DATELINE: OCTOBER 8, 2025 – ALL OVER EUROPE
The title is not a new superhero movie – we don’t need any more of those. All I need is the Michael Keaton Batman and the Deadpool series, because those are awesome. The rest are an incomprehensible mishmash of confusing timelines. Scarlett Johansson’s outfits make up for it a bit, but by and large, they lost me at Iron Man. (Marta insisted I mention that “Guardians of the Galaxy” is her favorite.)
This adventure started, as it often does, with a business trip – this time to Barcelona. Barcelona has been the source of a few species for me, but let’s face it, it’s jetty fishing in a highly-pressured area. There are only one or two charter boats, claiming to focus on big game that is sadly rare in the Mediterranean, and judging by their daily rates, they’re laundering money for Russian mobsters. I actually called one of the captains, and apart from wanting $6000 to fish half a day, he refused to even discuss what he was catching until I had booked him. So I didn’t.
There was still jetty fishing every afternoon. I have gotten into a routine of going from the office to my hotel to a nearby grocery store, buying half a kilo of shrimp and two Red Bulls, and walking down to the beach and picking a jetty. The dominant pest is a shared duty between the boga and the horse mackerel, but enough time and sabikis will induce strays like wrasse, seabreams, and gobies.
The dreaded boga. I have caught hundreds of these throughout Europe.
It always seems to be beautiful here.
On my third day there, I was watching a gorgeous sunset and preparing for a dinner out with co-worker and buddy Chris. Chris, Costa Rican by birth, speaks perfect Spanish and manages to find restaurants that even the concierge can’t.
That’s Chris at some amazing restaurant he found. I’ve worked with the guy for over 10 years, and he’s one of the few people who can convince me I’m wrong. It may take three hours, but he can do it.
I had caught something close to fifty bogas and horse mackerel, with the odd bream and wrasse thrown in to make things interesting, and I was down to my last shrimp. To make sure I was covering all possible ground, I cast well out into the sand, away from the rocks. There were fewer fish there, but I reasoned there might be something unusual out in that habitat. I got one of those “is anything still there” kind of taps, so I retrieved my rig.
I had something – a small lizardfish. These are difficult IDs, but with Dr. Alfredo Carvalho in your corner, no ID is impossible. Rather than another snakefish, the creature turned out to be an Atlantic lizardfish, and I was up an unexpected species.
Thank you, Dr. Carvalho. Thank you, Atlantic Lizardfish.
I had one more day in Spain, a Saturday, and I was determined to make the most of it – by leaving the country. For years, I had intended to make the trek to Andorra, a small country less than three hours driving from Barcelona, but I had always run into bad weather or the wrong season. This time, however, the weather was perfect, and I had found a trout guide based in Andorra – Miquel Martin of Rupisalmo.com. The guy does hunting, fishing, and outdoor adventures throughout the region, and, as you will see below, he has my highest recommendation.
Andorra is a tiny independent nation tucked into the mountains between Spain and France. (Oddly, Andorra was technically a feudal protectorate until 1993, with the president of France and the Bishop of Urgell serving as nominal co-princes.) Well over a millennium old, and rumored to have been created by Charlemagne, this principality is the 16th-smallest country in the world at 185 square miles, and the 6th-smallest country in Europe, if you count Malta. (Interestingly, or not, I have caught fish in Malta, Monaco, Liechtenstein, and San Marino – but not the Vatican City. Challenge accepted.)
My driver, John, showed up at 6am on the dot and we were off for a scenic two-and-a-half-hour drive northwest. While it had been relatively warm in Barcelona, Andorra is well into the mountains and it got increasingly brisk as we gained altitude. The miles went by quickly, the kilometers even more so, and soon, we were pulling up to meet Miquel. Although he caters mostly to fly anglers, he was very prepared for a dedicated spin-fisherman like me, and was immediately talking through the locations we could visit and the lures he recommended. We entered the country around 930am, and wound our way through some steep back roads leading to a blue mountain lake.
This was the 101st country I had entered – but would it become the 98th where I had caught a fish?
We parked, and he had me walk along the dam to get the feel of the place.
Yes, it looked fishy.
There were dozens of trout scattered amongst the boulders near either shore. I tried to resist the urge to feel like it would be a slam dunk, because we know what happens when fishermen get overconfident. But I definitely felt optimistic.
I tied on one of my well-travelled Panther-Martin spinners and fired out a cast. The local trout weren’t just hungry – they hateful toward this particular lure, because I got hit by what felt like five different trout battling to kill it before I hooked the dominant one. After a spirited fight, I brought the fish into the shallows, and Miquel netted a solid rainbow. I had added country number 98.
