One day, Milo and I went mushroom picking together. When we arrived at the forest, Milo eagerly jumped out of the car. Then we set off along the trail. Milo often walks ahead of me at a good pace, and walking with him isn’t much different from walking a dog. Sometimes, though, he walks so close to my feet that I have to watch my steps and make sure I don’t get tangled in the leash.

It didn’t take long before I found some funnel chanterelles, one of the best edible mushrooms. I immediately started picking, while Milo patiently waited beside me. As I picked mushrooms, I lost all sense of time and direction. I moved only a few steps at a time before crouching down again, my eyes constantly on the ground.
Funnel chanterelles are the kind of mushrooms that are difficult to spot because they blend in so well with the forest floor. But once you find the first ones, you start seeing them everywhere.

Every time we passed a fallen tree trunk, Milo insisted on climbing onto it and walking along it. I suppose it might be something similar to the way a cat has to climb into any box it finds. I let Milo have that little joy, and waited for him by the trunks each time.

Milo isn’t any particular breed, but I think he has a lot of Siberian cat in him, both in his personality and his appearance. He’s a really good cat for a family with children because he isn’t easily startled by anything and doesn’t seem bothered by all the commotion. He’ll even settle down right in the middle of the children’s play.

The forest was so beautiful, bathed in sunlight. The light made the moss so green that it almost hurt my eyes.

My favourite place in this forest is this rock slab covered in sphagnum moss. It’s like a candy store in shades of red and green. The heathers adds its own atmosphere. Stiff clubmoss also grows there.

This was when I remembered that I had packed a thermos of coffee in my backpack. But I just couldn’t bring myself to stop yet. We continued down the rock, where the forest became darker. The ground was mostly covered in red-stemmed feather moss, which is Finland’s most common moss, with fallen spruce cones here and there. My basket was starting to fill up.

What I like most about Milo is that he’s not easily frightened. If something unusual happens, he never runs away, but simply lowers himself to the ground and calmly watches what’s happening, while staying alert. For example, this is what he does when we encounter dogs on the trail.

Strangers who suddenly appear on our trail are also a little unsettling for Milo. In these situations, I pick him up and carry him for a while. When I put him back down, we continue on our way at our usual pace.

A funnel chanterelle can be recognised by its yellowish, hollow stalk and trumpet-shaped form. In older mushrooms, there is a hole in the cap that continues down into the hollow stalk, while young mushrooms have a solid cap. There are no gills on the underside, but rather ridges. They often grow among moss, and at first you may only see a brown cap poking out, looking remarkably like an autumn leaf lying on the forest floor. But once you learn to recognise them, you can spot them from a distance among all the other brown mushrooms.

Funnel chanterelles are easy to pick: they are usually very clean and don’t have worms. I basically just snap off the small amount of soil-covered stem at the base, or cut them with a mushroom knife right at the soil line.

It was only towards the very end that we finally allowed ourselves to stop for a break. I had some coffee. Nothing beats the feeling of having a basket full of mushrooms and a thermos full of hot coffee. And to top it all off, I had this quiet, loyal forest companion sitting on a fallen tree trunk beside me, almost falling asleep there.

We sat there for probably half an hour, enjoying the forest around us, now that I finally allowed myself to properly lift my eyes from the ground. Of course, I spotted plenty of mushrooms around us too, which I went and picked towards the end of our coffee break. Just before we set off again, I gave Milo a cat treat.

Finally, we returned to the car. Milo hopped in cheerfully and retreated to his usual spot. When we got home, he went straight to sleep and slept so deeply the whole evening that he didn’t even wake up when the children came home, bringing all their noise with them, or when they came to pet him.

I think Milo would agree that it was a good but tiring day in the forest.

At the end, a little video of Milo’s forest trips
🐾♡

If you’re looking for tips on good hiking gear, this isn’t the right place. But if you want to lower the threshold for going out to spend a night or two outdoors, welcome!

I’m not a hiking expert. I pretty much go with what feels right and what I happen to have. My greatest skill is feeling completely at home in nature. But now I’m going to show you what I pack when I spend a night in nature.

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For some reason though, I didn’t mind it at all this time. I’ll show you why.

As I drove past the field on my way home, I noticed that the sunset had coloured the clouds pink. I stopped to take a photo and then continued on my way. It was already almost 11 p.m. by this point, and the drive home takes nearly two hours. I took a sip of the coffee I had brewed into a thermos for the journey and continued driving.

I came to the bog. It’s a place we visit often, where I spent a night some time ago, and where the different seasons and the paths pressed into the sphagnum moss have become familiar to me. I glanced over and saw the pink sky stretching out behind the bog. I sighed and pulled over to the side of the road.

