barbel and a small jack. It was approaching 11.45am and I had had six and three-quarter hours on a river-bank which I had not visited for some time, prepared one swim, fished two swims and had a pleasant morning, the bonus was actually the catching. I do not crave large numbers of fish in any session, the pleasure for me is in the being there, the size or numbers of fish mean very little but I will admit to liking one big fish in preference to ten tiny ones. I suppose having a blank session is not the best situation, although I have had plenty of those in the past.
So, with a final tidy around, everything was put away and I bade farewell to the river. Tramping back up the meadow to the parking area I was surprised to see that I was still the only angler on the bank and the roadside was empty apart from my car. Driving home, I reflected upon my day. Hopefully I had a few snaps and would be able to fill my diary with the day’s events.
Writing & Images David Craine, Spring 2025
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