It was cold, it was windy, and he was tired and hungry after a long walk. I’m talking about one of my neighbours.
Suddenly he was standing in front of a flooded path in the bog and he didn’t want to go a detour to reach home.
I can easily balance on a wooden log, he thought.
Maybe it was the idea of freshly brewed coffee and newly baked buns, which left the doubt off.
It all went well, right up until one of the wooden logs gave in to the weight.
The boot slipped on the greasy surface, and he fell into the bog. He couldn’t reach the bottom with his feet but managed to grab one of the wooden logs and pull himself up on the path.
The stench of the rotten bog water, and the cold weather made him capitulate.
He phoned home. But he had to sit on a thick layer of newspapers all the way.
It’s a funny story, but only because of a happy ending.
Always remember your packed lunch and leave only your footprints behind ❤
Det var koldt, det var blæsende, og han var træt og sulten efter en lang gåtur. Jeg taler om én af mine naboer.
Nu stod han foran en oversvømmet sti i mosen, og han ønskede ikke at tage en omvej for at komme hjem.
Jeg kan nemt balancere på træstammen, tænkte han.
Måske var det ideen om friskbrygget kaffe og nybagte boller, der efterlod enhver tvivl.
Det hele gik godt, indtil én af træstammerne gav efter for vægten.
Støvlen gled på den fedtede overflade, og han faldt i mosen.
Han kunne ikke nå bunden med fødderne, men formåede at gribe fat i én af træstammerne og trække sig op på stien.
Stanken af det rådne mosevand, og kulden fik ham til at kapitulere.
Han ringede hjem. Men han var nødt til at sidde på et tykt lag aviser hele vejen.
Det er en sjov historie, men kun fordi det gik godt.
God tur, husk endelig madpakken og efterlad kun dine fodspor ❤
The sun shines from a sparkling blue sky and I feel an urge to see the thick patches of snow spread over my nearest landscape of wilderness.
The snow has already started to melt when I walk into the forest and I hear an unfamiliar sound among the trees.
That is snow, that reluctantly let go of the branches and falls to the ground. Not heavy as for snow which been around for weeks.
No, it’s the dust of snow that falls as in the poem by Robert Frost.
Winter came down to our home one night
Quietly pirouetting in on silvery-toed slippers of snow,
And we, we were children once again.
Bill Morgan, Jr.
The cold was our pride, the snow was our beauty. It fell and fell, lacing day and night together in a milky haze, making everything quieter as it fell, so that winter seemed to partake of religion in a way no other season did, hushed, solemn.
Go to the winter woods: listen there, look, watch, and “the dead months” will give you a subtler secret than any you have yet found in the forest.
Fiona Macleod, Where the Forest Murmurs