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Testosterone Beach

Gordon K Howes

It all stated around Christmas, I had a phone call from Geoff, editor of Europe's largest Internet angling web-site, www.fishing.co.uk. "We're going back out to the Ebro in May, do you fancy it?" A short pause followed. "I can't really afford it," I said without thinking too much about the costs involved. When you work for the organisation I do this is the typical response to most questions involving spending money! "Come on man," said Geoff, "you're a long time dead!" I retorted "I know, but no money equals no money, I'll think about it, how much, when, where, and with whom?"

Last year Geoff sorted out a trip (my first to the river) with some of the Internet Angling Clubs'members, five to be precise. On that particular trip we flew out from Gatwick with the minimum of gear as our guide for the week was meeting us at Reus airport, the now infamous Nick Roe. Nick supplied the Bivvies (is that right Geoff?), the cooking equipment a boat but most of all, the local knowledge. It was arranged in the middle of April, and although most of the gang caught, it was a struggle. Malcom had a cat of 124lb, Geoff caught a few out to 88lb, Rob Stubbs, 81lb and myself, 91lb. It is ideal to have the use of a boat in that type of situation, on such a large river, but Nick didn't seem to want to travel very far from the camp which left myself and the others, feeling a little restricted. Next time we promised to do it our way!

"The trip is planned for May, There will only be three of us going this time, Myself, you and Ian."explained Geoff. This perked me up a bit because although the first trip was a laugh and was also a good easy relaxing introduction to the ways of the Ebro, If you go with too many people you become restricted as to choice of swims, that is if you want to stay sociable. If you want to move independently and you've flown over, you'll need more than one hire car which will increase the final expenditure somewhat.

"We'll probably be flying over, and borrowing some of Nicks' kit, such as the bivvies, and my small boat which I left with him to look after, anyway, Ian will be organising the flights and stuff so phone him and find out the SP, price and stuff, you'll have more of an idea whether you can come"

"I reckon I probably can, after all it is over five months away, I should be able to get enough money put away by then, the only other small glitch on the horizon is the wife's pregnant and due about the end of May, but I should be able to sort it!" I joked, "I'll speak to you in a couple of weeks."

Ian phoned a couple of weeks later and gave me some idea of what it would cost for the week, I had worked out my finances, so I told him, "Count me in, I'm up for it" He also suggested that we meet up sometime in February for a social fishing session, for a chat about the forthcoming trip, and did I know of anywhere central to all of us. This was very handy for me as I was in the middle, not very far to drive...Lovely!

I suggested that we could meet on the Great Ouse at Over (Near Cambridge) as it was fairly central and a few large pike had been coming out. Phonecalls were made and in the middle of February we met on crisp clear day on the Banks of the Ouse opposite the Pike and Eel Hotel.

Ian was already there when I rolled up, he'd overestimated the distance, Geoff as usual was the last to arrive, but to be fair, he had the furthest to travel. The morning was spent mucking about on the river, Geoff and I blanked but Ian (the Pike King) sneaked a couple of jacks out. Things were pretty slow, so I suggested a move to Roswell Pits near Ely. I've got access to one of the smaller lakes in the chain, near some workshops. The sports and social club from work leases it. A couple of small pike were caught but nothing special. It was a good day nonetheless and we'd finally sorted out some of the finer details of our forthcoming trip.

It had transpired that Nick (In Spain) had disappeared. The equipment we were intending to hire for the week had also disappeared! Geoff, however had managed to track down the boats, an unfortunate chap (more of whom later) was sold the offending articles without realising they belonged to someone else. He bought them in good faith, and was more than willing to help us out when we got over there.

"So we're sorted then?" asked Ian, "Me and Gordy will drive over and pick you up from Reus airport"

I must say at this point that if it wasn't for people like Geoff and Ian I'd probably never get off my arse and organise anything myself, as it was, all I had to do was hand over cash every now and then when Ian phoned and asked for payment for one thing or another, hats off to him, he organised most of it and I'm greatful.

