Cascading Gold

The weather has changed so abruptly; the rain pats on my windowsills all day, both at work and at home, where I keep it away from myself by lighting rum and lime-scented candle and drinking hot tea with honey.

Me and the cats, all four of us, sleep together on my bed, a purring snuffling pile on top and under the woollen plaid.

A week ago, however, things were very different - blazing and festive, with layers and layers of golden ruffled leaves streaming down from the branches of maples, and birches, and linden trees.

 

This shot makes me think of a tiny miniature model of a world - the moss like faraway pine forsets under the fantastic golden skies.

Glorious gold was mixed with royal crimson, and all that - on the brightest azure background.

We walked to the river, lazy dense water, like molten metal, carrying the leaves into the sea.

Under our feet, the fallen leaves, brownish, some dry, some damp and rotting, smelled deliciously.

...And only the pines remained unaltered, perfectly green.

Have a cosy autumn, everyone

Lecte ;)







Down west sinks the Sun

I haven't been out with a tent for what seems like a thousand years, and was very pleased when we finally took the road last week. We've travelled Laulasmaa - "The Land of Singing Sand" - and set our tent on a sandy belt between the sea and the pine forest. 

The smell of pine resin was so strong, I felt tingling in my nose, and all the tiny life was busy bustling about in the still-hot August sun.

Maestro found a gorgeous orange-cop boletius, which I couldn't stop drawing.

As the sun began to set, we hurried to gather the firewood enough to last us through the night. It is amazing how these instincts sleep inside one's mind, and wake up when the time is right - I mean, we did, of course, know we would need to light a fire, but it was the image of the sun declining towards the horizon, which almost made me panic at the thought of a black fireless time ahead. That was when I actually remembered how important it is to get the wood, how important the fire is, and why has the man always feared the dark. 

Then we watched the sunset until the sky mellowed from blood and fire into mild watercolour.

I stood on the brink of water, and above my head a huge dark blanket was slowly being pulled over the blue and peach stripes. It was such a relish to come back from the faintly glowing horizon into the utter darkness of the unageing night and head for the only bright spark visible - our own campfire.

Soon, the stars appeared.

The full moon was blazing from behind the ink-black pine boughs, and long bight stripes of silvery light lay on the sand and the sedge.

In the morning, we walked for a couple of km to a small town for a cup of hot coffee and, of course, made a stop to admire the waterfalls.

 We really must do it more often.

Lecte ;)

The Elements

Yesterday we went to the Keila-Joa waterfall. The sky frowned at us and dusted the streets with some snow, but I was mercilessly dragged out of bed, stuffed into the car and taken to what turned out to be one of the most picturesque, tiresome and enjoyable walks I've had so far this year.

The river is still firmly sealed with ice

It was so nice to see the thick green moss after several months of black-white-grey town streets; it's resilient, and filled with moist, and smells deliciously. All throughout our walk, I kept brushing my face against twigs and fir pars, smelling things, delighted by the fresh and raw aromas.

Somewhere the ice is already broken, and the black icy water rushes inside the melting framework. 

The stream comes out of the pitch-black caves crafting the delicate lacy patterns on the ice walls, and disappears into the sinister black abyss, which looks so deep, and mysterious, and fascinatingly frightnig. It seems to enter some dark cavernous underworld instead of continuing its way right under our feet.

The waterfall itself is frozen, a thick wall of fantastically shaped ice stands still where the water used to dash.

 The ice caves look as if they were entrances to some other place, the Snow Queen's realm, the vast snowclad lands of Pohjola. 

But the ice is neither dead, nor motionless. If one puts the ear against this wall, behind it the powerful drone of the falling water can be heard.

The streams of water can be seen inside the deep cracks. 

Behind the still, rigid exterior there's the fierce throbbing of life.

Soon, the stone will be erupting water again. 

We've touched all four elements that day: exposed our smiling faces to the wind, bathed our fingers in the numbingly cold water, walked the thawing earth and warmed ourselves in front of the fire at a quaint tavern where we drank steaming coffee and mulled wine. 

To get to that tree, we had to walk hip-deep in the snow.

The first colors of spring - lush moss on a tree stump.

And the young moon smiled at us from among the gnarled branches.