As I’m sure most of you reading this who have family commitments will confirm, the opportunity to snatch a few days away with your dearly beloved (minus the kids) are few and far between to say the least. Last year that situation presented itself courtesy of the eldest going crag hopping in the Dales with her classmates and the youngest more than pleased at the prospect of being spoilt rotten by his Grandmother for a few days.
It was then that an unusual but pleasant occurrence to plan a four day break away without the encumbrance of children came about, even if said vacation would have to occur in November rather than the warmer months of the year. ‘How about Christchurch love?’ I offered. Our lass, however, seeing straight through me, had bigger ideas than a couple of days chubbing on the Throop. ‘I’d like to go to Barcelona,’ she said. Who was I to argue, it had to be warmer than Dorset, even if the chubbing was an unknown quantity! 
By the end of the evening in question, not only had we established the fact that we were bound for Catalonia, we’d booked and confirmed the flights, taken a tour of Barcelona via cyberspace and even established that accommodation was both reasonable and bookable on line. I’m still amazed that all this is possible from a home computer but such is the convenience of the internet, I can see them making Travel Agents a thing of the past before too long.
Many of you I’m sure will know of Sheffield angler Pete Evans. Pete now lives in Spain, earning his living as a fishing guide on the River Ebro. Working the River around Amposta and Tortosa, Pete spends most days accompanying anglers intent on catching the huge catfish which now inhabit this river throughout much of its length. Pete and I have been friends for a number of years, so I decided to give him a call on his mobile. Sorted, a ten minute chat with Pete, four days in Barcelona became three, I was having at least one day trying to catch a cat, Elaine decided she’d have a go for one as well, so that was that, I booked Pete and his boat and counted down the days to November!.
Landing at Barcelona on the Monday evening, we walked off the plane to that lovely feeling of a 20 degree increase in temperature. We collected our rucksacks, left the airport and jumped straight on a bus to the town centre. Less than 45 minutes after landing we were walking around los Rambles, a frantic busy thoroughfare which is the veritable heart of Barcelona. It is simply vibrant, hard to portray in words other than it’s in your face in the nicest possible way.
We found our hotel, dumped the bags, and after a quick wash and brush-up took a taxi to the central railway station. Barcelona to Tortosa on the suitably named Catalunya Express takes two hours, a distance of around 120 miles. We established that the train left at 8.03 the next morning, so it was going to be an early start. I spoke to Pete and arranged to meet him at L’Amettlla on the coast the following day at 9.41am precisely!
The train departed on time to the minute and followed the coastline practically all the way, skirting the very edge of the Mediterranean in places, through Salou, passing Porta Ventura in the distance and right by the Nuclear power station. It was a beautiful cloudless day with the temperature in the seventies and I had to remind myself it was November. We stepped off the train at L’Amettlla de Mar and saw Pete straight away, boat hitched to the back of the car. ‘No time to waste big un, jump in.’ And that was that, we were off, livebait pump whirring loudly as we headed by road inland towards Tortosa where Pete was to launch the boat.
First sight of the Ebro at Tortosa and it was immediately apparent that this fellow made the Trent look like a sidestream. Flowing like a train, Pete informed me that the river had come up 2ft in the past couple of days with a two degree drop in temperature. We launched the boat and headed upstream past the towering monument to the Spanish civil war which dominates the waterway at this point. The outboard worked hard as the river narrowed through the City, the water beneath us some 60ft deep in places.
We dropped anchor above a small inlet on the opposite bank. Many of these inlets carry waste water, food factory discharges, sewage and the like, and as a result the mullet which are present in many thousands throughout the river congregate in vast shoals around them. Wherever there’s mullet, there’s Cats, or that’s the theory . The tackle used to tame these formidable creatures is substantial to say the least. Pete uses uptide boat rods coupled with large multiplier reels. Line is 100lb braking strain braid to which is attached a plastic coated wire trace of a similar breaking strain and the most formidable Mustad treble hooks I’ve ever seen. The bait, usually live carp or mullet of around 2lb in weight is suspended below a float resembling a ballcock . Add about a pound of lead, (not to cock the float mind you, this is to keep the bait in the water, it not being uncommon for the bait to leap clear as 6′ of catfish decides to eat it) and you’re sorted. We trotted baits down the tree-line, hoping that the influx of colder water had not put paid to our chances.
Throughout the afternoon we drifted down river, trotting the floats below the boat, working the baits down the tree-lined margins, aiming to put a bait over the head of a feeding cat. Then without warning, just as I’d cracked open a tin of beer, the float disappeared and stayed under, knocking the reel out of free spool mode, I took up the slack and wound down to nothing, the cat had hit the bait and somehow the hooks had not made purchase. The bait came back with gravel rash, the huge Velcro-like pads inside the cats mouth leaving the carp looking like it had been in a road traffic accident! I don’t know who was most disappointed, Pete or I, hits as he calls them were hard to come by and we wondered if that might be our only chance.
We carried on downstream, baking in the afternoon sun. The river is set against the backdrop of a rugged mountain range, its banks lined with citrus trees and lush vegetation, margins of Spanish reed towering many feet in to the air, it really is a most serene place and it is doubtful whether or not anglers have set foot on much of its banks, being virtually inaccessible in places except by boat. The only sound as we drifted, engine off was of birdsong and the splash of mullet. Turning on the echo sounder revealed a river alive with fish of all sizes, vast shoals at various depths, then inexplicably nothing for several yards, then a screen almost black as we again passed over more huge shoals and occasionally an unidentified monster hard on the bottom which I presumed to be a cat. Pete manoeuvred the boat constantly, searching the margins, using his vast knowledge of the river to search the known fish-producing areas. Several hours passed and the early start was beginning to tell along with the couple of beers I’d consumed! Elaine had long since sat back intent on enjoying the sun in the absence of fish, looking pleasantly bored with her lot in life. 
