THIS WEEK’S MIS­SION

Anglers Mail - - Front Page -

I DON’T know how many times I have sat at a drive-through or­der­ing a cap­puc­cino in a city cen­tre, and sud­denly caught a glimpse of a wa­ter­way, be­fore drift­ing off into Steve’s World... won­der­ing what’s in there, does it even hold fish, what type of fish, how deep, be­fore a beep of a car horn re­minds me that I’ve held up ten cars while I’ve been day­dream­ing.

This time I de­cided to ditch the Sausage and Egg McMuf­fin, and opt for a pint of reds and whites, and ac­tu­ally get out there and see for my­self what lives there.

BODY found in river! River pol­lu­tion at record lev­els! Thou­sands of tons of sewage pumped into the river!

If you had read these kind of head­lines, I don’t sup­pose you would be get­ting up at 4am to go and fish it, es­pe­cially if it’s in the mid­dle of Dews­bury.

Luck­ily for us an­glers, these are hor­ror head­lines, rare stuff. Well, most of them are. You still find an oc­ca­sional bed doddy. And you will have to wade over a sofa or two!

I am, of course, talk­ing about the Calder, a stretch of river that peo­ple used to travel miles to fish in the 1960s, fill­ing nets on the fa­mous warm wa­ter parts, fed by the power sta­tion.

The likes of Benny Ashurst used to en­joy many a good day tak­ing full ad­van­tage of the warm wa­ter fed from El­land VENUE: The River Calder, as it runs through Dews­bury town cen­tre, is con­trolled by Mir­field AC, a club steeped in his­tory, and their book rep­re­sents good value. More de­tails on­line at www.mir­fiel­dac.co.uk or keep an eye on An­glers Mail for up-to-date venue re­ports. WEATHER: au­tumn is well upon us now, and although there are still leaves on the trees, early starts are still chilly. A short ses­sion was planned, as by 11am the heav­ens were go­ing to open, with rain and wind. Tem­per­a­ture 9 de­grees C. NW 15-20 mph. 995 mbar.

power sta­tion, mak­ing it a ‘fish fac­tory’, in even the cold­est con­di­tions.

Since then, in­dus­try took over, and the con­di­tions of our rivers took a back seat, and any­thing that could be thrown in them prob­a­bly was. The fish pop­u­la­tion and in­ver­te­brate pop­u­la­tion faded, and in turn so did the an­glers; it be­came a bit of a ghost town.

I’ve got to be hon­est, I had for­got about this par­tic­u­lar stretch, un­til my mate Al­lan Kay­eeda told me that it had been fish­ing its head off, and I ought to give it a sec­ond look.

I didn’t need ask­ing twice. The thought of run­ning a stick float down a river for any­thing is enough to get me off my fat back­side, but the thought of walk­ing past KFC in my waders, and risk­ing get­ting my foot ■

Not a chalk­stream in sight.

■ My old mucker, PC Dean, turned up and emp­tied it, as usual.

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