reminiscent of champing
For a long time I did not go out into the Volga expanse, where boiling ramparts run, and a fresh wind fills my chest, smelling of warm water and the special smell of a large river. Just as the motor “Obi-3” did not become light-winged, so less and less I visit the fairway. But the channels of the islands archipelago have their own interesting life, where there are the same Volga expanses, winds and heavy waves, but you can go into a quiet bay laden with snags, where suddenly a strong predator’s trunk will turn out, a weighty predator will splinter on the water, and rush off scattered flocks of frightened floaters. At the border of quiet water and the wave swell, the castmaster can grab a perch, throw a yellow-eyed pike or a yellow-eyed pike heavily upset the fishing line and then, a little closer to the shore, in the overgrowth thicket, a golden rudd will suddenly peck. This diverse fishing can be even more interesting if you look for bream. But a large one rarely takes, scammers are more interested in maggots and worms.
Here, on the islands and in the canals, days go measuredly, in the sleepy rustling of limestone and birches, the lapping of incoming waves and the murmur of diesel engines on the Volga. And on red evenings from sunset, silence is broken by slaps and blows of fish tails in the mirror bays. Continue reading