Ice Fishing

The lads come early for me on Christmas morning. Igor and Sergei are there, together with a mate of theirs, a slightly shifty-looking character who greets me through narrowed eyes. 'This is Kotya – fishing expert,' says Sergei, and off we go.

By the time we get to the frozen lake somewhere in the neighbouring Oblast, near Chelyabinsk, I am buzzing on a caffeine- and sugar-high. Igor feeds me another syrupy cup of coffee from the thermos – to keep out the cold – and we kit ourselves out and head onto the lake.

It quickly becomes clear that the three chaps are out to do some serious fishing, while I am just there to take a few snaps and enjoy the view. We bore a few grapefruit-sized holes in the ice (clearly not after giant sturgeon, then) and I settle down to tend mine while the lads dot around the lake. Igor kindly baits my hook for me, no doubt thinking I'm too squeamish to handle the bloodworms ('baby mosquitoes'), but the truth is it's fiddly business and my fingers are so numb I don't trust myself not to skewer my thumb in the process.

Kotya turns out to be a fishing expert after all, landing the first three catches of the morning in quick succession and chucking the hapless creatures onto the snow. 'What kind of fish?' I ask. 'Окунь*. Good for soup.' So it was catch-and-keep as opposed to catch-and-release.

I manage to get one later in the day. 'Think I've got something!' I say, grinning like a fool, while the poor fish flops about at the end of the line. Igor helps me pluck it from the hook and I am given a big shot of vodka to celebrate. The fish takes a heroically long time to freeze to death in the snow.

I think it might be a while before I turn professional.

* Perch, I would later learn.