A Short Drive to Cudillero: A Tale of Fishing Fumbles

We rolled into Cudillero mid-afternoon, the van tilted at an angle that made me a bit uneasy, but we were parked, and that was good enough. The place was straight out of a postcard. Colourful houses stacked up the hillside, a harbour full of fishing boats bobbing around, and the smell of grilled fish hanging in the air. Looked a bit like Padstow. But Spanish. And steeper. 

Killing Time the Only Way We Know How 

Dinner in Spain’s a late affair. Eight o’clock, at the earliest. I checked my watch. 6:15. 

“Too early to eat,” Mary said. 

“Not too early for a beer though,” I said, steering us toward a bar before she could disagree. 

It was one of those places where you could tell the regulars from the tourists. The locals leaned against the counter, chatting in quick-fire Spanish, while a group of Dutch holidaymakers acted like they’d lived here all their lives. (The Dutch seem to have taken over Spain, by the way. It’s a theory I’m working on.) 

We got a couple of beers and a free bowl of olives because Spain just does things properly. Sat there, watching the world go by, nothing urgent, nothing planned. Just how I like it. 

Eventually, hunger started creeping in. 

“Wait for the restaurants or make something in the van?” Mary asked. 

Then I had an idea. 

“Why don’t I catch our dinner?” 

Mary stared at me. Proper, long stare. No blinking. 

“With what?” she finally said. 

I proudly produced the fishing rod I’d picked up back in Gijón. 

She sighed. 

Man vs. Harbour 

I headed down to the water, rod in hand, fully believing that somewhere in my DNA lay the ancient skills of a fisherman. (My grandfather fished. Surely that counts for something?) 

The first cast was an absolute mess. The line tangled instantly. 

The second cast lost the bait before it hit the water. 

The third nearly hooked a passing seagull. 

I glanced back at the van. Mary was watching, arms crossed, shaking her head. 

“You’re supposed to catch the fish, Kevin, not scare them off!” she called. 

Very helpful. 

Then came the final disaster. 

I gave the rod a strong, determined flick… and the whole thing slipped out of my hands and went straight into the harbour. 

Plop. Gone. 

I just stood there. Silent. Processing. 

Mary? Absolutely beside herself. Couldn’t breathe for laughing. 

I turned, hands empty. “Well,” I said, “I guess it’s sandwiches then.” 

A Humbling Dinner 

Back at the van, Mary was still wiping tears from her eyes. 

“Didn’t you say your granddad was a fisherman?” she managed between giggles. 

“Yes, Mary,” I sighed, buttering some bread. “But clearly, the talent skipped a generation.” 

We sat there, eating cheese, olives, and my failure, the sea breeze drifting in through the window. 

Not quite the fresh fish feast I’d imagined. But honestly? Didn’t matter. 

Some nights, the food’s not the highlight. The cock-ups are. 

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