HANNA'S WALK

Treebeard in the Fairy Forest

I went to see Treebeard the other day and he still has a majestic appearance. If you wonder who is Treebeard I always have one foot in the world of Tolkien.

Tolkien Gateway: Treebeard, also known as Fangorn, was the oldest of the Ents, a tree-like being who was a sort of “shepherd of trees”. Very tall and stiff-limbed, with bark-like skin and leafy hair, like most Ents, Treebeard took a long time to make up his mind. He repeatedly spoke of not “being hasty”.

O! What are you doing,
And where are you going?
Your ponies need shoeing!
The River is flowing!
O! Tra-la-la-lally
Here down in the valley!

A Bike Ride On Route N9

I’ve been bike riding on Route N9 in the summer heat.

Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer’s day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.
John Lubbock

The route lies between Copenhagen and Elsinore. In fact the route actually ends in Gedser. Read more about N9
Always look out for traffic no matter if you cross the coastal road or choose to stay on route N9

A few things to explore about many on your way to Elsinore: Cycling Route N9

Remember a worthy packed lunch 👩‍🍳🥐🥑🥕🥙🥝
And leave nothing behind you than exquisite ruts from your bike 😎

The Wonderful World of June

A bike ride in the countryside in June is an encouraging happening. I felt as a child in Robert Louis Stevenson’s poem, The Swing:

How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
Ever a child can do!
Up in the air and over the wall,
Till I can see so wide,
River and trees and cattle and all
Over the countryside.
Till I look down on the garden green,
Down on the roof so brown–
Up in the air I go flying again,
Up in the air and down!

An Act of Remembrance

The holiest of all holidays are those
Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;
The secret anniversaries of the heart,
When the full river of feeling overflows; –
The happy days unclouded to their close;
The sudden joys that out of darkness start
As flames from ashes; swift desires that dart
Like swallows singing down each wind that blows!
White as the gleam of a receding sail,
White as a cloud that floats and fades in air,
White as the whitest lily on a stream,
These tender memories are; – a fairy tale
Of some enchanted land we know not where,
But lovely as a landscape in a dream.
Holidays by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

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