At the edge of the bog, the trees begin to thin out. The tall shrubs sparkled in the last rays of sunlight. The evening had been sunny, and the warmth of the day was still lingering in the air.

The intense scent of the bog filled the air. Wet, open patches of bog dotted the landscape, and the distant calls of cranes carried through the stillness. In the distance, I could see a bog pond. I squinted slightly as I looked at it. There was something strikingly bright about it, and it stood out clearly beyond the trees.

I started running across the wet bog in my sneakers. I wasn't prepared for this. The sun was just setting, and I knew I only had a few minutes before darkness fell.

You can probably imagine how the scent of Labrador tea clings to your trousers when you run trough it. The pond really was glowing white, as if something mysterious was about to happen at any moment. The magical atmosphere of the bog had never felt so strong. I reached the pond and stopped.

It was even more beautiful than it had looked from the edge of the bog. For a moment, everything else disappeared. I had only meant to stop for a few photographs, but suddenly I didn’t want to leave.

Steam rose from the dark surface of the pond into the cooling air. The pond was covered in lily pads, but wherever there was open water, the treetops and the pink sky were reflected on its surface.

I watched the steam move and slowly rising in to the air. It was incredible. The atmosphere was unreal. The familiar pond had transformed into a magical and secret place in the middle of the bog.

In the dim light of the pond, a family of goldeneyes moved in a line, silently but with purpose. They had appeared out of nowhere. What if they knew something I didn’t? What if this pond was a doorway to another world?

What if the bog has its own secret world that only appaers for a few minutes at dusk?

I stayed until the last of the pink light began to fade. Then I turned back toward the car, leaving the pond to the darkness.

The bog had grown dim, and for a moment, I felt as though someone was standing at the tree line, watching me. But strangly I wasn’t afraid. It felt more like I was the one who had wandered into a place where I wasn’t meant to be. Perhaps I had interrupted someone else’s evening — something not quite of this world. Perhaps something even stranger would have happened if I hadn’t been there.

Only then did I notice that my sneakers were wet and my socks were soaked too. I walked back across the darkening bog, following the same tracks I had come by.

In the car I could smell the Labrador tea that had clung to my trouser legs all the way home. I liked it. It felt as though I had managed to bring a little of the pond’s atmosphere home with me.

But I couldn’t shake the thought: what if the bog has its own secret world?

What if for a few minutes each evening, the bog opens a door to somewhere else. Maybe the steaming pond really was a doorway and the ducks knew the way through.

This post is part of the Enchanted Stories section. Click below to enter more enchanted worlds.

I want to share some small observations from the forest with you. Make yourself something warm to drink, and sit down with a blanket. Take a moment with each image and notice the little details.

the feathers my 4yo found, which I reluctantly agreed to let them bring home, and only later realised were eurasian jay feathers. I’m glad I said yes.

the haircap mosses form miniature forests with their spore capsules. I could have lain here for the rest of the day under those ferns.

the heathers are in bloom. just as many other plants are clearly beginning to go dormant, the heathers are at their best.

bumblebees. they rest on the flowers. you may see a new queen burrowing into the ground, while the workers die. this is how it should be — the natural rhythm of things.

mushrooms pushing their way out of a fallen tree trunk, as if to check what’s going on outside.

the leaves of the nordic starflower have taken on a beautiful colour, forming little stars all across the forest floor.

this felled tree holds tightly onto the rock it has lived with for decades. I can almost see the rock holding onto the stump too, growing moss over its roots.

this feather find brought me joy on my morning forest walk. I slipped it into my hair, behind my ear, as I always do, and forgot it there for the rest of the day.

under the cap. imagine our earth pushing this kind of eye candy in front of us. incredible.

Finland is full of these kinds of recreational forests, which I think is wonderful. Almost everyone has easy access to nature and a forest, no matter where they live in the country.

The day was sunny, and the forest was fresh and green. The air felt good to breathe, and the forest floor was still slightly damp after the rainy night. I felt lighter — even though summer is coming to an end, there are still so many beautiful days ahead. Actually, this time of year is wonderful in its own way. The mushrooms have begin to appear, the heather is blooming, and there is something lovely about this little transition between summer and autumn. I think I’m going to enjoy this season.

There are several of these wonderful stick shelters. This really is our new go-to forest. I can pack up the kids, some coffee and a book and come here to spend a couple of hours. We’ve made one of these ourselves sometimes, but the one in the picture is really sturdy. Usually, when the children see these, they start playing Stone Age, pretending it’s a hunting shelter or something similar. This time, the game was left unfinished before it had properly begun — we had come mushroom hunting.