Ian arrived on my doorstep at 4:30am, we were to catch a ferry from Folkstone to Bologne at 7:30. The journey to the coast was uneventful, the sea cat was nearly empty, which was nice but most of the crossing was calm. We drove off the ferry at about 8:30.

First port of call (or second!) was the supermarket for some coffee and grub, and the first pathetic attempts to speak French, although I must admit Ian seems to have more capacity for that kind of thing, but then again his childhood holidays were partaken in climbs a little further away than Great Yarmouth!

Back on the road again heading for Paris. We'd decided to share the driving, my turn was to come just before the Paris ring road, this was to allow Ian to navigate as he had been down this way once or twice before. We drove all day, from 8:30am to 10:30 p.m., watching the thermometer rise steadily the further south we drove, passing through some of the most impressive thunderstorms I had ever witnessed. We finally stopped for the night in the south of France approximately 25 miles from the Spanish border, the sky here was thankfully very clear. Along the main roads through France there are many petrol stations with large rest areas, and it was in one of these that we bivvied up for the night. I think this was probably illegal, and we spent most of the night, twitching with every car that passed us on its way into the petrol station, we'd bivvied on a small picnic area, below the level of the adjacent road.)

First thing in the morning before sun up and feeling very much the worse for wear, we made the first (and very welcome) brew of the day, a bit of yawning and arse scratching later (a beautiful thought!!) we were on our way to the Spanish border.

The countryside throughout the whole journey was impressive but the nearer we got the border the more magnificent it became, we were of course crossing the Pyrenees. We stopped again after crossing into Spain, then carried on through Barcelona, the yellow haze of the busy city looming and gradually disappearing as we drove into it. Past Barcelona, we started to head for Reus, the small and less than salubrious airport which we had flown into a year earlier and where we were now meeting with our man Geoff, somewhere around midday. We took this opportunity to dry out our umbrellas, which were still sodden from the night before. Geoff landed on time, we re-shuffled the gear in the car (Ian had actually managed to squeeze in a bait boat, which Geoff now had to carry on his lap!!), and set off to the Ebro.

The trip only lasted another 45 minutes. Before venturing down to our intended destination, we had to meet the aforementioned unfortunate chap who had bought Geoffs' equipment without realising it was Geoffs'! We had the address and rough directions and were soon shaking hands with Pete, Dan and ???????. We had a cup of tea and introduced ourselves. Pete and Dan were intending to set up guiding service for English anglers, and proved invaluable during the course of our stay (cheers folks). They informed us that the river was out of sorts, due to snow melt from the mountains, our spirits remained high, however and we left, with Pete promising to bring a boat and outboard down to us later when we were settled in. We jumped back in the car and headed for our final destination, driving down the dusty track we just caught sight of some bivvies through the Bamboo, "Oh No!!" I exclaimed (with many other profanities thrown in for good measure), we'd travelled over a 1000 miles, and there was a bunch of bloody mancunians in the swims we intended to fish! This was just the first setback in a long chain of events, which had us working like marines…. Improvising, Adapting and Overcoming!!!

To re-cap...We'd just travelled over a 1000 miles to get to the area we had previously fished, and the scene which greeted us was a line of happy (drunken) campers!

Almost as obvious as the bivvies was the lack of beach, the water was a good 4feet up on last year and going like the veritable train! We had a quick word with the anglers already in situ to get the lie of the land. It turned out they were all from up north (England) and had fished the spot (the same as us, testosterone beach, named such due to the countless acts of bravado, and manliness of the previous year) with Naughty Nick in the past. They had been there for a week with nothing to show for it, but to be honest their methods weren't really up to scratch for the conditions. To be fair the prey fish were scarce also, so they were having to resort to dead baits acquired from the local supermarket.

Closer inspection of the flooded margins upstream of where the northerners were, revealed a multitude of fish life. Small mullet and carp were darting through the grass! "If only we had some electrofishing gear", I said. Just upstream of the other anglers was a small area, just big enough to get a couple of rods out if only for tonight. To be honest we didn't have too much knowledge of this part of the river so we felt a bit restricted. When you're not familiar with the local area what can you do?

We decided we would have to search for pastures new in the morning, anyway, Pete and Dan were coming down in a little while, they might have a better idea of what to do or where to go.

