Hi there, I’m Dave, a 65-year-old retired welder from Cornwall, England. I now live near the Embalse de Orellana in Extremadura. On this website you'll find expert insights on the best fishing spots in Spain, guides & recommendations, plus personal stories of my experiences on the water.
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Spring always feels like a turning point when you fish the reservoirs here in Spain. Winter never really gets as cold as it did back home in Cornwall, but there’s still a quieter period when the banks feel empty and the water seems almost lifeless. Then, usually sometime around late February or March, things begin …
Some mornings at the reservoir start quietly. You arrive before sunrise, the sky over Extremadura still dark, and the water at Embalse de Orellana looks almost perfectly still. It’s one of the things I’ve come to love about fishing in Spain. Even the bigger reservoirs can feel completely empty if you arrive early enough. I’ve …
I always forget how optimistic the sea makes you in March. You stand there in a fleece that isn’t quite warm enough, watching a perfectly calm bit of Mediterranean that looks like it was laid out by an estate agent, and you think: this is it. This is the session where everything works. No tangles. …
A Beginner’s Guide to Sea Fishing in Spain I’ll be honest. For years, I looked at the sea like it was a different sport altogether. Too big, too salty, too many unknowns. Give me a reservoir, a chair, a flask, and a set of alarms and I know where I stand. The sea, on the …
I was at the lake by seven. Too early for anyone sane, but the light looked good and the air had that cool stillness before the insects wake up. Coffee from the flask, bread already drying at the edges. The float sat clean in the water, just a faint ripple. Nothing for the first hour. …
Lake looked fine at seven. Flat as a plate. I set two rods off the shallow spit opposite the pines. Method on one, simple inline on the other. 12ft 3.25s, 0.35 mono, fluoro links because this water is usually too clean for my liking. Washed-out yellow wafters, cage stuffed tight with crushed maize and pellet. …
I was just looking for a sandwich. That’s all it was. Took the wrong turn off the CV-something-or-other near a lake I hadn’t fished in years. The sign was bent, maybe hit by a tractor or just neglected. One of those villages where the shutters are always halfway down, even when it’s not siesta. There …
Trevor turned up wearing a sunhat big enough to shade a caravan and holding a rod tube that looked like it had been nicked from a skip. Hadn’t seen him in years. He used to come out every now and then with the lads, but life happened — dodgy hip, some drama with his daughter, …
Let me say this first: if your bait alarm costs less than your last takeaway, you’re fishing with a lie. You can’t trust a shrill little beep from a knock-off unit you bought off a bloke called Kiko behind a petrol station. I learned that the hard way. Middle of the night, two summers ago, …
I don’t like to admit this, but I screamed. Not a little yelp. Not a manly grunt. A proper full-throated squeal. Like a goat falling off a cliff. It was a bee. Not just any bee—a mutant, sunburnt, Spanish demon bee with wings like bin lids and the attitude of a nightclub bouncer. It dive-bombed …