Steve and Miquel – on the scoreboard. The Tigers hat seems to bring luck in October, at least against Cleveland.
Speaking of Cleveland, and this is a complete digression, but about a month after this blog happened, Steve Ramsey and I found ourselves watching a Browns game in the arctic wastes of Huntington Bank Field. My rather daring choice of attire amused me so much I thought I would share it with you.
Obviously, I only opened my jacket for this photo, but everyone around us was too drunk to notice. Ramsey, who took the photo, thought we were going to die,
But back to Andorra. We tried a few different spots, all wonderfully scenic and stuffed with trout. One of these was an Alpine-looking stream that harbored the local brown trout subspecies.
Any guesses on where the fish are?
The local brown trout. I have high hopes that Martini will one day declare this a new species as part of his Nobel Prize-winning effort to get me 15 armchair lifers.
Once the country was safely on my list, I wanted to chase a species. Luke Ovgard, who currently lives in Europe, had found some interesting minnow species in the river systems in and near Andorra, and Miquel recommended a spot he knew back in Spain.
We drove 30 minutes south and set up on another gorgeous trout stream.
And I mean gorgeous.
This thing was full of big fish, and although I should have been looking for micros, I couldn’t help but toss the Panther-Martin a few times.
Spanish trout are as aggressive as their Andorran counterparts. This is a great fishery, and Miquel knows every inch of it.
When I finally got into a side pool with a tenkara rod, I could see the place was teeming with some kind of minnow. The European Phoxinus genus is complex, and the fish I was looking for has definite rectangular blotches along the lateral line. The first few, I wasn’t sure. But then they started coming out looking like this:
The Adour minnow, species two of the trip. Thank you Luke.
We fished well into the afternoon, then met John so he could take me back to Barcelona.
Miquel, John, and Steve at the end of an excellent day.
That evening, Chris somehow found a schnitzel restaurant in Barcelona. We are talking schnitzel the size of a frisbee, although it was much easier to cut.
The following day, I headed to England. I have had a special relationship with UK fishing for over 20 years, starting with pike fishing in the Thames with beloved guide Roger Barnes, leading eventually to an assortment of freshwater and saltwater adventures throughout the country.
In my saltwater attempts, over half of which were cancelled by inclement weather, one fish stands out as stubborn – a shark known locally as a “bull huss.” No one knows why they are called that. It’s also known as a “nursehound” or “greater spotted catshark,” to differentiate it from the pesky lesser smallspotted catshark, which has tormented me from Wales to Croatia. I’ve been on boats where Bull Huss were caught, and I’ve had trips targeting them specifically that never left port because the wind hit 70mph. So, even though it was autumn and the weather was certainly a risk, I called an old friend, Captain Glen Cairns of the Valkyrie, and we set up a day. I kept a close eye on the wind, but in the meantime, I had a couple of days in the office and a few hours to play tourist – and London is one place I always love to play tourist.
Unsurprisingly, my first stop in London is always a tackle store – Farlows. Outfitter to well-heeled London outdoorsmen since 1840, they always have something I need (like my full collection of Gray’s travel rods,) and absolutely expert advice. I’ve been going there long enough where some of the staff have begun to recognize me.
From left, that Fred Richardson, who sold me the rod I used to catch my Atlantic salmon, and Richard Midgely, who knows his way around every species I’ve even mentioned to him. It feels as welcome as walking into Hi’s Tackle Box, except there’s no Michelle being mean to me.
I try to hit a new military museum every time I go there, and this time, it was the British Army Museum – which I had somehow never visited.
The skeleton of Napolean’s horse. This animal witnessed France’s last unassisted military victories.
Of course, I am always going to visit the Imperial War Museum – it’s an extraordinary institution that always has something new for me. I could spend days wandering through the gift store alone.
I always pay homage to their Spitfire – the plane that symbolized the RAF’s unlikely victory in the Battle of Britain. (Even though the Hurricane did a lot of the heavy lifting.)
The IWM also has an extensive Holocaust exhibit. This painting, “Dresden Burning – Death March, Winter 1945,” is by Edith Birkin, a Czech survivor of Auschwitz and Bergen-Belsen. This is an artwork that deserves some contemplation – the wan smiles of the marching prisoners set against the death of a major German city is chilling.
Chris joined me for the afternoon, and we visited the Tower of London, which has more history per square inch than anything except Puff Daddy’s sheets.
And yet this is the photo I remember the most.
We crossed London Bridge on our way to dinner, and I finally got a decent photo of it.