In Finland, we have a three-star system for classifying mushrooms according to their edibility. It is marked with stars, circles and crosses, and the number of symbols indicates how delicious or poisonous a mushroom is. Three stars means an excellent edible mushroom, and these include chanterelles, funnel chanterelles, hedgehog mushrooms and porcini. A circle means inedible, while a cross indicates poisonousness: the more crosses, the more poisonous the mushroom.

First, we found some gypsy mushrooms, Cortinarius caperatus (Finnish: kehnäsieni). These are the newest species in my mushroom repertoire — I try to learn one new mushroom every year. I’ve picked these a few times and fried them, but I just don’t understand why this is considered a three-star edible mushroom. I found them rather tasteless, and the texture wasn’t anything special either. We left these in the forest this time.

Poisonous mushrooms are also part of the forest: they are fascinating and beautiful organisms, not just something to be avoided. We’re not afraid of touching them, and even the children are allowed to gently touch beautiful fly agarics and dig up the bulbous base of a destroying angel, its best identifying feature, out of the ground. What better way to learn to identify them than by exploring them? Poison isn’t so potent that it would transfer to your hand through touching and then from your hand to other mushrooms in a sufficient amount. Of course, we use common sense, and after touching the most poisonous ones, I remind them not to put their fingers in their mouths.

Mushrooms will probably always be something I can never fully understand. Their diversity, their incredible range of colours and shapes, their invisible parts beneath the ground… how can something like this even exist?

I often notice when writing in English that Finnish, my native language, is incredibly rich when it comes to words related to nature. For example, there is a word specifically for mushroom picking: sienestys, which could be translated directly as “mushrooming.”

“Mushroom hunting” just doesn’t quite feel right to me. Mushrooms aren’t prey like deer. They simply stand there waiting to be found. They don’t run away, even though they do have a leg. Yes, in Finnish, we call a mushroom’s stem its “leg”, and its cap its “hat”.

Then we got lucky and found some funnel chanterelles! They are incredibly good fried in a pan. The one in the photo was the biggest; most of them were still quite small. They have a lovely spicy flavour and a great texture.

I gathered them and made a note of the location, too. You can gather funnel chanterelles until the ground freezes. I’ve sometimes picked them frozen, with my fingers numb from the cold, late into the night. I kept finding more and more and simply couldn’t leave the forest. It was wonderful and terrible at the same time.

We also found some hedgehog mushrooms in this forest. They’re good edible mushrooms, and they’re also rated three stars. Perhaps a little milder in flavour than chanterelles or funnel chanterelles.

Then we decided to take a break. We had the snacks my partner had chosen: Karelian pasties (an absolute must for a forest snack!), as well as cheese, chicken and peas. We sat down on a fallen tree trunk to eat, and had a really lovely moment together. A snack break in the forest is in a class of its own when it comes to spending time together as a family.

Mealtimes at home can sometimes be chaotic and difficult, but in the forest it’s a completely different kind of moment. At home, someone eats quickly, someone slowly, someone needs the chance to wiggle their legs or get up from the table for a while. But in the forest, there’s no rush, nowhere else we need to be, and somehow everyone seems more relaxed. Everyone can eat in whatever position suits their mood at that moment, whether lying down, squatting, or standing. And we adults are more relaxed there too.

Our conversation soon turned to wondering how a pea somehow knows to grow every other pea on a different side of the pod. When the pod is closed, the peas are arranged in a neat row, and when you open it, you discover that every other pea is attached to the opposite side. It’s pretty amazing when you really stop to think about it. After all that tangled, chaotic, winding growth, peas are some of the most orderly residents of the vegetable garden. There are so many wonderful things hidden in the seemingly ordinary when you take the time to notice.

We collected the pea pods to take home for our compost. Even though they will decompose, they don’t belong in the forest, just like any other rubbish. After our snack break, we continued on.

We came into a dim spruce forest, where my 6yo found a very unusual mushroom. Even I couldn’t identify this one. Later, I looked it up and it seems to be Tolypocladium ophioglossoides, the goldenthread cordyceps (Finnish: mustaloisikka).

After the dim forest, we came to a beautiful sunny trail, with thick carpets of haircap moss growing along the edges. This was where I fell behind the rest of the family — the trail was so beautiful that my steps slowed down. One particular spot caught my attention, and I crouched down to look at the world from ground level, from the height of the spore capsules rising above the moss. The sunlight made the ferns glow, and everything was lush and vibrant.

I was a little sad that we had to continue our journey soon, but we definitely have to come back to this trail. Not only because of its wonderful atmosphere, but also because I found chanterelles further along the trail!

Soon, I found my patiently waiting family on a large moss-covered rock. 6yo had made a discovery and came eagerly over to show it to me.

