The Shad (Spanish, Sabalo), though not only the handsomest but also the best-eating of all tidal-river fish, is of no concern to the angler, since it refuses to look at lure of any kind.
The Tunny (Spanish, Atun) frequents the south-Spanish coasts and comes in millions to the mouths of the big rivers (especially the Guadalquivír) to spawn. The usual method of capture is by a huge fixed net called the almadrava, extending three miles out to sea, and placed at such an angle to the coast-line that the fish, on striking it, follow along to the inshore end, where they enter a corral or enclosed space about an acre in extent. Here the fishing-boats lie waiting, and when as many as 500 huge tunnies (they average 300 lbs. apiece) are enclosed at once, a scene of wild excitement and bloodshed ensues, the great fish darting and splashing around their prison, sending spray flying mast-high, while the fishermen yell and gaff and harpoon by turns.
The most successful almadrava is situate at Rota, some seven miles south of the mouth of Guadalquivír, the average catch for the season (May 1 till August 1) being about 20,000 tunnies. A canning factory stands on the shore hard by, where the fish are boiled, potted, and shipped to Italy, whence (the tins being labelled “Italian Tunny”) they are exported to all parts of the world! The flesh resembles veal, and is much appreciated in South America.
Rod-Fishing for Tunny
At this period, when the tunny go to spawn (exclusively larger fish), they travel, as the Spaniards say, with their mouths shut, and nothing will induce them to look at a bait. There occurs, however, in winter (November to February) another “run” of smaller fish averaging 50 to 150 lbs. apiece, and these are amenable to temptation. Tarifa, in the Straits of Gibraltar, is a favourable point from which to attempt this sport. The system is to cruise about in a falucho, or sailing-boat, carrying a plentiful supply of sardines, mackerel, and other small fish to serve as bait. These, on arrival at likely waters, are thrown overboard one by one till at length they attract a roving tunny. The operation is repeated till the quarry is enticed close up to the vessel. A similar fish, impaled on a two-inch hook, is then offered him, dangling on the surface, and will probably be seized. The tunny on finding himself held, makes off in a bee-line at a mile a minute. Needless to say, the strongest tackle must be used, together with some hundreds of yards of line, and the fight will be severe and prolonged, for the tunny is one of the swiftest and most active of fish, and he weighs as much as an average man. Few amateurs have hitherto attempted this sport; but as large numbers of tunny are caught thus by professional fishermen with extremely coarse hand-lines, there seems to be no reason why “big-game fishing” in Spain, if scientifically pursued, might not rival that of California.
The Bonito is another fine game-fish which may be caught at sunrise at nearly any point on the Andalucian sea-board by trolling with a white fly.
CHAPTER XXX
THE SIERRA NEVÁDA
THE Sierra Neváda with its striking skylines, crisp and clean-cut against an azure background, is yearly surveyed by thousands of tourists in southern Spain. The majority content themselves with the distant view from the battlements of Alhambra or from the summer-palace of Generalife. Few penetrate the alpine solitude or scale peaks that look so near yet cost some toil to gain.
We are not ashamed to admit that these glorious sierras have in themselves possessed for us attractions that transcend in interest the accumulated art-treasures, the store of historic and legendary lore that illumine the shattered relics of Moslem rule—of an Empire City where during seven centuries the power and faith of the Crescent dominated south-western Europe and the focal point of mediaeval culture and chivalry. None, nevertheless, can long sojourn in Granada wholly uninfluenced by its stirring past, by the pathetic story of the fall of Moorish dominion, and the words graven on countless stones till they seem to represent the very spirit of this land, the words of the founder, King Alhama: LA GALIB ILLA ALLAH = Only God is Victor.
Abler pens have portrayed these things, and we will only pause to touch on one dramatic episode—since its scene lies on our course to the “high tops”—when Boabdil, last of the Caliphs, paused in his flight across the vega to cast back a final glance at the scene of his former greatness and lost empire. “You do well,” snarled Axia, his mother, “to weep over your kingdom like a woman since you could not defend it like a man.” That the maternal reproach was undeserved was proved by Boabdil’s heroic death in battle, thirty years later, near Fez.[54]