Trevor turned up wearing a sunhat big enough to shade a caravan and holding a rod tube that looked like it had been nicked from a skip.
Hadn’t seen him in years. He used to come out every now and then with the lads, but life happened — dodgy hip, some drama with his daughter, and apparently now he’s into Pilates. Not sure how that came up. Probably in the same breath as the cousin-from-1987 story he’s told at least a hundred times.
Anyway, he opened the rod tube like he was unveiling something special. Inside was what I can only describe as an antique. It might’ve been high-end in 1994, but now it looked like something you’d use to poke stuff off your roof.
“It’s still got a bit of life in it,” he said, giving it a bend.
It snapped. Just like that. No stress on it. Just cracked like a breadstick.
I didn’t say anything. He looked genuinely shocked, like it was my fault the laws of physics still apply in Spain.
Borrowed Gear, Borrowed Patience
So, he used my backup rod — an 11-foot feeder I usually take when I want a quiet day without overcomplicating things. Trevor immediately moaned that it wasn’t his style. I reminded him his style was now in two pieces.
We drove out to the lake near Ayora — quiet spot, good margins, and hardly anyone there on weekdays. Water level was stable, breeze was light. I threw in some corn and pellet, nothing flashy.
Trevor’s first cast took out half a reed bed. Second one was better. By some miracle, he hooked into something half an hour in — turned out to be a bream that looked like it had lived through a drought and wasn’t thrilled to be back in the spotlight.
I landed a decent carp just after. Not a monster, but solid. Clean, no damage. The kind that gives you a proper fight without all the drama.
The Bit Where Blokes Go Quiet
Sometime after lunch, he stopped talking. That’s rare for Trevor. He just sat there, holding the rod like he’d forgotten what to do with it.
“D’you ever miss it?” he asked.
I thought he meant fishing. Turns out he meant all of it. Home. The old lads. The jobs. Even the bloody Sunday papers. Said he doesn’t fish much now — knees gone, club shut, and everyone’s either dead, moved away, or taken up golf.
He said fishing used to be the thing that helped him forget everything. Now it’s the one thing that reminds him what he’s lost.
I didn’t know what to say to that. We’re not really the talking type. So I just opened him another can and cast out again.
Quick Tip: Don’t Bring Rubbish Gear to Spain
Right — for anyone thinking of flying in and using that “old rod in the loft,” don’t. Heat, dry air, and age wreck carbon. Doesn’t matter how much you paid for it back then — it’s likely toast now.
Even a rod that looks fine might go on the first bend. Microfractures. Brittle joints. Stuff you can’t see until it’s too late.
You’re better off checking in with someone local and borrowing, or just renting. There are decent shops here. Or message me. I’ve got backups that don’t disintegrate on impact.
We packed up around seven. Trevor hooked something on the last cast, but panicked and tried to haul it in too fast. Lost it.
Still, he laughed. Said it was good to blank properly again. Whatever that means.
He didn’t hug goodbye. Just said, “Might come out again next year. If I’m still moving.”
I said yeah, and left it at that. I’ll sharpen a hook for him, just in case.
