What I will remember most are the smells. The sweetness of blossoming rowan trees and cow parsley in the valleys by the lake where the tiny little white butterflies fluttered about in the wet meadows with ferns and wood cranesbill.
The dry, sun-warmed smell of low heath up on the peaks above the treeline, like an embrace.
The slight itchiness of rotting bladder wrack in the air, so much associated with childhood adventures and learning how to swim.
And the light. The sun circling the sky, allowing devotion. The forgetting of time.
Katja Malmborg 