Dave 
You ever gone fishing for a quick afternoon and ended up sleeping in your car because your mate left the radio on for six hours? We didn’t mean to. Honest. It was supposed to be a short one—pop down to Embalse de Mequinenza, chuck a few lures, maybe spot a zander if the water was …
I’ve made some dreadful decisions in the heat. Once welded a hull in Seville in August wearing jeans. Another time I tried to sleep inside a zipped bivvy with three mozzies and a gas stove. But that Saturday on Buendía—me, Glenn, and Rafa—takes the flan. The sun was mean. Not cheeky, not “ooh grab a …
I still dream about it sometimes. Not the fish, though that catfish bent my rod like it owed him money. No—I dream about the silence. That heavy, Spanish kind of silence that wraps around you like an old jumper soaked in olive oil and sun. Orellana. Embalse de Orellana, to give it the full church …
It started with a pub bet and ended with a sunstroke-induced hallucination involving a talking carp. Summer of ’96. Maybe ’97. Back in Sunderland, we’d just had the wettest June since records began, and we were sick of dragging our gear through ankle-deep mud for a shot at a single sad tench. Then someone—I think …
It’s always the big one that gets away. Never the daft little roach or the suicidal perch that hooks itself before you’ve even settled into your chair. No. It’s the one you felt. Proper weight. Head shakes like a washing machine on full spin. The one that pulls line and your soul out in the …
I thought I was doing alright, y’know. I’d nailed “una cerveza” years ago, long before I even moved out here. Throw in a few confident nods, a thumbs-up, the odd gracias… job done. Fluent-ish. That illusion collapsed on a humid Tuesday morning in June, when I accidentally told my Spanish neighbour I’d like to adopt …
I once drove five hours for a fish and ended up staring at mud. Just mud. No lake. No shimmer. No waterline. No frogs croaking in the reeds. Just a bleached-out landscape and one dog chewing something it definitely shouldn’t have found in the heat. Thing is, I’d been there before. Same spot. Zahara-El Gastor. …
When I packed up everything in Cornwall and legged it to Spain at 60, most people figured I’d lost the bloody plot. “You’ll be back,” they said. “Miss the pubs, miss the rain, miss proper bacon.” I mean, yeah, maybe. Even I wasn’t entirely sure I wasn’t making a complete hash of it. Barely spoke …
Catfishing in Spain? It’s next level. Forget the small rivers and ponds where you might pull in a decent fish if you’re lucky. This is where giants live. Wels catfish that break gear, pull you into the water if you’re not paying attention, and fight harder than anything you’ve ever hooked. If you’re looking for …
Zander fishing in Spain? It’ll break you before it rewards you. These fish aren’t just another predator—they’re calculators. They don’t smash lures like bass or fight dirty like catfish. They wait, watch, then strike when it’s perfect for them—never for you. I’ve lost count of the number of sessions where I’ve marked fish on the …