Tag: walking

Nature Reserve of Conero

Autumn is here and winter is knocking on the door. I have been busy to tidy up in the garden and planting my garlic in the last minute. I still have the variety I got from Provence 2019, a hardy sort. This year I was not in Provence even if I sometimes remember the special atmosphere of the place of st. Maxime de Sainte Baume and the grotto of saint Marie Madeleine, and I am feeling as if I were there. I wonder if I will visit that place again.

This year I went to a pilgrimage to our Lady’s house in Loreto, an extraordinary place which has left a mark on my mind and soul, especially the presence of Our Lady in this little house of brick.

But you cannot go to a country without at least take a glimse of its nature. Close to Loreto there is a nature reserve called Conero. A lovely walk up into the mountains from the Village of Sirolo.

Visiting in January the village was sleeping. The bus was leaving us at a bus stop in the lower part of the village and with the help of a map we found our way up the hills towards the centre of the city. There is something very fascinating about tourist places out of season, everything is closed, as if abandoned, resting before people come to consume on its riches, here sun and sea. I like when it is sleeping. I feel as if the town is as if it should be, but at the same time it is strange to see a town so shifting in its life between summer and winter so dependent on tourism.

As we headed up into the mountains following a trail to get a beautiful view, we passed a sign informing us the trail was closed without further notice because of some sort of a danger. It was however unclear what the danger would consist of apart from perhaps a hint about a broken fence, so we took the chance to continue. I don’t regret it. The view was spectacular giving a view of the yellow beach contrasted by the white cliffs along the coast of the Adriatic sea, breathtaking to stand there at the edge looking down, feeling almost dizzy by the height but still immersed in the beauty of the experience.

On our way back we had just the time to go down a steep hill to follow the same shore we had watched from above. I loved the feeling of walking there on the deserted beach, the waves breaking against the smoothe stones and soft sand. Though calm, the wind was fresh after the rain the day before, giving a foretaste of spring.

I saw him coming from afar, an old lonely man with just his walking stick. A peaceful sight, him walking in the middle between the white cliffs and the calm sea. Slowly he came closer, just to pass us, and the scene was gone, so fast, and we were alone again.

I wonder sometimes how often he uses to walk there, if I would meet him again if I returned. Perhaps he has just taking up the walk again now when the sunbathing tourists are gone, him and the beach and sea left to their own thoughts.

Treasures of the forest

The time for berries is here again. It is always with some suspense I walk the first time of the year to the old bog forest of the blueberries. With my backpack stuffed with boxes and my berry picker, I hope I will see a lot of berries, but you never know until you start picking the berries.

This year it was an abundance of berries. It is a lovely place, silence apart from the wind in the pines and small chattering of the birds. I can stay there for hours, not noticing how the time passses.

Toby settles very easily, resting among the blueberry sprigs.

But he guards att the same time, keeping an eye on the surroundings to warn me if anyone is approaching, It has almost never happened that anoyone has come when I have been there.

This year the wild raspberries are also having a lot of berries. It is a true gift to just be able to walk one or two kilometres and pick as many berries you can. Joy of the countryside

In the sun

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.

A farm between the hills

There is something wondrous about inhabited farms, even though the fields are cultivated and cows graze in the pasture in summer.

There is such a farm some kilometres from our farm, isolated up between high hills in the middle of a big forest. The view is stunning, enabling you to see firs and pines along the horizon far away. The access road is long and winding, ending in a peaceful dirt road some kilomteres from the main road. In the winter when the farm is completely abandoned, the feeling of loneliness becomes manifest, the dark small rooms with dusty furniture, the windows covered with frost, and the lack of footprints in the snow.

For about 50 years ago a brother and his sister lived there. Too humble a life for many I think. They worked the fields, cared for their animals, seemingly contented with each other’s company, growing old together. Their life changed suddenly when a fire broke out and completely destroyed their home. History and future burnt to ashes.

An small road streching through the forest to one of the fields. Both the gate and the gateposts are gone.

The only thing that now remains of their home is the ground and the doorstep, nothing else, except for the small adjoining buildings, tells about the home in which they grew up, lived and grew older. Too old to start afresh they moved, still together, hired a house and lived there until they moved to an elderly home. The sister died first. The brother followed her some years after. Their life is as unknown, as their home, untalked of, unimportant to this fast, efficient society. I think though that they are together now, much happier, in joy, their friendship and goodness having an eternal value.

Standing there breathing the atmosphere of silence wanting to revive the farm, but at the same time filled with fascination for its sleep, I realise my own mortality, my own limitation, well aware of that my wish never will be realised. But to be a guest, though uninvited, has its charm, enjoying the peace and the beauty, free to imagine what could have been.

Hepatica which I found growing next to one of the stone hedges.

An old man in the wood

I have a favourite trail. It stretches over fields, pastures, through forests and on country roads. Though not long, it is varied and it also takes me past one of the most beautiful little farms in the area. The house is situated far from the main road surrounded by fields and trees. A river runs next to it and passes an old broken water mill. The farm sleeps, waiting for someone to wake it up.

On my way from the farm, the river is calm after fall.

I have walked this trail for several years, but it always gives me new small surprises, as today. I passed a stone and I noticed the beautiful nuance of the red granit contrasted by the green moss that partly covered it. I kneeled down to catch it on camera. Suddenly I saw not a stone but an old man with green beard. He looked a little stern as if he was, against all odds, determined to stay there for some hundreds years more.

The old man in the wood