6yo had found a huge porcini. He was so proud of his find. Porcini can be identified from other boletes by their sturdy stem with a reticulated pattern, as well as their pores, which turn yellow as they mature. At this point, we headed home to rest. It had become quite hot in the forest — August still has plenty of hot days.

We fried the porcini and the other mushrooms we had found for breakfast the next morning.

What’s your favourite mushroom? And if you’re from another part of the world, were any of these familiar to you, or were they all new?

On the steep cliffs of this island, I found something I had never seen before — a little world shaped by northern peat moss.

In the hollows left behind by the Ice Age, nature has created beautiful piece of art.

Could this be called colour diversity? Greens, reds, and every shade in between. Gosh!

Drip.

Drip.

Water drips from this enormous sponge.

When you touch it, it feels rich and spongy — like a perfectly moist cake.

If I saw this image for the first time, I would think it was a textile — some kind of shaggy rug.

It feels as though this island belongs to a badger. Or perhaps a raccoon dog. Whoever lives here has turned the peat into an underground maze. Holes are everywhere, and when walking across the island, you have to be careful not to fall through the sphagnum moss. It happened to me once last summer. It was an exciting moment — luckily, I didn’t fall far, and my other leg found firm ground.

You never see the animal itself (well, I did see a badger once, but that was on another nearby island). Yet the signs of its presence are everywhere. Droppings. Remains of crayfish. Broken bird eggs.

In this video, you can peek into one of the burrows I mentioned earlier. The rock wall is incredibly wet and cold — almost icy. Cold air pours out of the opening, as if it led to a wintery Narnia.

This is how thick the sphagnum moss is. An animal had torn this piece loose, and it felt just like a slice of cake. I almost wanted to take a bite. Maybe one day I'll bake a cake that looks just like this.

There are some patches here, on the sphagnum. I don’t know what they are, but my first thought was that they might be some kind of fungal growth. I read that Sphagnum has properties that can inhibit fungal growth, but I’m not sure.

So often, it feels like there is still so much knowledge out there waiting to be discovered.

And like many other bogs, this one is also home to the sundew. Just as every beehive has its queen, it feels as if every acidic bog has at least one sundew. It is the queen of the bog, patiently waiting for its prey to arrive on its outstretched platter.

Even the crowberries have dressed themselves in red and green, as if this island were caught in an endless autumn.

If anyone would like to challenge my identification, please feel free to do so. I believe Sphagnum capillifolium is behind this explosion of colours.

You definitely don’t want to fall here — the cliffs are steep. And be sure to tie up your paddleboard properly, unless you want it to drift away like mine did last summer.

Now it is time for me to leave. I’m going to crawl into the badger’s burrow. See you again!

Just kidding. I made my way back to the boat and brewed myself a cup of coffee, trying to calm myself down after the dopamine rush this island had given me. Sometimes nature doesn’t calm me at all — sometimes it makes me feel more alive and wild.

I visited this island a two months ago, and already then I knew I wanted to share its beauty with you all. But somehow, I haven’t been able to write this post.

Do you know that feeling when you have something magical and you want to show it to others, but you’re afraid you’ll ruin it? That you’ll tell the story in the wrong way, or at the wrong moment?

This is actually what happened when I showed this island to my children. We paddled there on two paddleboards, and my youngest complained about the difficult terrain and kept asking if we could leave already. The older ones were busy eating blueberries, and I felt disappointed. The magic of the island didn’t feel quite as strong that time.

Maybe some places are better left unvisited too often. Maybe they remain greater treasures in our minds when we don’t examine them too closely. I don’t know.

I hope you’ll leave a comment and tell me what you thought of this place. Would you visit it, or would you rather admire it from a distance?

I’ve wanted to spend a night beside this nearby bog for a long time. In my imagination, its stillness transforms after dark into something wilder and more mysterious. I pictured cranes calling through the night, and perhaps even something straight out of an old folktale happening... Bogs hold a special place in Finnish folklore, filled with myths, legends, and old beliefs. Although Finns are generally outdoor people, a bog is certainly not somewhere most would choose to spend the night. The terrain is difficult, and because the ground is so wet, finding a place for a tent is almost impossible.

As a camper, I’m probably a bit unusual. I’m not the person who counts kilometres, packs everything into dry bags, and prepares for every possible scenario. I’m more interested in adventure, natural beauty, and pushing myself a little outside my comfort zone. I often find myself doing things in a way that is probably not recommended.

This trip began with me marching onto the bog wearing hiking boots and carrying a backpack. In a separate bag, I had packed my rubber boots. I honestly have no idea why I didn’t just wear them from the start. I had to change into them almost as soon as I reached the bog, and after that I never needed the hiking boots again. In the end, I carried them all that way for absolutely no reason.

