NIDD MONSTER

By Jon Wolfe

Jon Wolfe with a Trent fish of 13-6

Go to Next Article; Baits by Steve Withers

The Barbel catchers club record for the River Nidd stood at 7lb 11oz for many years - 15 to be exact. Note the use of the word stood i.e., past tense, that is because last season the record eventually went to no less an angler than our Chairman, Steve Jacques. Full credit to Steve, he has fished the river more than any of us over the last few years. I gave up on it quite a while back despite the fact that it's only 20 minutes from home. I now only fish the Nidd from late summer onwards, and only then when it's been a dry summer and the water clarity allows fish to be spotted.

I could claim that my reason for fishing the Nidd on this basis, is that it’s probably the only way that I'm likely to catch a fish bigger than the existing record, and whilst I believe that there is an element of truth in that statement, the real reason is rather different, let me explain.

The Nidd is an Ouse tributary, joining its parent river about 10 miles above York. The interesting part of the river i.e. to barbel anglers, lies between the confluence and not much beyond the A1. Not a great distance as the crow flies but substantially more when taken into account the numerous loops and horseshoe bends the river takes as it quietly flows through the Vale of York to its confluence with the Ouse. The river is narrow, almost Teme like for anyone trying to picture it, with plenty of overhanging willows and natural cover. Too much of it to be honest, for although the river can be read, there are nowhere near enough barbel for all the text book swims. Many an angler has gone home biteless after sitting all day in a tasty looking spot. The vast majority of the barbel spend most of their time under these willow trees, with a few being found lying under or around the many clay ledges which are another feature of the lower river. Because the Nidd flows off the Pennines the water is stained by peat, and although the river is not deep, the clarity of the water makes fish spotting difficult to say the least. In fact I'd even go so far as to say that apart from seeing a few fish cleaning themselves on the shallows after spawning, the only other time I saw a Nidd barbel it was upside down in the bottom of my landing net. The biggest fish that I caught from the Nidd weighed 7lb 6oz and I only had one other seven pounder. These results matched the efforts of other keen barbel anglers at that time, with most of the genuine eight's coming in April or May to anglers flouting the then lax Trout fishing rules.

Eventually I drifted away from the river to pastures new, and it was not until Trevor Ashton and Phil Glossop came up to Yorkshire for a weeks Barbel fishing in 1990 that I reacquainted myself with it. They invited me to try and catch a barbel from a swim that was by all accounts like looking into an aquarium. This I had to see. As I walked upstream to meet them, I could tell straight away that the water clarity was very different compared to how I remembered it. The peaty tint had gone, and the riverbed was visible over most of the shallow areas and even some of the deeper pools. Trevor greeted me with the news that he had lost a small barbel, but had caught a few decent chub. The disturbance had unsettled the fish and they were only just returning to the feed.
At this point a brief description of the swim might be in order. As I mentioned earlier, the Nidd is very narrow in places, and here was no exception, the river being almost halved by an island about 20 yards long. The flow down the nearside of the island was negligible, as it was almost dammed at the downstream end. At the top of the island grew two large willows almost side by side, the outer one growing out into the river. This provided an overhead cover in the shape of a large raft, and underwater sanctuary in a tangle of roots extending well out into the water. The other willow did absolutely nothing in terms of the swim, but it was priceless in affording a backdrop to the angler, enabling you to stand right over the swim without breaking the skyline. The water immediately below the raft was about three feet deep, the bottom consisting of sand, fine gravel and a few larger stones. Visibility was excellent. The nearside was the deepest, the farside shelving gradually up to about 18 inches depth. The swim extended only about six or seven yards before another large willow, growing out from the far bank completely covered the whole width of the river apart from an 18 inch gap down the nearside, between the outer edge of the branches and a large clay bank which was more or less an extension of the island that you were stood on. The effect of this was that the flow of the river was narrowed and funnelled into this small gap, the depth under the downstream willow being only about 12 inches. The barbel, it seemed spent most of the time under the top willow, but a couple of droppers of hemp placed at the back of the tree soon had a few fish interested. To say I was gobsmacked was an understatement. This was the first swim that I'd ever come across on a Yorkshire river that enabled you to clearly watch barbel feeding, completely unaware that an angler was stood directly over them. After about an hour of watching, Trevor gave me an ultimatum, either try and catch one or he would!

