I was out walking in the forest quite far from home last Sunday. It is an old forest partly planted and partly old natural fir forest. The moss is thick and the firs are sparse and tall. There is something wondrous about old fir forests. The trees makes a soft soughing sound unlike many trees. The whisper above you, the dusk around you, and the different species of moss under you. It’s difficult not to just lie down watching the tree tops sawying and whispering. At the same time just to walk through it is simply lovely. To discover new traces of wood peckers in the anthills, finding new narrow animal paths, and to follow old overgrown forest roads.

This forest quite near home has traces of old forest work and farmlife as it was before farming had become completely mechanized. This Sunday was perfect for a forest walk and I took a different route through the forest to explore a little. I walked to my favourite field, abandoned with traces of a cottage in the south corner.

There is a beautiful stone hedge on the east side and the whole field is completely surrounded by trees, secluded from houses and roads. I dream here, to have a little house and I ponder about who lived here, sorrows and joys, visions and reality.

Continuing through the forest on my way home I came across two steel buckets overgrown by moss and grass.

They fascinated me, likely forgotten, but by whom and why and when I will never know. Perhaps was they left behind after the farmer had planted the small firs that now old wayed over me. Only the trees and angels know. Nevertheless the moss thrived inside them, so for the growing forest floor they was not useless.

My sister and I decided to go out trekking in Norway during August. Just some days before our departure there was an outbreak of a deadly illness affecting dogs of all kinds in entire Norway. After we had waited for two weeks we decided that it was better to be safe than sorry and go to the North of Sweden in a beautiful natural reserve called Grövelsjön. It is a fjeld around a narrow lake which stretches on the Swedish Norwegian border. To the east the low fjeld stretches seemingly for ever.

After much hesitation and the second hay harvest we departed the last week in September.

What an experience of nature beauty. The dwarf birches were in full colours looking like torches as the shifted in different nuances of yellow and orange. Every shrub glowed and even the blueberry sprigs shifted in red.

We began with a day of walking on the low fjeld. The day started windy and cold as we first went up the High peak Jakobshöjden. But after lunch we continued down the mountains on the low fjeld. The clouds scattered and the sun warmed us. The remaining day was warm and sunny and just a light breeze reminded us that we were in the mountains.

The feeling of walking without roads on the plain for hours towards low mountains, surrounded by mountains and following a flood, is difficult to describe. Freedom and wonder mixed with a feeling of trying to capture both the feeling and the visible beauty.

We met raindeers that made a turn around the mountains and then came towards us very close, then down the mountain side again. In the herd there was a big white raindeer with the biggest antlers I could imagine. It was fascinating to come so close to them.

As I walked I came upon a raindeer antler. I took it as a memory of that beutiful memory of the meeting with these half wild animals.

The dogs were very interested and looked a little bewildered when encountering with the raindeers for the first time, then the herding instinct was awoken…

We could have walked longer, but lacking tents we had to, however unwillingly, turn back. We had walked for one hour in during sunset, then the late day turned into evening.

As we walked in the evening we suddenly heard cranes calling. Despite the dim light we could see a flock of cranes heading south, silently calling in the darkness. Great beauty with a melancholic touch. To see cranes migrate always gives me a longing for heaven.