The night burbot fishing failed, but the perches pecked quite decent.
Bright and quiet beauty of golden autumn reigned around. The evening light lay on the bathes of birch trees and oak trees, highlighted the contrasting shadows and sharply outlined the drylands. In the clear air there was the bitterness of wilting and at the same time – the freshness of cold herbs, touched by evening dew. It smelled of icy water, clarified to tear transparency. Somewhere cautious footsteps were heard, a crack of a dry branch, and then suddenly, as if a herd had passed through a forest … And this, it seems, was a herd. It turns out that the path is damaged! .. In some places I went around it along the grassy roadsides, and sometimes I had to climb the hills in order to go along the level ground, and not break my legs along the potholes and loose knolls. Boars … Pigs in the literal and figurative sense … After all, they would have dug in a lowland, under oaks. There are enough acorns and roots. Put down only the snout of your ravenous insatiable. No, you have to ruin the way for the fisherman and the hunter. What should I look for on the trampled path? .. Then it only dawned on me: it is good for wild families here in desolate solitude, because of this the path is destroyed in front of man. Continue reading