Driffield Beck, Yorkshire

"Driffield Beck is difficult water. The beck, and its trout, want much learning. But it is lovely water."

From 'My Sporting Life' (1936) by J.W. Hills

"It is impossible to speak too highly of the Driffield Beck, or the manner in which it is preserved. I may never again visit the far-famed Driffield Beck, but the remembrance of the pleasure it afforded me can never pass away from my memory. I have during a long life wandered by many waters, but none with more delight than this. I regard it as a bright spot to be entered in my piscatory journal, an oasis in the desert of life of The Old Fisherman." 

From a letter to the Editor of 'The Field' 

(12 November 1870)

When I read how highly Oliver Kite regarded his visit to the Driffield Beck in the 1960s I resolved to fish it as soon as possible. In a different time I might have holidayed abroad in August but the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic meant that I looked for a venue much closer to home. I settled on the North York Moors for a long weekend break, not least because the Driffield Beck was less than an hour's drive away.

The prestigious Driffield Anglers Club has controlled the upper sections of the beck since 1833.  Fortunately for itinerant anglers like me, the one mile of water at Mulberry Whin Farm, once part of the historic club's waters, has been available on a day ticket basis for the past twenty years.

Driffield Beck has a reputation for being a difficult place to catch trout. My research impressed upon me just how fussy the local trout are. Contemporary reports from first time visitors were prone to drip in disappointment, often coinciding with inclement weather, for the beck is in an exposed place. Regulars spoke of the fish locking on exclusively to exoticly named creatures like the Agapetus micro caddis, and seemed to prefer using fly sizes in the 20s (even down to a #28!). 

For context, I very rarely need to deploy anything smaller than a #18 fly when fishing the chalkstreams in the south of England. The letter I quote from above, which dates all the way back to 1870, said the "flies used at Driffield, as well as in other parts of the county, are of the smallest size." Nothing seems to have changed in 150 years. I stocked up on midge patterns and micro nymphs down to a #24 before my visit, the smallest commercially sold flies I could find.

The Wolds of Yorkshire, taken in the evening

The day finally arrived. I woke early, well before my alarm, because I was excited. Beyond the curtains the sky was blue and already a warm breath of air came through the bedroom window. A high of 30°C was forecast with only a gentle southerly breeze. I left the cottage at 6.30 am. My Sat Nav suggested a drive of just over an hour and I wanted to arrive early before the permitted fishing start time of 8.00 am because the 5 beats are assigned on a first-come, first-served basis.

The drive south through the beautiful Wolds was uneventful, but I was intrigued by the foreign sounding names of the signposted villages, many of which had been Gallicized with a 'le' to sound posh (like Wharram-le-Street). The prize for the most amusing name must however go to the village of Wetwang. I stopped to pour coffee on a couple of occasions and more than once the traffic was kept 'interesting' by slow moving tractors, large farm vehicles and cars towing caravans. 

Just past the large town of Driffield, I spotted the beck for the first time as it flowed past the eyesore Bradshaw Flour Mill. I didn't linger because of the traffic waiting to cross the narrow bridge, but the river looked pellucid and every bit a chalkstream of the south. Down a single track lane I came to the village of Skerne, and turned off at the farm house. There I met Andrew Dixon, the farmer, who confirmed I had arrived first, and recommended that I fish beat 2. I drove through the working farm and down a gravel track for a mile, arriving at the fishing hut.

It was already baking hot at 8.00 am as I rigged up my 3 weight rod in the shade of the hut. I navigated my way past a curious herd of cattle and came to the river at a ford, where the water was as clear as glass and flowed somewhat hurriedly over honey-gold gravel and emerald green weeds. The weeds swayed seductively in the pull of the current. I turned right and followed the freshly mown path to the bottom of beat 2. The air was humid, and I kept to the shade where I could. 

Near the bottom of the beat there were several trout and grayling actively feeding in a pool five or six feet deep. The trout were rising intermittently to unseen things and the grayling were cruising along the river bed in the deeper channels. I set a dry fly down very gently into this prime water. A trout came up to inspect my floated offering, but dismissed it rather disdainfully, setting a pattern that would be repeated through several changes of dry fly.

