I will spit on my grandfather’s spoon in the pike’s face

Bright April days delight with the long-awaited warmth and smells of waking earth. Fishermen, after a short break, are activated. Someone trying to catch a burbot by putting a bunch of worms, bird intestines or a slightly wrinkled ruff on a hook. And someone likes to walk with a spinning rod at this time. Pikes are already moving away from spawning, hungry. Continue reading →