To be truthful, if I'd been by myself I'd have been content to just watch. It was pretty obvious that if I managed to catch one, that would be it for the day, but it was Trevor's swim, so I agreed to have a go. Two more droppers of hemp went in, this time with about six grains of corn in each. The disturbance caused the fish to disappear, but 20 minutes later five barbel were back on the feed and the biggest one was selected. I watched him carefully noting his patrol route and which part of the swim he preferred to feed in. The next time he disappeared under the bush I made my first cast, only just having time to get the baited hook in position before he returned. For about 20 minutes not much happened, the barbel seemed aware that something was amiss, may be the eight pound line coming off the bottom was spooking him. The other fish were still feeding and I was therefore confident that I could catch him given time. A couple of times one of the smaller fish approached the hook bait, but a gentle tweak did enough to spook them. At this time I should say that none of the fish were big but despite this fact the tension was getting to us. After what seemed like an age, the targeted fish appeared at the bottom of the swim, and this time he was bang on line. Thirty seconds later I swept the Tricast back, hooking him literally under the rod end. At the most three yards of line from the hook to the rod tip were all that separated us, close range fishing or what! The hooked barbel now had two choices where to go, downstream with the flow and through the funnel, or upstream, admittedly against the flow, but after only two yards he would be under the raft and into the roots. It was shit or bust time either way. I wound down like a mad man until the tip hit the water and then pulled up putting the rod into a tremendous arc. The barbel went for it big time, upstream under the willow. I could feel the line touching the foliage but I couldn't back off. I had to stop him going too far. The rod was by now bent alarmingly, Trevor looked away, it was too terrifying to watch. After what seemed like an age but in reality was less that a minute I was able to put a small amount of line back onto the spool as the fish began to tire, and in next to no time I had him beaten on the surface. Not a pleasant way to fight a fish, but in the circumstances probably my only option. The recorded weight of six pounds hardly mattered, it was the first fish that I'd caught in Yorkshire by stalking and I couldn't have been more pleased.

In the weeks that followed I made numerous trips to the same swim and each one followed a similar pattern. After carefully crossing the nearside channel of water and picking my way though the Balsam, which I did not dare disturb for fear of making the swim obvious, I would bait the swim with hemp and corn using a dropper. Very occasionally I would fish another swim but increasingly, I would remain on the island. I watched and watched and watched, sometimes for three or four hours at a time and sometimes for even longer. After about half a dozen such sessions I had yet to cast in and on at least a couple of occasions I spent all day on the island watching the barbel, whilst another angler, unaware of my presence 15 yards below him, cast down to the tree I was stood behind. I was completely hidden from anyone on the bank and even though the swim above was occasionally fished, I never saw anyone else cross to the island. During this period of self-denial I was never tempted to try and catch a fish and I 'll try and explain why.

After all those hours spent watching I knew every fish in the swim, even the chub, and as far as I could tell the three biggest barbel were of a very similar size, which I guessed was about seven pounds. Now these fish, in my opinion, were worth catching. But what was holding me back was that one morning when I arrived a little early and as a consequence, the visibility wasn't too good, I became aware of a much bigger fish in the swim than I had become accustomed to watching. Unfortunately it was alone so I couldn't measure it against the others and by the time the light had improved, it had vanished. Was it as big as I had imagined or had my eyesight been playing tricks. Finding and then observing barbel is bloody exciting, it can also be very frustrating and I knew now that I would have to carry on in the hope that I would see this big fish again. To try and catch one of the smaller fish, even though it might result in a river PB was no longer an option.

As a result of all this, at the next Regional Meeting I had bugger all to report, but seeing as everyone thought I was fishing the Derwent, and bugger all was about par for the course, I left it at that. Towards the end of the night I ended up talking to Steve Jaques. After half an hour of very tense, almost chess-like manoeuvring, we both suspected that the other might, just might have found a swim where occasionally barbel might be seen. This swim could be on the Nidd, but that wasn't definite, and a largish fish had been seen in the area - but it might have been a Pike. You get bugger all at a Yorkshire meeting and that's a fact.

