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 me mid-cast at Embalse de Entrepeñas, right as I was aiming for the far reeds. The rod jerked, the line snapped, and my whole setup launched into the air like I was trying to fish the moon.
I flailed. Lost my footing. Rolled twice, landed on a root, and lay there for what felt like an eternity blinking at the sky, convinced I’d broken something crucial. Not sure what. Hip? Ego?
Glenn thought I was having a stroke. Came barrelling down the slope like a Labrador in a panic, yelling “Don’t move!” like he was in a war film. Then he tripped over my tackle box and kicked it straight into the lake.
So there we are—two grown men sprawled in the dirt, one rod floating off into the horizon, and me clutching my side and wondering how the hell I’d explain this to a Spanish doctor. Again.
That’s when it hit me. Not the bee—though that came back for a second pass, the persistent little sod—but the realisation I might actually need decent cover. I’ve been coasting. Living like I’m still thirty-five. Sleeping in the van. Eating canned sardines for breakfast. Laughing at danger. But the truth is, I’m 62, slightly overweight, and one bee away from full-on collapse.
So that night, after we limped home (Glenn twisted his ankle trying to retrieve the rod with a pool net), I finally did something about it. Googled around. Turns out you don’t have to be rich or fluent in medical Spanish to sort yourself out—there’s a great breakdown here on how much does private health insurance cost in Spain. It cleared up all the nonsense I’d been guessing at.
I’m getting a quote this week.
Not because I’m scared, mind you. But because next time I go flying down a ravine after a bee, I’d like to know that when the paramedic finds me tangled in a bivvy bag muttering about carp, at least I’m covered.
