HANNA'S WALK

There are moments in my life that has established themselves as Oscar-winning films. Oscars for best scenario and best plots.
There is the story of Beowulf who hears about friends who are in need in Denmark. He comes to help and defeats monsters, goblins and dragons.
There are stories of bog holes so creepy that deer choose the death by biting dogs, rather than the flight into the bog.
There is a story about a mighty meat hall in Lejre where King Roar generously shares his possessions between the men who honour him while quoting verses and letting themselves entertain by women.
Some of the best scenarios are from the fjord country; Landscapes with undulating wheat fields, where narrow picturesque roads winding between mounds and small village churches. Flashing fjords and lakes, promontories and inlets, hills and beautiful forests.
Does that sound like a fairy tale? It’s true because when I walk in the fjord country on a beautiful summer day, the adventure feels for real.

I have walk and cycled on countless trails in the fjord country.
Now I have found some new information’s, which many of you probably are familiar with.
The new data adds a new dimension to the landscape I know so well.
It was during a cross-search of Danish Vikings and Iceland, that I came across the Beowulf Poem.
The story of Beowulf is a unique plot written by English monks in the 8th century. A heroic poem. The poem begins with a celebration of Danish kings and King Skjold and his family.

It is the hero Beowulf who tells of King Skjold that he as a little child came to the royal solve Denmark, sailing alone on a ship.
The Danes saw a ship steer towards the shore; it had no oars outside, and there were no men to see at deck. As the ship slid in and lay down on the shore, people found a small boy lying alone on the deck. His head rested on a sheaf, and around him weapons were stacked.
The Danes carried the boy ashore, brought him to town; and proclaimed him as a king on a sacred stone, King Skjold.

Beowulf belonged to the Goths in Sweden, but he also had close ties to the Danish court, where he had stayed for a while when he was a child. When he learned that the ageing King Roar was in deep distress, he gathered a dozen of the best fighters and came to Roar’s rescue.

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A few year back archaeologists uncovered post holes after a mighty meat hall uncovered from 500 years A.D. in Lejre. The hall is from the same period as the legend of the royal family Skoldungerne with Roar, Helge and Rolf Krake and the famous ‘Hjorthal’ or known in England as Heorot. There are plans for a reconstruction of Heorot in Lejre.

You can read much more about these important finds in the notes.

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Secrets of Beowulf revealed Relics discovered Danish feasting hall featured Britains oldest epic poem.
Visit Lejre

Summer Sun

“Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven with repose;
And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays.

Though closer still the blinds we pull
To keep the shady parlour cool,
Yet he will find a chink or two
To slip his golden fingers through.

The dusty attic spider-clad
He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;
And through the broken edge of tiles
Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.

Meantime his golden face around
He bares to all the garden ground,
And sheds a warm and glittering look
Among the ivy’s inmost nook.

Above the hills, along the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true,
To please the child, to paint the rose,
The gardener of the World, he goes.”
Summer Sun, by Robert Louis Stevenson

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

When the gold is on the willow

When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier,
Not hoary hair or heavy care can still my wild desire
To race across the uplands, over Memory’s tender turf,
And dive out of my sorrows in the dogwood’s bloomy surf.
O blue were violets in our youth, and blue were April skies,
And blue the early song-bird’s wings, but bluer were the eyes
That, in that land of long ago, looked thro’ the window pane,
And saw the tulips nod to us amid the slanting rain,
Where all the dusk was glowing with our ruddy cottage fire,
When the gold was on the willow, and the purple on the brier.

When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier,
The ducats of the dandelions have paid old Winter’s hire,
And sent him shuffling northward in garb of tattered snow;
White-tasseled birches after him their balmy odors throw.
Carousing in the bramble brake the brown bees, boozing, sip,
And up the river’s cataracts the shining salmon slip.
The schoolboy’s spirit leaveth him upon the weary seat,
And over loamy furrows leaps, with lightsome heart, to greet
The chipmunk on the mossy wall, the bullfrog in the mire,
When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier.

