We began in the morning, under a pale and heavy sky, and entered the forest on a narrow, old path. The trees were tall—oaks and beeches—with trunks covered in green mold, like dark pillars under the shade. On the ground, ferns grew thick and soft, their fronds half curled, half open, as if they were slow to wake with the day.
Here and there, a rowan tree stood alone, its white flowers almost gone, small red berries starting to form in clusters. The ground was covered in thick moss, grey and green, clinging to the roots and stones that pushed up through the soil. Every step we took sank a little, as if the forest floor were soft, living, breathing. The air smelled of damp wood, wild garlic, and something slightly sour, like old, rotting leaves.
We followed a small stream, barely more than a thin trickling line of water, that moved between smooth stones hidden under moss and roots. The water was clear but cold, and it ran in shallow channels that twisted between ferns and tree trunks. The ferns here grew taller, and their fronds brushed our shoulders like soft green hands, while a dark ivy climbed the tree trunks, its leaves almost black, its grip strong and sure.
The deeper we went, the more the trees thinned out. The trunks stood farther apart, and patches of light came through the leaves, lying on the moss like thin coins. The air felt heavier, not warmer, but close, as if the forest held its breath. Birds called from time to time, with sharp or soft notes, but their voices never seemed to come from the same direction twice.
We stopped for a short rest on a small rise, where the ground lifted just a little. Looking back, we could no longer see the path. The ferns, the ivy, the trees, all hid it away, like a secret. The air, thick with moisture, carried only the quiet rustling of leaves and the soft sound of our own breathing.
We went on, for what felt longer than it was, until the ground slowly sloped down more steeply. The ferns grew much taller, some of them twice as high as a man, and they pressed against us as we walked, like a green wall. The small stream we had been following disappeared, sinking into the ground, and its sound stopped, as if the forest in this place had decided to be quiet.
At a certain point, the trees ended. We stepped from the thick forest onto a low shelf of rock, still covered in moss, but with a harder, stony layer underneath. The air here was colder, and carried a different smell—not just of plants, but something cooler and drier, like stone and damp earth. It breathed up from small cracks and holes in the rock, as if the ground under our feet had lungs.
I turned to my companion and said:
“There it is.”