I left my gear by the little pond and set off to explore the side of the bog I hadn’t visited before. One of the things I love about bogs is how many different kinds of plant communities you can find there. One area was covered in marsh calla, looking almost like a patch of houseplants growing in the wild.

Another interesting discovery was the fishbone beard lichen hanging from the trees. It’s a good indicator of clean air.

I also found some cloudberries. Someone had already picked most of them, but it was still lovely to find a few left to taste. I spotted a beautiful blue dragonfly as well, and to photograph it I literally crawled across the bog on my stomach to get close enough without disturbing it.

Then it was time to set up camp. I have some difficulty judging distances, so I almost always end up hanging my hammock between trees that are far too close together. This time was no exception.

I sent my partner a photo of my hammock and let him know where I was spending the night. His immediate response was that the trees were too close together.

After choosing a better pair of trees, I moved my hammock there and sent him another photo. He asked if I was going to put up the tarp, and I told him I wasn’t. I didn’t think it was going to rain.

He insisted that I should put it up anyway. According to the forecast, it was supposed to rain during the night.

Party pooper.

Well, I spent the next half hour wrestling with the tarp. It was enormous. And I’m short. My mood started to sink as I realized my lovely hammock setup was in danger of turning into something that felt more like sleeping inside a tent. From under the tarp, I couldn’t see anything around me.

Eventually, I came up with the idea of folding the tarp in half. That made it much more manageable, and I could finally see the bog and the pond again. Then I made an evening coffee, just to make sure I’d have to get up to pee during the night. (Yes, that was sarcasm.)

Dinner was a simple ready-made pasta meal. I sat there among the Labrador tea, eating and enjoying the sphagnumness. Looking around, I couldn’t help thinking that I could probably have fallen asleep right there on the soft bog beneath me.

The little pond was home to several common goldeneyes, and they seem to be there every time I visit. I watched them splashing around, which was almost the only sound they made. They’re surprisingly quiet birds.

Then I climbed into my hammock and read an e-book on my phone for a while. I keep dreaming about getting an e-reader. It would be perfect for trips like this, but in Finland they aren’t really a practical option because of the limited availability of e-books.

I tried to fall asleep, but sleep wouldn’t come. Then I heard an animal nearby. It made a strange sound, somewhere between a snort, a neigh, and a bark. Lying in a hammock, I suddenly felt quite vulnerable. A moment later, I heard it enter the water. The splashing was loud — much louder than the ducks — and it went on for quite a while. I sat up and tried to make out what it was, but it was far too dark, and before I could see anything, the sound stopped.

Afterwards, I listened to recordings of different animals, and I’m fairly sure it was a wild boar. I also learned that wild boars are excellent swimmers, which would certainly fit what I heard that night.

By then, the mosquitoes had finally appeared. They found me while I was eating dinner and followed me to my hammock. Their constant whining made it even harder to fall asleep. Then it started to rain (good thing I'd had the brilliant idea of putting up the tarp), which conveniently drowned out the mosquitoes.

I didn’t sleep very well and kept waking up throughout the night as it rained on and off. At five in the morning, I woke up feeling surprisingly refreshed, got out of the hammock for the inevitable coffee-related mission, and then somehow managed to fall asleep again until almost ten.

When I got up, it was cloudy, grey, and damp. I made coffee and porridge under the tarp using my little gas stove. I was a little disappointed that the cranes weren’t calling this time. Instead, I watched the common goldeneyes through my binoculars, following their diving and splashing.

I went to admire the cranberries growing on the open, treeless side of the bog. They won’t be ripe until autumn, but it looks like there will be a good harvest.

Then it was time to pack up camp. It went surprisingly smoothly. The tarp was still soaking wet, though, and there was no chance I was going to fold it neatly back into its bag. I stuffed it into a separate bag with my boots and started the walk back.

Just as I reached the edge of the bog, I finally heard the calls of cranes. Finally! I left my gear where it was and headed towards the sound. I walked a long way out onto the bog, scanning the landscape with my binoculars and searching for them. Just as I was about to give up, they called again, and this time I spotted them. What magnificent birds. There's something almost dinosaur-like about them. Watching them stride across the bog while calling to each other, it's easy to imagine a much older world. Their calls carry for remarkable distances. Then they took off. I found a few feathers on the bog and kept them as a souvenir.

At the end, there is a video where you can hear the magnificent calls of the cranes and also see the goldeneyes splashing in the water.

🌿 GROW WILD IN FOREST SOIL 🌿

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Boating has been a big part of my life since childhood. My father had a boat, and we spent countless days exploring the Baltic Sea — fishing, discovering new places, and enjoying all kinds of watersports.