In the meantime we set about the onerous task of trying (heron like?) to sneak a few mullet or carp from the sodden banks. After half an hour I'd only managed one Mullet of about two pounds, far too big for this flow, so I released him. During this time, Geoff and Ian had set up the bivvies, and Pete and Dan had arrived.

I must admit by this time I had a right strop on, but at least I was rational to keep thinking, we're all in this together, I won't get anywhere by stomping my feet!

"Any Ideas?" Geoff asked Pete. "We have got one place in mind" he said, but not many people know of its existence, so you'll have to keep it quiet (same the world over isn't it?). Geoff and Ian went off to have a reccie, feeling sorry for myself, I decided to sit down and start demolishing some of the Roija we had purchased on the way down..

They returned in about an hour with smiles from ear to ear....."Your gonna like what I've we've just seen" grinned Geoff, "Oh yes" smiled Ian, "everything's gonna be just fine!"

They described the area Pete had showed them over another bottle of wine.....Maybe it was the description of the swim or possibly the wine, but I was now feeling a little more happy.

That night as we were planning on moving anyway we decided to get to know the northerners a bit better, rough as you like but likeable nonetheless. At about midnight one of their gang shouted "I'm in!!" from the landing stage a couple of hundred yards downstream, we all hurriedly made our way to his swim to watch the events unfold. All along this stretch of the Ebro are landing stages for boats, basically floating pontoons joined to the bank via a walkway at either end. When we got there the chap who'd shouted was leaning with all his might into the unseen fish which, judging by the angle of his line was about ten miles down stream!.. He was having to winch this beastie directly against the flow of which, as mentioned earlier there was plenty. The banter was now in full flow with all of his mates shouting instruction, abuse, and generally winding him up. Eventually after about half an hour the fish was brought alongside the jetty, two of them grabbed its lower jaw and hauled it up onto the smooth wooden surface amongst rapturous applause...and more abuse! The fish was weighed at one hundred and seven pounds, nice one I thought at least some cats may be willing to feed in this cold water, and it was caught on a deadbait. After much congratulations, and drinking of more wine we eventually retired to the bivvie.

The next morning arrived far too soon, My head was banging and my back was aching from the ever so long car journey. Geoff and Ian were in better health than I because Geoff (being a grown-up) has had much experience of abuse over the years and like most grown-ups knows when to stop, something I still haven't grasped, and Ian only needs one or two glasses to get him under the influence!

We packed the gear away, loaded the car, said goodbye to the northern chaps and headed for our new camp.

The new swim was on the other side of the river and if we hadn't been shown its whereabouts would not ever have guessed its existence, tucked away down a small track with barley enough clearance to get the car down, after about a hundred and fifty yards, it opened up into a large pebbly beach, with a massive bay in front of it, basically like a twenty acre eddy. It looked sexy!

I was really suffering now as I tried to put my bivvie up, unfortunately, and this is a tip, it was a Nashy Profile umbrella, with infill panels, and this design is completely reliant on tent pegs, which were not going to go in the rock hard ground. Thankfully Geoff said could share with him, as long as I behaved myself and kept the farting to a minimum (which I knew was going to be difficult as I was now in the land of the chorizo sausage!)

We got the bivvies up and then Pete arrived, he offered to fetch some maggots for us and visit the pharmacy for me to accuire some of the donkey choker style pain killers which are available over the counter in Spain, the maggots by the way were very expensive and quite a rarity.

We spent the rest of the day getting the catfishing gear ready and trying to catch some bait. Things were slow from the beginning, but we weren't surprised. Ian was first in, getting towed all around the bay by a largish common carp of about four pounds, unfortunately this happened allot. I was always under the impression that large baits were used for these monster cats, and maybe some people use them that size, but with the flow speeding around the bay it was impossible to present a fish of that size on a bottle rig.

