Thornton & Pickering Becks, North York Moors

I have recently returned from a long weekend stay in the charming little village of Hutton-le-Hole, nestled in the scenic North York Moors. 

Yorkshire is a hospitable and proud county. Many of the typical grey stone houses and cottages flew the White Rose of York flag. I haven't yet encountered an English county as fiercely proud of its heritage. 

Credit: Adam Wyles

I was very kindly hosted by Matt Shipley, a member of the Pickering Fisheries Association, for a day spent sampling the Association's waters. Matt is a nice, genuine young lad. I often read about the dearth of youngsters taking up flyfishing, so it was encouraging to meet an enthusiastic young angler in Matt. 

The Association dates back to 1892 and controls fishing on the Pickering, Thornton and Costa becks which drain from the southern slopes of the North York Moors. As a southerner, I was amazed at the Association's low membership subscription and more than once allowed myself to dream about moving to the neighbourhood.  

Thornton Beck

I met Matt at 10.30 am on the banks of the Thornton Beck, having followed a single lane road from nearby Thornton-le-Dale. The Thornton Beck was tiny and clear although Matt noted that in the present summer conditions it was running a little more clear than normal. The beck is shrouded by the trees of the Dalby Forest in its upper reaches, making for close-quarter fishing. My Hardy Flyweight rod (6' 2 weight) was perfect for the job. The section Matt took me to flowed through a steep sided farming valley where cattle grazed upon the slopes and buzzards wheeled in the skies above the hill tops. I drank in the vista and warm sun. I think I took extra pleasure from the fact this was my first holiday break since February, when the coronavirus pandemic took hold.

Matt showed me a weir and small waterfall above which the Association's fishing started. As we stood admiring the cascade of water, a fish rose in the pool immediately upstream of the weir. Matt had a dry fly already tied on, so I encouraged him to have a cast. He let out a perfect cast with his glass rod, and a little trout snatched at his fly.  It was the most perfect and promising way of starting our day.

We separated and suddenly I was alone in the shade of the trees, with nothing but the tranquil sounds of gurgling water and forest birds to keep me company. It had been a while since I last fished a river this small, perhaps going as far back to the days I fished the little streams of Wales, but the routine came back to me like riding a bike and went something like this: 

• identify the pockets of water which were likely to hold a trout. Every place where there was some relative depth and colour to the water was a likely candidate. 

• assess the surrounding trees and vegetation to work out, first, from which position to cast and, second, how to cast a fly to the chosen spot, usually by a roll cast or threading a back cast through a gap in the leaves.

• make slow, steady progress, usually crouched on the haunches or on the knees, to get within casting range of the trout without spooking them. 

• execute the cast and prepare for a mighty quick rise! 

My first trout was caught from just in front of the fern fronds on the left bank looking upstream

Trout in streams like this are usually opportunistic feeders. Provided the fly pattern isn't too garish and is presented well, with an abundance of stealth, they will normally take a fly. That's the theory at least. These little wisps of life were packed full of survival instinct and were certainly not naive. Where the sun filtered through the trees and onto the water, it was possible to spot the little trout by their shadows on the streambed, and watch them react to the fly. More than once I saw a trout look with interest and turn away from a #14 klinkhamer. I had gone with a larger fly so that I could see it better in the shaded light of the trees. I suspected the trout in this lower limit of the fishery must see a fly or two in the season, but they had less qualms about the same fly in a size 18. In just over two hours, I managed to coax six wild brown trout to take the klinkhamer and hold on long enough to reach my net. They were dainty, exquisite creatures, buttery-yellow and adorned in cherry red spots.

I had caught my largest brown trout of the season just the day before, at Driffield Beck, and I chuckled when I caught my smallest brown trout of the season from this beck. Yorkshire had revealed her full piscatorial hand! 

There is a trout farm downstream, and the section of river immediately below it is also controlled by the Association. On my walk back to my parked car, I looked into the water below the trout farm from a bridge, and saw several large hatchery escapees in the water. I threw in some bread from my tuna sandwich and the trout boisterously jostled to eat the scraps. I sat on the wall of the bridge in the shade and watched them while I waited for Matt to rejoin me. When he arrived, I pointed out the fish and seeing his enthusiasm invited him to have a crack at them. He scurried down the bank and approached the trout from the tail of the pool. His dry fly was taken by the smallest and greediest of the fish, which looked to be around 14 or 15". He managed to keep the fish in the tail water and released it downstream without spooking the rest of the pool. With me spotting from the bridge, Matt then hooked the largest of the trout, which looked to be in excess of 3 lbs. Disappointingly the hook dislodged after a brief tussle and the pool was spooked. 

Pickering Beck

In the afternoon we made the short drive to the Pickering Beck, passing through the town of Pickering and its castle. From the town we followed a railway line upriver for about a mile. A steam train uses this line and later, when thigh deep in the river and lost in my own thoughts, I had an enormous fright when the train let out a long blast of its whistle.

I caught two trout from the water in this image, where the river flowed out from the trees. 

The Pickering Beck was marginally larger, darker and deeper than the Thornton Beck. It had an altogether more sinuous and brooding character, especially under the shade of the trees where there was some surprisingly deep water. I started fishing in the sun in an open field where the river had been manipulated by the hand of man to form flood defences. In the short section of open water before the river disappeared into the trees I caught four little trout. Two trout had taken a nymph and the other two had risen to take a small CDC & Elk. 

I entered the trees and for the next hour had little joy with a dry fly, catching only a single trout and missing a couple by mistiming the strike. Matt came to see me and mentioned that a nymph had brought him much success, including his first ever grayling from this stream. I tied a little nymph to the bend of the dry fly hook and very soon a trout took the nymph as I trundled it past the roots of an alder tree.

The nymph unlocked the door to my own further success. After moving upstream a little way to some promising looking water where there was less tree cover, I had six more trout in quick succession. They took an olive quill nymph with a black tungsten bead. 

The shadows lengthened over the valley and the air took on a cool chill. It was time to leave. Without Matt's kind invitation I would never have experienced the Association's special waters. Thank you Matt. It was a thoroughly enjoyable day in pleasant company, catching wild little trout in picturesque countryside. When I returned to my holiday cottage, I had a pork, apple and black pudding pie waiting for my for dinner. I had been told not to leave the North York Moors without trying one of the famous pies from the nearby town of Helmsley. I washed it down with a cider and it was delicious!