My partner has always been a boat person too, but his home waters are Lake Päijänne, Finland’s second-largest lake. For years, we’ve packed a tent and a cooler and headed out to one of its islands, sometimes staying for three or four nights at a time.

We’d often admire the larger cruising boats, thinking, maybe someday. Then, this spring, my partner surprised me by buying one of our own.

So today, I'd love to show you around and give you a little glimpse of what life aboard is really like. First, I'll share a little about how we use the boat, and then I'll take you inside.

Our boat is a one-of-a-kind steel cruiser, handcrafted in the 1990s as a gift for an instructor at the boatyard. It feels surprisingly spacious — we could happily spend the entire summer living aboard.

It’s registered for up to 12 people and sleeps nine, making it a perfect fit for our family of five. We also tow a small dinghy behind us, making it easy to get ashore in places where we have to anchor a little farther from the shoreline. Personally, I prefer using a paddleboard for this.

The boat runs on diesel but is very fuel-efficient. Our cruising speed is around 5–6 knots, which feels like the perfect speed to me. It’s fast enough to cover longer distances, yet slow enough to really enjoy the journey. I have time to take in the scenery, and if I spot something interesting, I can even look it up on the map before we’ve passed it.

One advantage of a steel boat is that gently touching the bottom on a sandy beach isn't a problem. If the shoreline drops off quickly enough, we can often get close enough to simply jump from the bow straight onto the sand.

My favourite way to explore, though, is by paddleboard or kayak. I always want to bring at least one of them — preferably both. They fit perfectly on the bow.

Whenever I spot something interesting, we simply stop. I drop my paddleboard or kayak into the water, tow it behind the boat with a rope, and climb aboard easily from the swim platform.

I can happily spend an hour or two paddling around nearby while my partner goes fishing. It’s also a lovely way for us to enjoy a little time to ourselves before meeting back on the boat to share stories from our own little adventures.

In the bow, there’s a spacious sleeping cabin with room for three people to sleep comfortably. That’s where the children sleep.

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The pond’s still surface is scattered with the leaves of water lilies — tiny floating islands where dragonflies sometimes stop to rest for a while. They drift as though they have always been there.

The water lilies are in bloom. Their pure white blossoms resemble swans — equally majestic, the royalty of the pond.

Their buds open overnight, offering a quiet surprise. As if the pond had quietly popped out another flower while everyone was asleep.

Beneath the surface lies another world. A world where birdsong cannot be heard. Instead, there is a gentle, humming silence, broken only by the occasional soft bubble.

On the underside of a lily pad, a faint scraping can be heard. A great pond snail is grazing there. Suddenly, the sound stops. It has begun its slow but determined journey to the surface for a breath of air.

Tiny perch fry hide beneath the lily pads. Their empty gaze conceals something deeper — something humans may never be able to understand. Flecks of sunlight drift slowly across their silver sides. Startled, they vanish in a sudden silver flash.

Dragonfly nymphs live beneath the surface as well, preparing for the life that awaits them. That preparation can take years. They are destined to become some of the insect world’s most efficient predators, shaped by every lesson the underwater world teaches them.

Sunlight filters through the lily pads into the water, weaving its way through the forest of their stems. Down there, light and shadow are never still. Light dances. Not hurriedly. It waltzes.

New buds quietly wait for their turn, each one a promise of another pure white blossom. They unfold when the time is right, allowing the pond to bloom day after day.

In the pond’s basement, its muddy bottom where the water is cold, the quiet work of sustaining the ecosystem never stops. Bacteria, decomposers, and countless tiny invertebrates break down what has passed, returning nutrients to the water and making new life possible. Beneath the silence, the pond is constantly renewing itself.

A cluster of tiny bubbles rises towards the surface as a frog begins its swim from the shallows, its destination unknown even to itself. Its long legs push it forward in sudden bursts. Before it can reach the other side, the pond’s most notorious predator strikes from the depths — hungry and expressionless.

To the pike, the frog is just another meal. For a while, there is no need to hunt. It melts back into the shadows beneath the lilies, waiting patiently for its next unfortunate prey.

Above the surface, the water lilies bloom — still, radiant, and weightless. They reveal nothing of the world beneath them. They are silent guardians of its hidden life. Opening each morning and closing again at dusk, each flower eventually slips back to the water, making room for the next.

What beautiful secrets the water keeps, and what a privilege it is to witness them.

My son also wanted us to use a paper map. Packing was a bit tricky because most of our camping gear is at the cottage, so for example we had to manage without sleeping bags.

But I never say no to an outing!