A couple of days after the meeting I went again. The weather was still great for spotting, and by midday the swim was alive with fish. As usual not all the barbel were present, which suggested to me that they moved up and down the length at will. I had seen fish coming up from the next deep pool down stream, unfortunately for them, this entailed a trip over the shallows, which they did at very high speed during daylight. Once under the bottom willow they would stay there, popping up in ones and twos through the funnel and into the spotting swim. It was whilst walking back up the shallows that the big one was seen for the second time. He went straight through the funnel and under the top bush in one go. Not a long enough exposure for me to see him properly, but long enough for me to know that he was by far the biggest that I had seen. An hour after disappearing under the willow, a large tail appeared from under the raft, followed a few minutes later by a bit more body, a dorsal fin and eventually the full monty as the reversing manoeuvre was completed. What a bloody fish! Somebody must have brought him up from the Hampshire Avon. On cue, one of the triplets drifted around to join him and it was easy to compare the two side by side. Two inches longer, half as wide again, massive pectorals, and a far greater depth to the body. I was convinced I was looking at a Nidd double. There was no point in tackling up because during all the time he spent in the swim he didn't feed. When he went back under the top willow I went back in with the dropper, all to no avail. I didn't see him again that day. No problem though, my fishing is based on the long term, and provided he stayed around I might get a chance to catch him before the summer was out.

The next session was typical of what happened over the following week. I'd arrived to find the stretch deserted. The swim would be baited with hemp and a few grains of corn, and after an hour about half a dozen barbel would be showing interest, including the big one. I say showing interest, and perhaps this description doesn't entirely fit his behaviour pattern. He would feed at some period during the day, but only for a short time. He never fed right in front of me unlike the rest of them, preferring to pick up items of food at the bottom of the swim where it was impossible to stand for fear of breaking the skyline, I did try. If I cast down to his preferred lie, the line went right through the centre of the swim, and the other barbel wouldn't settle. They dropped back and appeared edgy and hesitant and this unsettled the big one who would drop through the funnel never to be seen for the rest of the day. The swim was crawling with chub and these caused inevitable problems, as did a couple of small but very persistent barbel who would follow a single grain of corn for up to a yard - upstream! All these small distractions combined with the very cagey behaviour of the big one made the challenge a daunting prospect. For if I ever got him to pick up the corn with the hook in it I am sure my problems would only be beginning. The six pounder must have come very close to cracking me off under the willow. What chance would I have with this bigger fish?

By this time Steve and I had laid all our cards on the table so to speak. We were indeed fishing the same swim for the same fish, and we both agreed not to try and catch any of the others for fear of spooking our target. Steve will admit to not being as patient as me, although his limited fishing time compared to mine probably had a lot to do with it. His normal routine was to bait the swim and then leave it to fish a few other swims on the stretch, returning a couple of times during the day to see if the big one was resident. As a consequence he hadn't seen much of it and had yet to get it feeding. We were both of the same opinion regarding how such a big fish could survive on a club stretch without being caught. You only had to watch it for a few hours to realise that if it behaved like that all the time then it was unlikely to get hooked, at least on line capable of landing it.

The next session we fished together for the first time. Normally this wouldn't have caused a problem, either the big one wouldn't be there or if it was, it wouldn't feed. As we walked up stream I did begin to wonder what would happen in the event of the unlikely third scenario occurring i.e., it began to look like one of us might catch it, as we had not yet got round to discussing who would have first go. The phrase 'over my dead body' sprung instantly to mind. Steve stopped a few hundred yards short of the swim to bait up the deep pool. I continued and after completing the ritual offering of hemp and corn via a dropper, Steve joined me on the island. For 10 minutes nothing stirred, then one fish appeared through the funnel, it was the big one! Straight away he got his head down, albeit at the bottom of the swim. He moved slowly upwards, sucking in small clusters of hempseed which had gathered in ripples on the sand and in small areas of gravel. I had noticed that no matter how carefully the dropper was pulled or dislodged once it lay on the bottom, the bait would delicately trundle over the smooth areas and only lodge in the depressions or in areas of gravel. Even the chub wouldn't approach a grain of corn if it wasn't in such an area. The big one continued to hoover away at anything on his line before turning back at the top of the swim to start again. For the very first time he looked vulnerable.

