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 name. A 5,000-hectare brute of a reservoir in Extremadura, big enough to lose your bearings and small enough to feel like it’s whispering secrets to you if you sit still long enough.
It’s where I caught my first proper zander in Spain. It’s also where Barry once ate a sausage roll so old it gave him the shakes mid-fight with a bass and he still landed it, grinning like a maniac, crumbs all over the reel.
But let’s rewind.
What Makes Orellana Special (Aside from the Eerie Goat Sounds at Night)
First up: predators. Big, mean, and hungry. Orellana is catfish central, with some monsters pushing 80 kilos. They sit low and lazy, but when they decide to move—good god. You feel it in your wrists. I’ve seen lads scream like toddlers when the line went tight.
Then there’s the zander, sleek and clever. Best fished early or late when the sun’s not glaring like an angry god. Jigs, soft plastics, or if you’re feeling bold—live bait. Legal? Mostly. Moral? Questionable. Effective? Don’t ask Barry—he once used a sandwich crust.
And of course, black bass. Not as famous here as in the States, but the Spanish strain are just as punchy. You’ll find them lurking near sunken trees and weird metal structures that look like leftover Franco-era hydro junk.
Where to Fish (and Where Not to Park Your Car)
Best spots? Depends who you ask.
The north shore’s good if you’re going for bass and want to avoid crowds. South side? Catfish heaven. The dam end’s deep and spooky—don’t drop your phone, or your soul.
Avoid parking near that weird olive grove with the angry scarecrow. Barry did once and came back to find his wing mirror full of bees. Don’t ask me how. Spain’s strange like that.
Boat access is golden if you can manage it, but plenty of shoreline to stalk from. Just bring decent boots—the mud here eats cheap trainers like popcorn.
When to Go (and What Not to Wear)
Spring and autumn are your best bets. Summer turns the place into a frying pan for idiots. I once watched a guy fish shirtless at noon and end up looking like a boiled ham with tattoos.
Water levels drop in August, fish get jittery, and you’ll spend more time sweating than fishing.
Don’t go in February unless you fancy frostbite. I did. Froze my bait solid and had to warm it up under my armpit. Never again.
One Last Story Before You Pack Your Tackle
We were night fishing once—me, Barry, and Miguel (local bloke who swears like a sailor but makes a stew so good it should be illegal). Barry, already two beers deep, decides to “experiment” and drops a sausage roll crust into the bait bucket. Laughs like it’s the best joke since sliced bread.
Next cast? Hooks a zander. A proper one.
From that day on, we never fished Orellana without pastry in the mix. Not because it worked. Just because it made the lake feel more like home.
So… is Orellana the best predator fishing lake in Spain?
Yeah. Maybe. Probably.
But don’t take my word for it. Go there. Get lost. Lose a lure. Hear the goats. Fall asleep to the sound of fish rising like ghosts. And if you see Barry wandering along the bank with a Cornish pasty and a size 6 hook… tell him Dave says hello.