For those who have never fished for catfish using this method, I shall try to endeavour to explain it. The bottle rig is exactly as it sounds. A bottle is tied to a rock, or bag of stones with strong twine or string, getting the distance between rock and bottle right is imperative, I cocked it up a couple of times, and when you've got a man on the oars, battling against the current to get the rig out to where you want it, and you drop the rock, and it snatches the bottle out of your hand, which then sinks without trace.....you may find it frustrating!! Not only do you have to set another one up, you've left a fairly hefty snag for a hooked catfish to run through (sod's law an all that). A link of about three to four feet is tied to the neck of the bottle, onto which a LARGE snap link type swivel is attached. The rod is then set up free roving style, Trace (eighty pound braid is my particular favourite), lead (one to four ounces depending on flow and bait size), Float (large) and then stop knot. The whole set up should be set fairly shallow as this is a surface fishing technique, about three to four feet from stop knot to bait. About two feet above the stop knot a weak link is tied. Attached in the same way the stop knot is tied with a Four foot tail with a large loop tied at the other end (this loop should be big enough to get your hand through). Two people then take the bait out whilst another holds the rod and pays out line. It is a good idea for the person holding the end tackle to have a bucket with the already mounted bait in so as to keep it alive longer, and to avoid it thrashing and attaching itself to a part of your body you would rather not have it attached too (not a good idea). Once the bottle is reached, the tail from the bottle with the snap link tied is found, and the loop of nylon (the ten pound weak link) is attached. It is wise at this point to shout to the person holding the rod to take any slack out whilst you're holding the line. The bait should then be placed over the side with a final shout to the man on the shore to take up the any more slack. The rod is then placed into the sea fishing style tripod, keeping as much line off the surface as possible to avoid any debris floating past (dead sheep, cows, trees, etc.)

We did manage a couple of smaller fish throughout the day, mullet and crucians (well, the crucians are actually some sort of weird hybrid!), these were all set up on bottle rigs before nightfall. At this point the boat had an outboard which worked, so setting the rigs was fairly easy in the fast current, a situation which was soon to change.

With all the flow and rafts of weed washing downstream it was very difficult keeping the bite alarms from bleeping continuously. I found a kind of solution. My bite alarms were the old style optonics, and by cutting down the vane inside they only bleeped once every revolution of the wheel. We were not exactly fishing for twitchers so this modification did not prove a problem!

The first night passed uneventfully other than Geoff racing to his rods every time the bite alarms let out more than four bleeps in a row! He may old and grey, but can he move!! He nearly gave me a heart attack on many occasions when weed suddenly attached itself to his line in the middle of the night! Every morning we would have to re-set the rigs as there was so much weed about. It usually took until after lunch each day to get things sorted. On the morning of the second day the outboard packed up, and we had no rowlocks. Pete came down at lunchtime to see how things were going. We told him of our predicament. He left in search of another outboard. About an hour later he came back with another, exactly the same as the first. This one worked momentarily then also refused to start. By this time we were getting in a bit of a state, how were we going to get the baits out? We cobbled together some rowlocks from pieces of un-ravelled rope and took to the water to see if they would hold.......yes! Geoff had agreed to do the rowing as my pathetic excuse for a back wouldn't cope and Ian being the hard-core predator hunter that he is didn't like boats! (Apart from the remote control sort.) Right, so we were in business again.

After a supermarket / toilet / brush-up type run much to-ing and fro-ing ensued as we set the bottle rigs again, then it was down to the serious business of food and wine. I will say at this point that too much alcohol can be a little inappropriate in these kind of circumstances, I'm sure some anglers would say any angling situation is the wrong one for alcohol. It was one of very few offerings of advice I remembered from Nick the previous year, he'd said, you can drink if you want to, or you can fish, don't do both. Wise words indeed. Until you're doing battle with a large catfish you can't appreciate the amount of power they posses. You really do need to be in control, especially at the end of the battle when there's a foot wide head thrashing at your feet with a size eight '0' Owner Stinger treble waving back and forth just screaming to be stuck into your hand as the catfish makes off towards France on another run! Get the picture....it doesn't mix, as Nick said............

At about two in the morning my buzzer screamed! I think Geoff was out of the Bivvie before me, as usual, but I was soon on it. It was still motoring when I picked up the rod, "hit it then!" shouted Geoff. Now this part is a moment to savour.....the line belting out and I mean belting! You quickly tighten the clutch, as tight as you dare, then hang on!

