The northern forests have their own special quality.
Moist, green, soft and shaded.
So very different from their sisters along the fiery southern shores of Spain.
Here the fearsome spines and twisted boles are replaced by towering cathedral trees and everywhere the arboreal gothic columns receede into the depths of the greenwood.
All around the air is enlivened with birdsong and merry tumbling streams.
Underfoot the scent of wild garlic arises from the rich sod and gazing down this dark velvet is studded with the beauty of yellow archangel and curious herb paris.
On the edge of the senses the rank feral smell of fox lingers in the damp air and below his delicate trail disappears into the dense untrodden brakes of birch and thorn.
This is the spring tale of the great boreal forests endlessly repeated before our grateful sapient eyes.
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Photo courtesy of the author.