HANNA'S WALK

The March wind roars
Like a lion in the sky,
And makes us shiver
As he passes by.
When winds are soft,
And the days are warm and clear,
Just like a gentle lamb,
Then spring is here.
Author Unknown

Is it safe to go there? I ask a woman who comes walking towards me on the bridge. She empties one of her shoes for water and mud.
She was trying to avoid deep puddles, and her foot disappear into a mud hole instead. I can not laugh at incidences like that, I’ve tried them all.
She is warning me for strong wind gusts.
I don’t find it attractive to swim in the icy water wearing a lot of clothes that will pull me down but the walk is great.

Have you ever been out in field and woodland, by streams and lakes, by a tree all in blossom or a hedgerow laden with berries – and just felt sure that you were not alone?

That’s how Teresa Moorey introduce her book: The Fairy Bible.
I’m tempted to read the book because I feel deeply happy to live in a place much alike.
In these days the hawthorn blossoms on the field, Hvidtjørnesletten and makes an unforgettable impression on all beings.

I have been out there several times this week to experience the atmosphere once again.
One evening the field was kind of sacred. The scent of blossoming hawthorn was intoxicating and the quiet soothing sounds from the animals made the place magical.
The deer moved imperceptible between the hawthorns while they graze.
People seemed affected and stood still or spread a blanket just to sit and be in the present. They were lowering their voice and that might have been because of the fairies.
They were afraid to scare them away.

Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire!
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon’s sphere;
And I serve the Fairy Queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green;
The cowslips tall her pensioners be;
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours;
In those freckles live their savours;
I must go seek some dewdrops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.

‘A Fairy Song’ by William Shakespeare

Sweet was the walk along the narrow lane
At noon, the bank and hedge-rows all the way
Shagged with wild pale green tufts of fragrant hay,
Caught by the hawthorns from the loaded wain,
Which Age with many a slow stoop strove to gain;
And childhood, seeming still most busy, took
His little rake; with cunning side-long look,
Sauntering to pluck the strawberries wild, unseen.
Now, too, on melancholy’s idle dreams
Musing, the lone spot with my soul agrees,
Quiet and dark; for through the thick wove trees
Scarce peeps the curious star till solemn gleams
The clouded moon, and calls me forth to stray
Thro’ tall, green, silent woods and ruins gray.

‘Sweet Was The Walk’ by William Wordsworth
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Fairy Bible by Teresa Moorey

The Squirrel Family

Years ago in a secret place of the forest, Nørreskoven I incidentally looked up in a tall tree and there it was, an owl looking down at me from a big nesting box.
One day after a storm the nesting box lay shattered on the ground. Today I’m showing a new friend one of my favourite spots and I told her about the owl.
There’s a new place for nest-seeking owls but owls wasn’t what we saw.
Look for yourself:

Song on May Morning

Now the bright morning star, day’s harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose.
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire 5
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire!
Woods and groves are of thy dressing;
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.
John Milton

The Death of a Badger

The badger is the largest predator in Denmark and can reach the age of 7 to 8 years.
We found this lovely badger dead on the railway tracks 3 days ago. Probably hit by the train in the early morning.
The badger is rather slow and noisy when looking for food, so it rarely captures healthy mammals and birds, but likes to take carrion.
It often find food within a range of 300-400 meters from the grave. The badger is a real troglodyte, who lives more than half his life down in the grave.
The badger gives birth to 2-3 cubs and raise them in the den. The cups are born in March, but they are not allowed to come out of the grave before May when they learn to seek feed together with their mother.

Sad end of a beautiful walk.

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Skovbrug og grævlingegrave

Sometimes ‘smultronställer’¹ shows themselves in nature quite unexpected and Søllerød Naturpark never fails to make my spirit fly high and to remember certain moments.

Woodlands and fields lie above the golf course on Rygaard Overdrev. I love the hilly area. The nature park is a continuation of Rude Skov and invites for a walk.

We often went by public transport in the past, when we wanted to explore an area.
It gives you the opportunity to begin the walk in one place and end up in another.
One sunny day not long ago I took Bus 150 towards Kokkedal Station and got off at Gammel Holte. I continued down Gamle Holte Gade and turned left just before Gammel Holte Vej.

Sometimes the path reminded me of Cumbria, of pictures I have seen from the moor in England.
Soon the path disappeared in a little lake and though I was wearing Goretex I went round and not through the new lake in order to keep warm and dry. Soon I was in the forest, Rude Skov and after a nice walk past Løje Sø I ended my walk at Holte Train Station.

Once again I had an overwhelming feeling of a longer hike. That’s what a walk can do for me when I plan the walk in the right way.

You should try it your self should you get the chance.

¹
A smultronställe is a Swedish term for a place that is an undervalued gem. A place to feel comfortable, and hard for others to find. Often a place with a personal and emotional value. Literally smultronställe means a place of wild strawberries.

Søllerød Naturpark

Survivors

When all the other trees are bare,
Why do those last few oak leaves cling up there
under the cold blue sky?
Don’t they know when to die?

And to think: after the long freeze,
when warmth revives and fills these empty trees
with the green stuff of spring,
they’ll still be lingering,

brown, withered, and grotesquely curled,
with their dry whispers from another world.
Leaves, cling where you grew!
Maybe I’ll hang on too.

Survivors by Richard Moore

Oak leaves

JEG HAR FORLAGT EN ELEFANT OG EN BIOGRAFBILLET

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