I was just about to reach for a coin when Steve told me to have a go. He had his reasons, but it was still a big sacrifice on his part, I hope I can return the favour one day. The rig was pretty simple to describe but bloody awkward to cast. Eleven pound Sylcast reel line tied to a swivel with a seven foot hook length of 20 pound Kryston tied to a size eight Super Specialist, with two swan shot near the swivel to keep it nailed down. The hook length had been dyed brown to match the bottom. The extra long hook length served two purposes, it enabled the baited hook to be far enough away from the line coming off the bottom so as not to spook the fish. It was also thought that if the barbel went under the top willow, which was inevitable given the confines of the swim, it would prove more abrasive resistant than mono. With the barbel at the bottom of the swim I cast in. The two grains on the hook initially settled on clear sand, but by gently lifting the swan shot I manoeuvred it in to one of the small gravel hollows, the trap had been set!

For the next half hour the barbel continued to feed, coming very close to the hook bait on a couple of occasions, but always turning away at the last second. The tension was indescribable. My eyes were hurting like hell, my arm ached with holding the rod out over the river and my head boomed under the hot midday sun as I stood heron like, hardly daring to move for fear of dislodging the bait. I am certain the he'd seen the corn but I was equally certain that he smelt a rat. We had now entered a period of stalemate, something had to give.

What happened next had to be seen to be believed. After two more runs up the swim when he completely ignored the hook bait, despite being only six inches away from it, he came up again for a third time. I was concentrating so much on watching him that I hadn't noticed a small chub slightly ahead of the barbel. The chub tilted right over the baited hook and the corn was picked up. The chub carried the hook about a yard upstream before ejecting it, with the corn still attached. The baited hook fell gently through the water and disappeared from our sight, completely hidden around the far side and slightly under a largish flat stone. The barbel carried on up the swim, passed where the hook bait used to be, before suddenly and quite deliberately moving over to the stone, he turned half on his side and sucked before turning away. I hadn't seen the corn going in his mouth but I was sure he'd got it. I swept the rod back as far as it would go turning his head as the hook pulled home. For a split second he rocked, as if unsure as to what to do before turning and kicking under the bush. I wound down and prepared to hold him, but with no warning whatsoever he was away, the hook had completely opened up. Gutted, sick as a parrot, cheesed off, devastated, you've heard them all. It goes without saying how I felt at that particular time. On reflection there was no doubt in my mind that the hook hadn't penetrated up to the bend. If it had there is no way I could have straightened it using a barbel rod.

I managed one more session before the first of the autumn rains coloured the river and brought an end to proceedings. As expected the big fish was no where to be seen, so just to make sure that we hadn't been over estimating him I caught one of the triplets. It was all so easy compared to the previous sessions. Six droppers of hemp and corn, hook bait positioned on gravel, bank. Less than an hour after starting I weighed a new Nidd PB at 7lb 9oz. It was already raining hard as I walked back to the car and with plenty more forecast to fall in the next 24 hours I knew that that would probably be it until next season, but like all good stories this one still had a twist.

During the winter I received a phone call informing me that the NRA were trimming the willows on the length in question. In the past the river drainage side of the old Yorkshire water set up had caused untold devastation on various fisheries. However, that was in the old dark ages, when the fisheries team and the drainage team never communicated, nowadays the fisheries officers ran courses for the drainage boys and even supervised a lot of their work. There was surely nothing to worry about - don't you bloody believe it.

I can't remember exactly the damage that had been done to the rest of the fishery, but smouldering bonfires all the way up the river showed just how much trimming had been going on. The area around the island had been transformed into a replica of a First World War Somme battlefield. The island itself was now nothing more than a long thin strip of clay. The two large willows had been completely removed, roots and all. The offending Tirfor winch lay at the top of the flood bank. The willow at the bottom of the swim which formed the funnel had also been winched out. The result of all these 'improvements' was that the winter floods had completely stripped the island of its topsoil and vegetation. The area had been destroyed and the swim would never again hold any attraction to a Barbel or any other fish for that matter. I drove home in a seething rage.

My first phone call was unfortunately answered by a female Australian. Quite what she was doing working for the NRA in Leeds is another matter. After regaling my tale to her of the utter devastation that had been wreaked on the fishery she tried to pacify me with the following: “Oh don't worry Mr Wolfe, it always looks worse than what it is. Willow grows very quickly, you do know that don't you, we will probably have to be back to trim them again in a couple of years. You have another walk up there in springtime and I'm sure that you won't be able to tell that we've been there”. At this point the line went mysteriously dead, I couldn't take any more and besides which, I didn't want all the hassle of being locked up for making lewd and sexually suggestive remarks to a female, anyway the Tirfor winch probably wouldn't have fitted where I had in mind.

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