Now I'm a big bloke and apart from my knackerd back I'm pretty strong, but these fish can pull. By some strange quirk of fate the fight was a kind of forwards and backwards affair. If the fish had kited either left or right it would've taken out the other rigs but it came straight in (eventually). We caught the first glimpse of it. Geoff said "It seems fairly small" absolute crap I thought, I haven't seen too many big cats but it's well over seventy I was sure. After making a few more runs (straight out again!), it was ready for gloving. Geoff was prepared to do the honours, not an enviable task I can assure you, a wide gaping mouth swaying purposefully left then right then left with a huge exposed treble waiting to snag your hand. Wait for it.............Grab!! His hand was thrust forward onto the cats lower jaw. Ian now joined in as they both hauled it ashore.

Jubilation........."How big Geoff" I asked breathlessly, "It could be ton-up" he retorted. It was at this point we realised the weigh sling, which had been adequate for Ian in France, was now too small. With allot of messing about we eventually settled on a weight of ninety six pounds, a new personal best....time to relax. We set it up on a stringer and tied it to a tree.

It was the first time I'd done this. My introduction to this method of restraint was at Claydon when a couple of Mancunians (coincidence I'm sure!) were poaching overnight, leaving the cats on stringers, retiring before daybreak then rising with the legitimate anglers. They then proceeded to extricate the bounty from the night before to photograph them! They had the gall to wear CCG badges as well! Everybody just looked on in amazement, myself included.

Nothing else occurred during the night. At daybreak I got the kettle on knowing I'd got the pleasure of photographing a personal best to come....a sweet feeling as I'm sure you know. Pete arrived, so after another brew we went the rigmarole of photographing the catfish, she looked even more monstrous in the day light.

The usual routines were carried out during the day. Myself and Ian went to the super market at about elevn o'clock, to stock up, wash etc, then returned and proceeded to put out the baits again. Pete and Dan came down to see us and they also brought some goodies. The Mancunians had left, and had left a set of garden typr recliner chairs for Pete to look after, along with a bar-b-cue! Life from that moment on was a bit more comfortable. That night, I can't remember when I had another screaming run, the same rod as well, we'd thought we might of inadvertently placed the bottle on a hotspot. The battle was similar to the night previous in as much as although the fish was exhibiting signs of pure animal power, it didn't kite. The same amount of time had elapsed, about twenty minutes, when Geoff again masterfully hauled it up onto the grass. It seemed bigger. This time we were going to have to find another method of weighing it. We had with us a couple of airbeds, the canvas type. By using two storm rods, my Swiss army knife (I never leave home without it) and some dried flower arranging wires (ask Ian, not me!) we managed to cobble together a relatively safe weigh sling. We dragged her onto the contraption, moved the ropes into position, then, making sure she was balanced, Geoff and Ian hoisted the sling into the air, well grunted it into the air! Bouncing , bouncing.....we finally settled on a weight of one hundred and two pounds!! Was I over the moon or what. From those far off days as a teenager, staring at pictures of the monster cats in the magazines to actually being there and doing it and achieving my goal of a 'ton-up' catfish, a special moment in my angling career, I can tell you.

We stringered it in the margins as before, I sat down and drank in the surroundings. The water rushing against the channel marker in the main flow, the beetle behind the bivvie chirping for all he was worth, the far off lightening over the distant mountain range....life was sweet.

We sat for a while longer, absorbing the night air. "I'm gonna turn in" said Geoff, I joined him, no not like that! About two hours later, Ian's buzzer sounded, the bait in the main flow had been taken and was heading rapidly into the bay. Geoff got up in his usual fashion, scrabble, scrabble, rush, hurry, whilst I lay there knackered, trying to muster enough energy to get involved in the proceedings. Almost simultaneously Geoff's buzzer started humming, this meant I had to get up, someone or both was going to need a hand! Ian remained calm, even though his fish was now well into the bay and in danger of getting tangled with the other lines. Geoff in the meantime was playing his fish and remarked that it didn't feel all that big. Slowly it came towards the shore, and I was dreading seeing a massive head rise in front of me……I'd never had to land a catfish by this method before, Oh well I had to start somewhere…. Up it popped, I'd seen catfish this size in England before, unlucky for Geoff, I was relived to see its size, I grabbed and lifted it ashore, It probably weighed about thirty to forty pounds, we unhooked it and put it straight back, ready to concentrate on Ian's ongoing battle.