We arrived at the first water, called Mustalampi (Black Pond). Its history is fascinating: in the 1950s the landowner wanted to raise the water level so that cottages could be built along the shore, and he built a dam. Peat mats rose to the surface and still drift across the water today. No cottages were ever built on its shores. Gulls nest on the floating peat islands.

Personally, this is one of my favourite ponds. Its history is also fun to follow through old aerial photos. Here you can see how a small pond becomes a large one, and how the peat mats have moved over the years. I put together a small gif for you to show how the pond has changed.

Our trip continued along a forest path, through patches of bog and thick sphagnum moss. We noticed a frog and a spotted beauty moth (Arichanna melanaria), whose caterpillar feeds on bog bilberry and labrador tea.

We soon saw the next pond ahead and decided to take a break. While my son whittled a stick, we talked about what real camping skills actually are. I wondered aloud whether they are the things people usually imagine — the technical skills like pitching a tent, packing a backpack, or making a fire — or whether they might also be something deeper: how a person is in nature, how they react, how they tolerate discomfort, and how they notice their surroundings. Perhaps a true wilderness skill is simply the ability to be at ease in a place that wasn’t built for us.

The shore of this pond had beautiful bog vegetation, and we even found long‑leaved sundew. The air smelled of Labrador tea, and we spotted a few cloudberries that were beginning to ripen. A small break was very much needed — it was hot, and so were we.

We continued through the forest, along boardwalks and root-covered paths, across dry pine heath. We crossed an ant highway and ate blueberries that have just ripened here in Finland.

We arrived at the final body of water on our route — a lake with a small island where we would spend the night. Boardwalks circle the lake, and a narrow wooden bridge leads to the island, which sits very close to the shore. Water lilies were in bloom along the shoreline and dragonflies were darting over the surface of the water. A few other groups were there with their tents, yet the atmosphere remained calm.

We chose a spot for our tent, set it up, and went swimming right away. And it felt so refreshing. The shore was far from ideal for swimming: the bottom was partly rock, partly soft cold mud that your foot sank into for dozens of centimetres. The stems of water lilies and yellow water lilies wrapped around our legs. But honestly, places like that are so much more atmospheric than sandy beaches.

After our swim, we tossed our pizzas onto the embers to toast. We played Uno, and I made evening coffee while my son carved sticks into swords with his knife. When both swords were finished, we had a little sparring match.

To end the evening, a wigeon (Mareca penelope) with three ducklings joined us. My son decided to feed them the blueberries he had just picked along the shoreline. They came right up to us and ate from his hand.

A light night breeze rocked my hammock. I watched the lake being swallowed by darkness. The evening sun had already slipped away, and it was the darkest moment of the summer night. From the tent, I heard my son’s soft breathing as he wandered through his lively dreams.

The night was warm. Every now and then I heard ducks splashing in the water. Sometimes fish broke the surface. Somewhere far away a red‑throated loon (Gavia stellata) called, and I wished I could fall asleep. But despite the warm summer night, I felt too cold — I’ve always been someone who gets chilly at night.

I opened my eyes and noticed something unusual beside my hammock — a glow‑worm (Lampyris noctiluca). I got up from hammock and watched its inviting light for a while before crawling into the tent to sleep beside my son.

The next day, we took our time. We swam, ate, and slowly made our way back through the forest. Nothing remarkable happened, and yet I wouldn't have changed a thing. Some of the best adventures aren't measured by dramatic moments, but by the important memories they leave behind.

In the summer night, a tiny lamp glows and doesn't use a single watt. It belongs to a female glow-worm waiting in the grass for a mate. If the night is dark enough and conditions are right, a male is likely to find her. But if artificial light shines nearby, the male may head in the wrong direction, and mating may never occur.

Despite its name, the glow‑worm is not a worm but a beetle. About five weeks after the eggs are laid, the larvae hatch. The larval stage lasts two to three years, after which they pupate and emerge as adults. Larvae can also produce light — a brief, faint flicker compared to the adult’s glow. They are predators and feed on snails, which may seem like large prey for such a small larva, but they use a toxin to paralyse them.

The only purpose of an adult glow-worm is to reproduce. It is rarely in danger of being eaten. Glow-worms have almost no natural predators, as their bad taste and greenish warning light make birds and other animals avoid them.

The male and female differ strikingly in appearance and behaviour. The males are winged and roam widely, flying through summer nights in search of the females’ bright green glow. The females, in contrast, are wingless and larva‑like, moving only very little from their spot on the ground.

The glow-worm's light is produced through bioluminescence — a natural chemical reaction inside the body. The same phenomenon occurs in luminous fungi and many deep-sea organisms. Glow‑worms are often seen near waters, possibly because their light carries far in open, reflective surroundings.

