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 wasn’t much. A rusted-out vending machine bolted to the wall outside the pharmacy. A dog sleeping in the road like it owned it. And this little bar, tucked beside a garage that hadn’t opened this century. No name on the front. Just an old Estrella sticker and a door that didn’t shut properly.
I went in.
Nothing Fancy, and That Was Fine
No music. Two old men sitting near the window playing dominoes but not really looking at each other. The telly was on but silent — football, or something that had football colours.
The barmaid gave me a nod and poured a beer. No menu. She didn’t ask anything. Just assumed I wanted a beer, and she was right.
That’s when I saw the photos.
The Wall
Whole back wall behind the bar. Just pictures. All fishing.
Big carp, mostly. Some ugly catfish. A few trout that looked like they’d come from colder water than anything nearby. You could tell half of them were old — the colours gone weird, corners curling up, frames wonky. One of the pictures had mould behind the glass. Another had a bloke holding a fish with one arm and a baby in the other. The baby looked terrified.
Names written under a few, in pen or scratched onto little brass tags. One just said “El Gordo 1998” which could’ve referred to the fish, or the man holding it.
I asked the woman behind the bar who took them all.
She shrugged. “Gente de aquí.” People from here.
I pointed at a photo of a young lad holding a monster of a carp with both hands, half-grinning like he couldn’t believe it. Looked recent. Maybe five years old, tops.
She didn’t even look. Just said, “No viene ya.”
Didn’t say why.
There Was Tackle in the Corner
Proper old stuff. A rod that still had line wrapped round it like someone just set it down for lunch and never came back. A net full of cobwebs. One of those chairs with the legs all different lengths from sinking into the bank a hundred times.
It wasn’t for decoration. Just dusty. Like someone meant to come back for it, but didn’t.
I finished the beer. She brought me a sandwich — jamón, nothing else. No plate. Bit of cling film still on the edge. It was fine. Better than the vending machine.
No one said anything else.
I left a coin on the bar and nodded. She nodded back.
Driving Back
Didn’t find the lake. Realised later I’d turned off too early. Doesn’t matter.
Haven’t been back to that village since. Tried to find it again on Google Maps but can’t remember the name. It’s probably still there. The photos too. Bit more curled, maybe.
Some bars are loud about their stories. This one wasn’t.
That’s all, really.
