Every year I tell myself I’ll do less driving.
Every year I tell myself I’ll fish closer to home.
Every year, usually sometime around May, I start looking at maps, checking water levels, messaging old fishing mates, and convincing myself that driving three hours before sunrise is somehow a sensible hobby.
This summer appears to be following the same pattern.
The rods are cleaned. The reels are behaving themselves for once. The garage smells faintly of groundbait and damp landing nets. All that remains is deciding where to go first.
Or at least pretending I have a plan.
The truth is I’ve got five lakes on my mind, three old friends who keep adding ideas I don’t need, and one fish that has managed to avoid me for far longer than I’m comfortable admitting.
Orellana Again, Obviously
I could probably save petrol by admitting now that at least part of my summer will be spent back at Embalse de Orellana.
Some anglers are always searching for the next venue.
I’m increasingly becoming the sort who finds somewhere he likes and keeps returning until people start asking if he owns shares in it.
Part of it is familiarity.
Part of it is confidence.
Part of it is the fact that every time I visit, something unexpected seems to happen.
The last trip produced enough excitement for the morning at Embalse de Orellana and the carp just wouldn’t give up, a fish that seemed determined to test both my tackle and my patience.
I still find myself thinking about that session.
Not because it was the biggest fish I’ve caught.
Just because some days stay with you longer than others.
García Sola and Unfinished Business
García Sola has been sitting in the back of my mind all winter.
It’s one of those waters where you can spend half the day believing you’ve finally worked things out and the other half wondering whether the fish have moved to another reservoir entirely.
Years ago, one of my best sessions in Spain happened there.
Years later, I still mention it far more often than anyone wants to hear.
The danger with fishing memories is that they improve with age.
The fish get bigger.
The weather gets better.
The mistakes quietly disappear.
I suspect a return visit may reveal the truth.
I’m going anyway.
Zújar and the Wind
If you’ve spent enough time around Spanish reservoirs, you’ll know there are days when everything looks perfect.
The water looks right.
The weather forecast looks right.
The bait feels right.
Then the wind arrives and makes a mockery of the entire operation.
For me, that lake is usually Zújar.
I genuinely enjoy fishing there.
I also spend a lot of time there muttering at weather conditions.
Perhaps that’s why I keep returning.
Fishing would be boring if everything worked.
Mequinenza: The Trip That Never Happens
Every angler seems to have one venue they talk about more than they actually visit.
Mine might be Mequinenza.
I’ve discussed it in bars.
I’ve discussed it in tackle shops.
I’ve discussed it with complete strangers who made the mistake of mentioning fishing.
Yet somehow another year passes and I still haven’t spent enough time there.
This summer I’m hoping to change that.
Whether I actually do remains to be seen.
Somewhere Completely New
The fifth lake on my list doesn’t even have a name yet.
At least not in my notebook.
One of the great pleasures of fishing in Spain is discovering water you’ve never seen before.
A reservoir tucked away behind a village.
A stretch of shoreline you’ve somehow ignored for years.
A place where you arrive knowing absolutely nothing.
Those trips rarely produce the biggest catches.
They often produce the best stories.
The Three Old Friends
No fishing summer plan survives contact with old friends.
Trevor, as readers will remember from Trevor’s Visit and the Fishing Rod That Snapped Like a Breadstick, remains convinced that every fish in Spain can be caught with tactics last updated sometime during the Thatcher years.
Then there’s Mick.
Mick still lives near Sunderland and somehow manages to offer advice on Spanish fishing despite not having visited Spain for nearly six years.
His confidence remains impressive.
His accuracy less so.
The third is Geoff.
Geoff now lives in Spain and has reached that wonderful stage of retirement where he can leave for a fishing trip on a Tuesday morning and return whenever he feels like it.
I envy him more than I’d ever admit directly.
Between the three of them, I receive enough suggestions every summer to fill several notebooks.
Most of them are terrible.
Some of them are brilliant.
The problem is knowing which is which.
The One Fish
Then there is the fish.
The one that’s been bothering me for years.
Not a carp.
Not a bass.
A catfish.
I’ve caught small ones.
I’ve caught respectable ones.
I’ve never landed the truly ridiculous specimen that seems to appear in every photograph, every conversation, and every rumour shared around Spanish reservoirs.
You know the type.
The fish that’s supposedly longer than a sofa and stronger than a tractor.
Every angler has one species that gets under their skin.
For me, it’s become the catfish.
Not because I desperately need one.
More because I don’t like losing arguments.
And after all these years, it increasingly feels like the fish is winning.
We’ll See
That’s the plan, anyway.
Five lakes.
Three old friends.
One fish.
By September I’ll probably have visited some of them, ignored others, and invented entirely new plans along the way.
That’s usually how these things go.
For now, the rods are ready.
The freezer contains enough bait to concern sensible people.
And despite decades of evidence suggesting I should know better, I’m quietly convinced that this might finally be the summer when everything comes together.
It probably won’t.
But that’s never stopped me before.
