The feeling you have after a day of fishing on the pimple ice is hard to describe, it can only be experienced. It's hot in the cheeks, the forgetfulness is gone, in the mirror you meet a new person convinced that the experience is greater than the catch and that the retention is indescribable with ordinary words. If you are lucky enough to be able to serve a self-caught, wild fish, the pride is indescribable and the taste sensation beyond the experienced. That's how it is every time. In those days when there were only hand-operated ice drills, the cutting sound stuck in the ears and could be replayed. Svish….. switch…. svish! From a distance it looked as if you were capturing something. The arms swung as if gathering something together and the contours of oneself stuck in the sunlit image. When it turned black in the hole, you were there. At the other end of that tunnel you would meet the Grundsjörðingen through the line that lifted the fish or broke and let the chard swim back home. In both cases one could speak of a lifeline.

The spectacle repeats itself and has been going on for centuries, further back with an ice pick or axe. Then you could manage to make perhaps only one hole a day. The effort was worth more. And the catch probably bigger. But not better! It is the same char genus today as it was then and as it has been for several thousand years. Say seven, eight! How remarkable is that!

Happy Easter!

Helgi Jonsson, Långå FVOF Långåfishing