The steady click of the multiplier drag system took a second to register. One of the floats suddenly conspicuous by its absence and within an instance all traces of weariness had gone. The third bait which we had lowered over the stern of the boat had been taken and line was being stripped steadily from the spool.
‘Don’t whack it!’ Warned Pete, as I picked up the rod.
Winding down, I tightened up on the fish and bent the rod hard in to it, or at least I tried, boat rods don’t bend a great deal or so I thought. For a few seconds there was just this immovable heavy weight. But safe in the knowledge that nothing could break the gear we were using I decided to try and move the fish. It worked, suddenly the rod tip pulled hard down to the surface, line screamed from the clutch and 14ft of boat was being pulled upstream with impunity as I suddenly became aware that I’d never hooked anything quite like this before. It continued in this vane for several minutes, the rod tip being continually pulled down to the surface as the unseen cat did much as it wanted despite my best efforts to exert some pressure on it. I was suddenly aware that my right bicep felt like it was about to explode and it was obvious who was tiring the quicker. The cat thankfully started to circle under the boat and after what seemed like an eternity, but was in fact about 15 minutes, I had my first sight of the cat, this huge dark creature materialising from the green murkiness of the river. The sheer size of them is unbelievable. As it came to the side of the boat, Pete leant over, grasped it by the gills with his gloved hand, and hauled it in to the boat. Scarce wonder that he complains of tennis elbow !.
We headed for bank about 50 yards downstream, the boat grounded in the shallow water. Pete and I waded to a grassy area of bank carrying the fish in Pete’s huge weighing sling. We measured it at 5ft 8in long with a 34ingirth. ‘Sixty-eight pounds,’ said Pete. ‘About average”. I was over the moon and could only wonder what the ones double this size he catches must fight like. It hardly bears thinking about!
That aside, on the bank they are the most docile, well-behaved creatures you can wish for. We photographed the fish, the sun blindingly bright and then tagged it, tag number 99 of 100. The fish was then returned to the shallows and I watched as it swam quietly away upstream and was gone. As I waded to the boat I looked downriver and saw a shoal of mullet scatter as a huge fish boiled on the surface. 
We pushed the boat off again, Elaine had also seen the disturbance and showing a new-found angling prowess swung a bait out and proceeded to trot it down towards where the fish had shown, suddenly the float stopped and then started to head back upriver, pulling under as it did so. She was in and needed no telling. She took up the slack and the uptide rod took on a delightful bend at the tip as the tug-of-war ensued, the fish staying in the shallow water, charging about, towing the boat around behind it. Not a word from our Elaine as she bent the rod hard in to it, then all of a sudden it swam high in the water past the boat. ‘It’s a kitten.’ said Pete. ‘It’s pulling hard on this ball of wool then,’ was Elaine’s answer as she hauled it to the side of the boat, Pete once again gloving it clear of the water. We weighed and photographed it in the boat, 36lbs, Elaine well pleased that we’d both caught one apiece.
We fished on until dusk, with no further sign of a fish, Pete again searching the river while working the oars, his motivation to keep working, searching for fish, must be what makes him so successful as a guide as it is more than just a matter of being there. We motored back upriver, flocks of white egrets flying gracefully overhead. It got cold as the sun went down and I was glad we had our fleeces with us, the air cutting through us as the boat forged upstream. Pete stood at the helm, staring up river, beard bleached white with the sun and accentuated by his tan. I chuckled, he reminded me of a pocket-sized Hemmingway, more than happy with his lot in life!
An hour and a half it took to motor back to Tortosa, the lights of the suspension bridge spanning the river visible for a good 40 minutes before we passed beneath it to the slipway where we had originally launched the boat some 9 hours previously. We winched the boat from the river, stowed the gear and were off, time for a well earned meal and a glass or two of beer! 
We spent the remainder of the evening, eating, drinking and being merry in Subarat’s bar, this is located in a small village close to the beautiful Burgar valley. Waking the next day I could only marvel at the landscape, the clarity of the air and rugged beauty of the place. It was like a scene from a spaghetti western, minus the cowboys and indians! After visiting Pete’s new home in the beautiful village of Benifallet, it was time to head back to Tortosa, down the Ebro valley for the return journey to Barcelona on the Catalunyan Express. It had passed quickly, an enjoyable day’s fishing always does. I’ve little doubt I’ll return in the near future this time for a more extended stay. But for the time being I’ll have to make do with the odd days chubbing, even if it does seem tame in comparison!
If any of you fancy a crack at the Ebro and catching a cat contact Pete on 0034 619 964100 and find out more. We found travel to Barcelona to be inexpensive, especially by Easyjet. Accomodation both in Barcelona and by the river is easy to find and affordable to any budget. The Public transport system is so much better than ours it’s not true. Buses, the metro, trains, cabs, all are reasonably priced. The trains in particular run bang on time, are modern and spotlessly clean. The return trip from Barcelona to Tortosa cost £ 10 each, compare that with any rail operator in this country! What with the weather and great fishing as well it’s no wonder so many ex-pats are in no rush to come home!
