“Let’s go fishing….”
Sounded like a great idea.
We were three English friends living on the Costa – all three of us had fished in the UK and missed it a little in Spain.
I had a Spanish fishing licence – at that time you simply had to apply for one – go to the Estanco (the tobacco shop), fill out the form and pay the fee.
Quick aside – the Estanco is where pretty much all legal documents were submitted. You sold a car and needed to register the new owner – the Estanco. You wanted to buy a stamp and mail a letter – the Estanco. Needed to renew any kind of permit – the Estanco.
And they also sold tobacco.
Anyway, I had a licence for freshwater fishing.
My friends did not. I suggested it would be a good idea for them to sort it out – not just for this particular day out, but for any future angling excursions we might decide to arrange.
So it was we drove halfway up the road to Istan from the coast, parked the cars and then tramped down to the lakeside to set up our array of rods, bait stations, fold up seats, sandwiches and the beer.
At that time freshwater fishing was not that popular on the Spanish costas. Not when you had the sea so close, and anything dragged out of the sea could be eaten.
It’s not really the same with carp and barbel – they don’t make for very good eating.
So as was quite normal, we were alone on the shore.
And the fishing was quite good; by mid afternoon we had a good number of carp in the keep net.
That’s when the fun started.
As I mentioned above it’s a 15 or 20 minute trek from the nearest point accessible by car, so it was with some surprise that we were suddenly aware of two Guardia Civil – those of the Forestry motorcycle division – strolling down to the waterside.
They asked us what we were doing. I still congratulate myself to this day that I manage to resist the massive temptation to say something stupid.
“Fishing”, I said.
“Have you caught anything?”, was their follow up.
I got up and showed them the contents of the keep net – around 15 barbel and small carp as well as some beers being kept cool.
“What are you going to do with them?”
In typical English fisherman style…. “Put them back when we’re ready to go home….”
This didn’t seem to make sense to the officers, so I tried to explain further…
“They’re not very good for eating,” as I realised how the cultural shift was becoming an abyss that couldn’t be bridged.
“Do you have fishing licences?” Great, we were back on common ground – or so I thought.
I pulled my licence out of my tackle box and handed it over.
It seemed to be aceptable.
My first friend handed his over. He had gone to the Estanco – but since his level of Spanish was about the same as the carp’s English, he had managed to acquire a licence to fish in the sea with nets.
Literally, that’s what he was permitted to do – not even close.
My other friend pulled a letter out of his pocket, unfolded it and handed it over.
It turns out he hadn’t known where to go to get a licence – so using what he though was common sense (and I must confess this made sense to me too when he explained later) he had gone the Town Hall in Istán and asked for a fishing permit for “their” lake.
They simply told him to fish in the lake – no problem.
But he was insistent – a friend (me) had told him that he needed to have a permit.
So they had ushered him into the Mayors office.
What my friend had just handed the Guardia Civil was a letter from the Mayor of Istán to the effect that my friend was allowed to fish in the lake.
I think at this point the volume of paperwork that may have been required to process our misdemeanors began to dawn on the Guardia Civil and with a quick sideways glance between the two of them the decision was made to give us a verbal warning to get our paperwork in order.
Off to the Estanco, I guess.