Eventually I replaced my dry fly for a small nymph, which was ignored on several dead drifts, but when I lifted the nymph from the depths a grayling shot out from the bank beneath my feet and took it. Before I could strike or even register the event in my mind, the fish had expelled the fly within an instant. I have never seen a fish mouth and reject a fly in such haste, and it made me wonder how often this happens unseen, without the angler ever knowing of it. 

I was ready the second time, though. I induced a take from the same grayling and struck immediately, as quick as a meerkat might move to avoid the strike of a cobra, and this time found a firm hold. The grayling fought valiantly until I could reach down with a long handled net from the high bank and scoop it landward. Wading isn't permitted at Mulberry Whin - except at a few small sections of the river which are demarcated in the topmost beats - but fortunately there were a variety of long handled nets to be borrowed from the hut.

Fish were rising a little way downstream, beyond a small thicket of trees, so I moved in that direction. There was a vast volume of trout and grayling in the water, all very evident in the bright sunlight as they held above the golden gravels in the current on the far bank. My attention was however caught by two large objects in the slack water on my bank. The first was an enormous trout lying inert in the lee of some weeds, adjacent to the river's flow. I estimated it to be at least 7 or 8 lbs in weight (no exaggeration!). Its head was buried in the weeds and it lay oddly still, evidently not feeding so I left it alone. The second was a pike, also lying inert, facing downriver. I ignored it too, and cast several dry fly patterns to the fish in the current, generally changing to a smaller pattern with each rejection, until eventually I struck gold with a #24 F fly. It was taken by a 13" trout which had a head and broad shoulders shaped like the front section of an Airbus A380. 

When the trout was in the net I noticed a glint of gold at its mouth. It was my tip ring, held in place by the tippet through its centre, along with about an inch of the tip section of my rod. My bitter disappointment was tempered a little in the knowledge that Orvis has a no-quibble guarantee. 

I'd luckily brought along a spare rod, a 9' 6 weight rod which I retrieved from my car.  I didn't want to use my 6 weight line on this delicate river so I matched the rod with my 3 weight line and did a few practice casts on the grass outside the hut to see if the combination would be passable. Surprisingly, the under-loaded rod cast just fine, and in fact, the extra reach of the longer rod would come in very handy over the bank side reeds. There were two other cars in the car park by then, and the signboard showed that others were fishing beat 1. 

On my walk back down beat 2, I stopped at a gorgeous looking riffle where trout were feeding contentedly. I tied on a CDC & Elk and a trout came up and mouthed the fly, rejected it, then did a full circle to chase after the fly, taking it a second time. I struck and was relieved when the hook held, because whenever a fly is consumed by a fish facing downstream the hook-up tends to be a little iffy.  

I walked back down to the bottom reach of my beat once again. The banks had been managed with a pleasingly light touch which meant that I had to forego several trout feeding in lies which were impossible to reach from the bank. I didn't mind this because trout need places of refuge in a river. Where I could next manage a cast, two large trout within ten feet of each other rose to #18 black magic klinkhamer, but their takes were both incredibly slow, the most gentle of sips, and I pulled the fly from their mouths in haste. 

By now I was using 7x tippet, and just round a bend in the river a trout took my klinkhamer and dived straight into the weeds where it and my fly parted from my line. Soon after, another trout took a replacement black klinkhamer and it too sought refuge in the lottery of the verdant greenery. This time my tippet held as I bullied it out of the weeds and into my net. The prolific summer growth of ranunculus and starwort in the water presented a significant obstacle to success, but they are of course a part and parcel of chalkstream fishing.

It was approaching 1.00 pm and I was growing hungry at the thought of the picnic hamper laid on for me in the hut by the farmer. I targeted one final run of water with three or four trout in it, one of them in the 3 to 4 lb range. The smaller fish were in the current at the head of the pool on the far bank, whilst the large fish was lying just below them, beneath a tree on the far bank, in the slack water just on the outside edge of a sweeping bend in the river. Drag was a thorny issue. For a heart stopping moment the large fish followed my dry fly before turning away and not moving again after that. I then drifted several dry fly patterns past the smaller fish just upstream, which were all inspected and rejected, until one eventually let its guard down and took a #22 midge. As I released this fish I allowed myself to slide down the bank and into the water, up to my thighs. The water was refreshingly cold and I wouldn't have minded a swim!

