There is a proverb in Swedish that goes “morgon stund har guld i mund”. In English it means, the morning carries gold in its hand. I love this expression using the old Swedish word for hand, mundr.
And it is true, especially in summer, the mornings are golden, the air is fresh, the soft silence gives room for the sounds of the forest. There we are Toby and I in midst of it all.
It is always lovely to take a long evening walk after rain. The damp air made the sun beams visible. Toby found himself in the light, apparently very interested in something, but all of a sudden he was off again down in the ditch. I love these short moments of beauty which leaves a mark in my soul for a long time.
I walked across the pasture and found the young animals on the hill where a young boy once had a dream of building his own house. A dream unfulfilled. A field still with grass and flowers, witnessing of solitude.
I love the colour of this violet. It is so small that it’s easy to just pass it. But it makes such a beautiful contrast to the white flowers in the forest, so when I encounter with this violet, I stop for a moment to look at it in all its freshness.
I love to walk in the evenings among the dandelions. I was told as a child that if you managed to blow away all the seeds in one try, you could wish for something. I still take up one of them once in a awhile and with some excitement blow at it. The wish? To see the beautiful seeds dancing in the air.
If you follow a minor dirt road not far from here, which leaves the main road to reach some farms further in, you will pass a house that is left to sleep so deep that soon I think no one will be able to kiss it awake. Lilacs grow over the wide stonehege, which also make up part of a root cellar. Old beeches strech their heavy branches over the narrow road. Beauty for all senses.
About 35 years ago there lived a joyful farmer there who managed this little farm meticulously, in a friendly manner. But old age at last got the better of him and he left this life for the eternal one. A cousin of his inherited the house, but she didn’t care for it, nor the farm, just the idea of owning a property. She has never visited it, just left it there. Nature has slowly made the garden into a small charming wilderness.
During my whole life I have watched how the seedlings that took root by the walls of the house, slowly have grown into trees, how the smaller barn with wooden roof at last collapsed and returned to the earth it was made from. Many times I have stopped there dreaming to restore it to that neat little fram it once was. But there is a fascination of the forgotten one with hidden memories. However, when I passed this time I could not resist entering through the one gate that is still hanging on its hinges.
I sat down in the grass among the old apple trees in the meadow of red and yellow primroses. Nothing disturbed the peace and quiet of the garden. I did not feel as an intruder, more of a guest taking part of a flowers feast.
I wonder if anyone will ever live in that house again, call it a home, sit where I sat admiring the flowers, but not as a guest but considering this place as part of their life. What a happy owner it would be.
Flores Island · Azores
From Where I Stand...
Wandering on trails and places around the coast of Wales
Wonderer of Nature 