When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier,
He whistles the cantata of the blackbird’s noisy choir,
And all the murmurous music of a manumitted stream
Sings soft around his naked feet, where shallow ripples gleam,
As if the loops of crystal wherein the lad doth wade
Had threaded through the lilies of some Paradise arcade,
And little laughing angels had tucked their tunics high,
To plash across its limpid shoals before it left the sky;
And still it lilts the melody of lute, and harp, and lyre,
When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier.

When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier,
It may be sin to say it, but I fear that I shall tire
Of heaven’s eternal summer, and sometimes I will yearn
To see across the greening swale, a budding maple burn.
My soul can ne’er be satisfied where sweet Spring never hath
Her way along the mountain side or by the meadow path,
Where kingcups never catch the sun, or bluebells mock the sky,
Or trout beneath the foam-wreaths hide, or bass jump at the fly,
And, in some homesick moment, for a furlough I’ll inquire,
When the gold is on the willow, and the purple on the brier.
By Robert Mcintyre

The Willow

The weather is cold and grey. The rain is pouring down. What’s the point in going outdoors? I did and if you go close enough you’ll see many colours, amazing shapes and birds.

Among plants and under sea survive lives;
Living beings under camouflage live ever
For security, hunting and survival safely
Wearing the attire Nature has provided!

Grasshoppers, birds, fish and plants live
With natural colours as protection forever!
Chameleons are something different though
Capable of changing colours as to situation!

Even seasons have colours for a change
Winter darkness, summer brightness,
Autumn brownness and spring greenness
Indeed are beautiful and inspiring all lives!

Refraction of colourless water reveals 7 hues
As seven colours of rainbow at the raining times!

An Attire Of Colours In Nature! by Ramesh T A

A Light Exists in Spring

A light exists in spring
Not present on the year
At any other period.
When March is scarcely here

A color stands abroad
On solitary hills
That science cannot overtake,
But human nature feels.

It waits upon the lawn;
It shows the furthest tree
Upon the furthest slope we know;
It almost speaks to me.

Then, as horizons step,
Or noons report away,
Without the formula of sound,
It passes, and we stay:

A quality of loss
Affecting our content,
As trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a sacrament.
A Light Exists in Spring by Emily Dickinson

I went to the forest to find the beautiful horses at Sandskreds Soe, the horse in this post is from my hike in December.
Nevertheless the hike was stunning with the light that gleamed in lakes and hills, grasses and trees

Det lykkedes mig ikke at finde de smukke heste ved Sandskreds Sø, hesten i dette indlæg er fra min vandretur i december.
Ikke desto mindre var vandreturen fantastisk med lyset, der skinnede i søer og bakker, græs og træer.
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Sandskreds Sø

God tur pas på hinanden, og husk madpakken ❤

The sun on ripened grain…

Do not stand at my grave and weep:
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starshine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry:
I am not there; I did not die.

‘Do not stand at my grave and weep’
by Mary Elizabeth Frye

There’s a sunrise and a sunset every single day, and they’re absolutely free.
Don’t miss so many of them.
By Jo Walton

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Rigtig dejlig vinterferie, og pas godt på hinanden ❤

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Poem by Robert Frost

Winter Wonderland

There are strange and mysterious sounds
When the winds of winter blow,
The long nights are crystal clear and cold,
And the fields and meadows are covered with snow.
The stars are frosty against the sky,
And the wind’s whistle is shrill,
As the snow blows against the house
And drifts against the hill.
Yet, I like to see during the winter
A white carpet on the ground,
To plod aimlessly in the deep snow,
where deer tracks abound.
I like to feel the stillness
Of a crisp winter’s night,
Watching a full moon rise over the horizon,
Exposing a winter wonderland beautiful and bright.
Joseph T. Renaldi

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