THE MARSH PREDATOR
The canalised irrigation systems of Majorca can be very enticing places for an exiled carp angler trapped on a family holiday. Heavy rain signalled our departure from Manchester’s Ringway Airport and it was in no time at all, and indeed with great relief, which we gazed down from the plane as it crossed the Bay of Alcudia and made its decent into Palma.
Our Paco (my Spanish Brother-in Law) was on time, as usual, to pick us up from the airport and the three quarter hour drive to the villa and the bar passed in no time. Hiding the very minimum of equipment inside the suitcases, the anticipation of three sneaked weeks fishing, between the usual boring day trips, visits to the beach and being stuck on bar duties while Our Paco and Doreen visited the local Menta disco, was too much to suppress.
On this particular visit, I have smuggled a pair of telescopic rods of two pound test curve, a pair of time honoured Mitchell 3oo`s, two optonics, a mini rod pod and an assortment of floating boilies for the mullet, all of which was quickly unpacked and hidden in the villa ready for my escape.
Day one, teatime over and I’m first to get changed, grabbing a quick hour, while the fight goes on for the bathroom. I’m soon sat with baits out on the Lago Canal at the end of the street; two mullet and an eel on floating crust and the wife appears behind me to drag me off down to the bar. Can’t you leave fishing alone for two minutes, she exclaims! Sorry dear.
Three bottles of hazelnut schnapps, a few lagaros and a couple of whiskeys and I’m a quivering mess on the dance floor at the Menta (hic!) Disco. Should have left you at the canal, you ruin every holiday! My beloved exclaims, yes dear!
Monday arrived, thank god, and the girls are off to the market at Manacor, Paco was on bar duty (bless him) and little ole me was off into the darkest reaches of the S, Albufera marshland. The large panniers on Doreen’s bike were indeed ample storage space for carrying my array of fishing tackle and baits, the pedalling however was hard going and I guess carp fishing isn’t the most athletic of sports. Once off the main Alcudia to Can’t Picafort road, I negotiated the dirt tracks where the going really got tough. Buckets of sweat poured from me as I travelled down the scorpion-infested track towards La Puebla and the middle of the marsh.
Let me explain how the Spanish day works, we don’t usually closed the bar until 5 am in the small hours, so early morning rising usually occurs around noon the next day. Today had been no exception. I arrived at my chosen swim as the Spanish sun gently made its decent towards the distant mountains, where indeed Chopin and Sands shared this tranquil and timeless land. It made me feel good to be alive.
It was a quiet spot that I had chosen, well set back from the beaten tracks. Indeed, it was very rare to see another soul, often for days on end. A long forgotten saltwater feeder system with scrum covered banks to hide amongst, while behind the pool lay probably some two kilometres of dense weed bed with what appeared to be small and isolated expanses of water in between, this in turn reached out to the now defunked rail head at the village of La Puebla. The wildlife was a sight to behold, with many the islands purple herons being in domination.
Baits were cast out to the edge of the reed beds, one on leeches (a sort of Spanish worm) and the other on squid section. Buzzers and indicators at the ready and I lay back to watch the Spanish sun gently kiss the distant mountains and soon drifted into an undisturbed slumber….
A sudden chill awakened me. The banks were well lit with a full and radiant Mediterranean moon; its radioactive glow was illuminating the adjacent marshlands. It was as I was gazing across the marsh, that my eyes became transfixed on what appeared to be a large disturbance beneath the rushes. Whatever creature was responsible for this was very slowly edging its way towards me (gulp!), parting the rushes in its wake.
It eventually came to a halt directly behind a thin layer of stems between the pool and me. Indeed it was only a matter of feet away from my squid rod. I could sense that the creature knew of my presence, this made me feel nervous, to such an extent that I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing erect. The situation had an unnatural feel about it. After what seemed like an eternity, but in reality would have been minutes, the rushes opposite began to tremble, violently quiver and then slowly part. The creature, whatever it was, must surely have seen the bait by now.
The squid rod diode flashed once, heart in mouth, I was on the rod. A slow jerky type run followed. I wound down and hit the beastie with all my might…and all hell broke loose! I had latched onto one very angry animal that, surprisingly, instead of heading back into the marsh, decided to bolt headlong down the main channel level with the bank. I applied full side strain, but to no avail, tightening the clutch down in the process.
The fifteen-pound maxima was vanishing rapidly, unstoppable I decided to follow the creature down the bank. Flattening numerous varieties of cacti, my progress was eventually curtailed by a huge flourishing of nasty prickly thingies. The beast didn’t stop once and the line from the spool was eventually stripped clean- the lot gone!
I sat down despairingly, all was now quiet and the sun was beginning to rise over the marsh as I made my way back to the villa. Discussing events with Paco the next evening in the bar, he suggested that the creature may have been a fish the locals call a “Yop”, which is apparently a large catfish type specie that inhabits marshlands and brackish waters in the region, but I’m not really sure? Apart from the mullet, the eels, a few carp and numerous Spanish species, I have never experienced anything with the same raw fighting power since my encounters with the Marsh Predator, it was indeed a fish at all, sweet dreams.
