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.