We spent the evening doing my famous walking tour of London – this is a city that never gets old for me.
The London Eye – if you look closely around four on the dial, you’ll see the moon rising. I have been visiting the area long enough to remember when it wasn’t there.
Big Ben. The first time I ever saw it was in 101 Dalmatians.
As we wrapped things up, I realized I had a very early wakeup call and what looked like a decent weather day off the south coast. I went to sleep dreaming of just one calm day on the English Channel.
Morning came quickly, but Red Bull can fix that. The drive from London is about 90 minutes in the early hours, and Edmir from London Limos was early and got us to Gosport quickly and safely. Glen was waiting there, and we were quickly underway into a curiously calm morning.
That’s Glen. I can’t recommend him and his boat enough – if you’re in the area, book him HERE.
We stopped before the open ocean to cast for bait, and I was pleasantly surprised to get one of my better European seabass.
On a rod and lure that Farlows had recommended to me just the day before.
I then emotionally prepared myself for what was certain to be a bumpy ten-mile journey, because, in my mind, all journeys out into the waters off Britain are bumpy. I was inside the wheelhouse working on rigs, and maybe ten minutes later, it was still calm. I stuck my head out, figuring we must have still been in the bay, and I was stunned to see we were on the open water. It was as flat as a crepe. Sure, the weather report had said it was going to be nice, but British weather reports are as reliable as French politicians. Yet here we were, and I was going to enjoy it.
It also occurred to me that I was crossing routes with my Uncle Ted – youngest brother of my grandfather Steve. A little more than 81 years ago, he and thousands of other US infantrymen would leave Southampton, just up the estuary, on the way to Normandy. Many of them would not return. Ted survived the war lived a long and full life, passing away in 2023 on his 99th birthday, but he never forgot those men and tried to live up to their sacrifice.
Returning to the present, we completed a calm run, anchored on some rocky banks, and put down a few meaty baits. There were the requisite taps from small stuff, but after about half an hour, one of my rods started bouncing in the holder. I snatched it up and set the hook, and the fight was on. It was a strong fish, determined to hold the bottom, with lots of head shakes to make sure I knew it wasn’t a ray. I said quiet Bull Huss prayers, and perhaps five minutes later, they were answered. Glen netted me a solid Bull Huss, and 10 years of longing and cancelled trips were finally rewarded.
The beast. Wear gloves if you do this – they are surprisingly rough, and my hands were scraped up for a week.
They have surprisingly robust dentition for a coastal reef shark. This was species three of the trip and 2420 lifetime.
The main target out of the way, we poked around after flatfish, hoping to stumble into a flounder, or, in my wildest dreams, a plaice to make Marta stop reminding me she has caught one and I haven’t. Her mojo is strong – she was wishing me ill from all the way across the Atlantic – and I didn’t get one. Still, we caught a bunch of other cool stuff and had rods bent most of the day.
A European conger. Yeah, yeah – Marta has caught a bigger one, but I can’t seem to find that photo at the moment.
I also got a couple more Bull Huss – excellent fighters that got released to catch another day.
A slightly smaller example, but a beautiful fish nonetheless, and proof that we had a good pattern rather than just luck. Of course, I’ll take a fish either way.
Edmir got me home quickly through some otherwise-impenetrable back roads, and I had one more late evening in London to wander the town and get dinner. The restaurant choice was obvious – no trip to London is complete without a meal at L’Autre Bistro, the finest Polish food in England. I’ve been going there for so many years they actually recognize me.
Here I am with the owner, Peter.
The next morning, I was on a 787 back for San Francisco, faintly missing the upper deck on the old 747s. I was looking forward to the holidays and, with winter coming on, thinking my fishing for the year was pretty much wrapped up. To my future delight, I was completely wrong.
Steve
SPECIAL BONUS COVERAGE – PADDING MY TOTAL
About a month before the European tour above, I made a quick business trip up to Vancouver. There wasn’t time to get out on the boat with my local buddy Troy, but I did get to sneak out for part of an afternoon on the Vancouver shoreline.
It’s a nice place for a walk. Keep an eye out for the homeless, who are mostly ex-Canucks goaltenders mumbling about Nick Lidstrom.
My target, suggested by local species-hunter Jordan – the same guy who helped me with the coastal cutthroat a couple of years ago – was the padded sculpin. This rock-dweller is rare in my home range but increasingly common as you head north. I spent a couple of hours poking rocks with a light drop-shot rig, and after a few false alarms from striped perch, I scored my second Canadian species. I can only pray my third will be a tiger rockfish.
The padded sculpin and a very enthusiastic tourist from Hong Kong.
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