"How's it going?" asked Geoff, "alright"-answered Ian, as calm as ever. Slowly he pumped the fish back to the bank, his rods now seemed like small matchsticks, totally inadequate for the job, but they managed it. "Another big one" said Geoff as he bent down to do the business. I waded in next to him ready to help. He made a grab for the lower jaw, hauled it bankwards, with me trying to join in. I helped Geoff drag it up the bank. Definitely another hundred pound plus fish, I thought, "What do you reckon?" I said…..We all looked at each other….We collectively thought it was over One-twenty. It was deep hooked. Earlier in the trip we'd caught sight of Ian's special gloves and I have to admit it we took the piss a bit. These gloves were almost shoulder length, Cow milking gloves!! We really didn't think that they could be of any practical use whatsoever, until now. The lower single had all but dis appeared down the leviathans throat, and when fish have a chomping end that big, it's a long way down! He donned his glove, laid down and slid his arm in! After about three minutes, the hooks were free and we were sliding it onto our makeshift weighsling. Slowly Geoff and Ian tried to lift it, everything had to be balanced spot on, if not the fish would slide forwards or backwards. They took they strain and lifted. The needle hovered around a hundred to one-ten. They lowered it again as it was slipping to one end and in danger of sliding out. We re-positioned the fish and lifted again. One hundred and six I read it as, "It must be bigger than that" they both exclaimed. No, that was its weight. We tied it up in the margin alongside mine from a few hours previous. Ian, for the first time this trip showed signs of emotion, he was happy. It was his first catfish over a ton also, I guess we were as happy as each other!!

Two hours later and the sun was rising. I put the kettle on fully anticipating the monumental photographic session that was to come. I sat there on the ultra comfortable garden chair supplied by Pete and was surprised by the massive upheaval in front of me as the catfish, both of them, now fully recovered tried to make a break for freedom. There was a huge vortex, then a massive tail waved in the air before slamming down on the surface. A sight I shall remember forever. After breakfast we retrieved the fish, a job on its own, and had a joyous photographic session.

We carried on the rest of the week with much the same routine. One event though which could've been a life or death situation left me shaking, both with anger and fear.

Pete was down chewing the cud one afternoon. For some reason, nearly all of the rigs were in. Only one was still out, mine on the far right of the bay. Without warning, three jet-skiers appeared from downstream, tore into the bay leaving us little time to shout any warnings. These nutters were really motoring, to be honest they probably didn't realise we were there. We all jumped up and down and shouted abuse. On the far bank there was an Island, one of these jet skiers drove round it at full speed…blind! Only the day previous one of the many Ebro guides was fishing behind it in a fifteen-foot Dory, God knows what would've happened if they'd been there at the time. They disappeared off into the distance only to return about an hour later to do another lap of the bay, can you imagine a jet skiers neck meeting eighty pound braid whilst attached to a twenty pound rock? On the other hand…. Don't!!

We had little action for the rest of the week, apart from a great bar-b-cue on the last night with Pete and family, and a lost fish to me, an event that sparked much knot tying discussion! Possibly another hundred pound fish lost due to shoddy human error!

On the journey home we met even more impressive storms, much more serious than on the journey down. It wasn't until we saw the news after arriving back in Britain that we realised the severity of the rain we had witnessed in France, it had cost the lives of quite a few people.

We shall be returning again this year, during May. We're going to do things slightly different, more relaxed. Ian now owns an apartment close to the Ebro, so this year we've hired a boat for the week from a friend of Geoffs', we'll only be fishing during the day, slightly more restrictive, but at least we'll cover more water. No matter how relaxed this sounds, when we do venture south again this year, the trip will throw up complications and hardships, such is the nature of a river as big and wild as the Ebro.