The path winds between lakes. Sky hastingly changing colour. A swan moves through the water looking for bread?
I realize I’m not breathing. I want to remember the sounds of nature.
The mournful whistle of the Bullfinch. Ducks chatter quietly. Tit birds are chirping high up in the trees.
The sounds of nature on a spring evening.
Maybe we’ll have snow next week. At the moment, it’s a lovely spring. People are enjoying the outdoors and the sun.
Years ago I was on a great walk at Sjaelssoe.
Steep hills, small springs, pastures, winding paths and a wooden pier for ‘happy swimmers’.
The temperature varied a lot depending on whether I was in the woods or on the sunny meadow.
It was bitterly cold in the wood by the springs, and the lake didn’t beckon for a swim, on the contrary. But the walk was worth remembering ❤
The place where you lose the trail is not necessarily the place where it ends.
Tom Brown, Jr.
“Slowly the west reaches for clothes of new colors
which it passes to a row of ancient trees.
You look, and soon these two worlds both leave you
one part climbs toward heaven, one sinks to earth.
leaving you, not really belonging to either,
not so hopelessly dark as that house that is silent,
not so unswervingly given to the eternal as that thing
that turns to a star each night and climbs-
leaving you (it is impossible to untangle the threads)
your own life, timid and standing high and growing,
so that, sometimes blocked in, sometimes reaching out,
one moment your life is a stone in you, and the next, a star.”
Sunset by Rainer Maria Rilke is a favourite poem of mine ✨✨✨
This picture painted in 1908 by the Danish painter Harald Slott Georg Moller, is precisely the intense atmosphere I associate with midsummer.
I think it is the finest evening of the year.
I love the writing by the Danish author, Henrik Nordbrandt. His words create amazing scenarios in the cinema of my soul.
Exotic words and places, become like little boats broken loose from their moorings, to drift off in high sea. Soon up, soon down. Soon up, overlooking magnificent palaces, and exuberant crowds, soon down, where only half-truths are revealed and the rest is filled with the invigorating power of imagination.
… Around your figure stands an aura, like a blooming hawthorn had set itself on fire to surpass your shadow in beauty.
Added strings to your being would deepen the silence
or make the strings burst into song …
This poetry is taken from a wonderful poem, Alcyone and translated by myself. Forgive me for that!
It’s autumn. Maybe you have an urge for mountains?
Some of my readers did a search for a map of Kullaberg on my blog.
I would recommend that you take a look at Kullaleden:
Every time I see cotton grass, my thoughts fall on the Norwegian mountain lakes.
The video from the Norwegian mountains is one of my absolute favourites.
Watch and get inspired!
Now – bring me that horizon – The last line from Pirates of the Caribbean
If you need to get in the ‘right mood’ you can find recipes for Pirate Rum Drinks on the Pirate Empire
I came across wonderful poetry by Daniel March written in 1869 and found it to be a religious text. That is not my reason for quoting the poetry, but because the description reminds me of the overwhelming joy it is, to walk in nature. When the clouds cast their shadows over hills and rivers, mountains and lakes in an ever-changing game.
The poetry of nature.
Clouds are among the most striking appearances in the natural world. Whether heralding the dawn with beacons of flame and banners of gold, or escorting the sun’s descending car with armies of light and sapphire thrones; whether clothing the mountains with garments of beauty, or enriching the landscape with flying shadows; whether shading the weary from the noonday heat, refreshing the field and the garden with gentle showers, or shaking the earth with mighty thunders; whether moving in silent and solitary grandeur along the blue deep of the sky, or covering the whole heavens with black and jagged masses, torn by the tempest and hurled onward like charging hosts in the shock of battle,—glorious in the morning, grateful at noonday, prophetic of the dawn at evening, clouds lend a charm to every landscape, a diversity to every season and a lesson to every thoughtful mind. No earthly scene could attract us long if deprived of light and shade from the changing clouds, and with our present feelings we should find it hard to be satisfied with heaven itself if it be one unvaried, cloudless noon. ~Daniel March, “The Balancings of the Clouds,” Our Father’s House, or the Unwritten Word, 1869
HANNA'S WALK 
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