It had been an incredibly fun and engaging morning of fishing. The fishing had lived up to the reports, being difficult, because the wary trout were particularly fussy. I was kept on my toes with presentation, and had to quickly get used to the guesswork that comes with fishing tiny flies which are impossible to see on the water. The reward had come and my expectations had been surpassed by some margin. It had been one of the most enjoyable mornings of fishing I could recall.

There were two other anglers in the hut at lunch time and I shared pleasant conversation over a sumptuous hamper lunch, washed down with an ice cold Pilsener. One of the anglers was Dave Southall, the local guide, whose online writings had been instrumental in preparing me for this trip. I recognised him by his distinctive grey beard and over-wrap polaroids! There is probably nobody alive with a better knowledge of the Driffield Beck, so it was great to pick his brains. He and his companion for the day, Oliver, had each caught a single fish so it seemed I had done rather well in the morning. Dave mentioned it is the lowest he has seen the river in a very long time. 

I fished beats 3 and 4 after lunch. For an age I tried to tempt several trout feeding under a tree to take a fly but when the gentle takes eventually came from two of them, I was too quick on the strike. I missed another rise a little way upstream and that was all I had to show for the two and a half hours between 2.00 and 4.30 pm. How quickly things can change in a river of many moods. I did take some delight in the temporary distraction of watching a water vole swim across the river and busy itself in the reeds.

The next hour was magical fishing. Through a gap in the reeds I spotted a large trout holding in a sedately flowing current against the edge of my bank. I froze and watched it and thought I could see the white of its mouth as it swallowed tiny morsels at intervals. It then rose gracefully in the water and its large snout broke the surface to intercept some unseen floating prey. I backtracked gingerly, tied on a #22 midge, and made my way through the boggy reeds until I was in a position to make a cast. I'd somehow managed not to spook the fish in all this. Three drifts of the midge over its nose went ignored. Had I pushed my luck with the third cast and spooked it? I stood still for a moment and watched the fish, relieved when it swayed to its side and ate something.

I replaced the midge with a #18 olive nymph, with a small tungsten bead, and cast the fly a metre upstream of the fish. As the fly landed on the water with a small plop, the fish shot forward and in that instant I feared it was spooked. But then its mouth opened and I struck into the solid, writhing mass of the trout, shaking its head in fury. The trout made straight for the weeds and buried itself, the brief explosion of action replaced by an unwelcome calm. Had the fish thrown the hook in the weeds? This time I wasn't going to give up so easily, so I kept a tension on the line, muttered 'no wading be damned', and jumped in to the river up to my chest to see about extricating the fish. The trout was thankfully still attached and I forced it free of the weeds until it eventually succumbed and I could guide it into my net. With unblemished fins, a streamlined mass, and wide, predatory jaws which perhaps suggested a diet including other fish, it possessed the look and feel of a wild trout. At around 21 or 22" long it was perhaps a fraction under 4 lb if not on that mark and my best trout of the season. The day had just become very special indeed.

In the next bend of the river, almost a right angle, I came to a very deep and clear, slow flowing pool. As I studied the pool, a fish rose against my bank, but other than the dissipating rings of its rise, I hadn't been able to gauge anything specific about the fish because of the glare of the sun on the water. I cast a CDC & Elk to the spot where the fish had risen, and after a second a fish porpoised and took the fly. I could see from the hump in its back that it was a big fish, and the fight it put up in the deep pool was spectacular. Another fish of about the same size shadowed its every move in the water, as they tend to do in still water. It took a while to break its spirit, and I was grateful when I could finally net it through the reeds with the long handled net. This trout looked to have had its provenance in a hatchery, judging by its misshaped dorsal fin, but that mattered not. It was a very fat fish in excess of 20" and I would guess it weighed somewhere between 3½ and 4 lbs. 

I had planned to fish until dusk but the heat had taken its toll. I decided to bring down the curtain with these two magnificent fish, wanting to leave on a high. 

I returned to the hut at 6.00 pm and had some of the picnic hamper for dinner, saving the chocolate cake to enjoy when I returned to my holiday cottage. This was a fabulous day of fishing. I highly recommend a visit to Driffield Beck as a rite of passage for any river angler. I quoted from J.W. Hill's 1936 book at the start of this account. Something else he wrote chimed with me: "My advice to the angler is - fish widely as well as intensively. Get to know thoroughly one river by all means; but also never lose a chance of travelling farther afield."