Glow worms have one request for us humans: turn off your yard lights at night.

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Field expedition was conducted 23.6.2026 at 11:54-13:23, under high horsefly pressure.

Present:

• 🕵️‍♀️ Bog Operations Lead (the undersigned)

• 🕵️ Field Assistant — 9-year-old

• 🕵️ Junior Botanist — 6-year-old

• 🕵️ Junior Researcher — 4-year-old

🔎 Operational equipment: magnifying glass, three bananas, coffee thermos.

When the team entered the bog, a naked‑eye observation was immediately made: the cotton‑grass was still in cotton stage. The Junior Researcher, who had been acutely aware of the magnifying glass packed in the backpack, requested permission to use it.

The Junior Botanist also required the magnifying glass immediately for sphagnum species identification, so an entten‑tentten style draw (a traditional Finnish counting rhyme for random selection) was conducted to determine priority of use. Several disagreements were voiced about the draw’s outcome.

At this stage, the Bog Operations Lead required — and proceeded to take — a coffee break.

Horsefly presence was estimated at approximately exactly one hundred individuals, all circling the research team. The Junior Botanist found this extremely aggravating, having come here to examine plants, not insects. She stated: “I wish I were a horsefly so I could bite these horseflies back.”

Cranberries were also observed to still be in bloom. The Bog Operations Lead attempted to photograph them, but was interrupted, as the sounds indicated that the magnifying‑glass turn‑exchange was approaching.

At this point, the Bog Operations Lead observed that a brief additional training session was required, as the magnifying glass does not require direct contact with the eyeball.

At the edge of the quagmire, the species Scheuchzeria palustris was observed — the sole representative of both its genus and its family. Its name was duly learned.

A sundew flower was observed for the first time, causing the research team to momentarily lose composure. All members, including the undersigned, wished to conduct their own investigations on it, despite the flower being small enough to make simultaneous examination impractical. Both the Field Assistant and the undersigned wished to photograph it.

Meanwhile, the Junior Researcher made a feather discovery elsewhere, and during this time the Field Assistant, together with the Junior Botanist, documented the surface of the bog on film.

There was renewed discussion regarding the magnifying‑glass turn. The Bog Operations Lead was informed that the Junior Researcher currently holding it was not making any practical use of it, yet showed no intention of handing it over. The Bog Operations Lead’s attention capacity was severely tested as she attempted to determine who had held it, and for how long.

At this point a field‑ration break was taken, during which the undersigned had a second cup of coffee while the researchers consumed the bananas.

Then two observations were then made simultaneously: a bog‑rosemary gall, which had been specifically sought during the previous visit, and a hercules ant. Unexpectedly, the Junior Botanist displayed an interest in insects and expressed a desire to handle the ant.

The Field Assistant, having observed the initial bog‑rosemary gall, proceeded to identify and locate a second gall specimen — the very objects the team had come to observe. Both samples were deposited between the pages of the Bog Operations Lead’s field journal, where they will most likely remain unnoticed for an extended period.

The most unusual discovery of the day followed. It was made by the Junior Botanist, who noticed two disturbed, parallel tracks on the surface of the sphagnum, aligned like wheel marks (shown in the image above on the left). Despite her young age, she is remarkably knowledgeable about storybooks and recognised at once that they belonged to the Ghost Carriage from one of Tove Jansson’s Moomin storybooks, which the carriage is likewise described as travelling across a bog.

She was entirely confident in her observation and would have preferred to follow the tracks. However, the expedition had been carefully planned, and its funding allocated for a different purpose, so the original plan had to be maintained. The food supplies had already been eaten as well.

The fieldwork was now approaching its final stage. To conclude the successful expedition, the researchers wished to take photographs of their Bog Operations Lead reclining at the edge of the bog, each taking a turn.

The photography session proved lengthy, as every researcher insisted on taking multiple shots. When the subject finally stood up, she discovered that she had been reclining on a European fire‑ant nest. The research team found this exceedingly amusing, but the undersigned disagrees.

In the photograph, however, she is still serenely unaware that negotiations with the ant army have already begun beneath her.

And at the end, a drawing of the Ghost Carriage, made by the Junior Botanist. The numbers show how long the tracks were — something she had very quietly managed to measure. A true researcher, I would say.

Keep this research team’s leadership sane — buy me a coffee.

This may not look dangerous, but if you’re a small insect, you’d better keep your distance. With its glistening droplets and that almost erotic shade of red, it’s stunning — like a piece of art.

Charles Darwin, who had just published On the Origin of Species and brought the theory of evolution into public awareness, became fascinated by a small carnivorous plant growing silently in the bogs: Drosera, the sundew.

He was visiting Sussex in 1860, and noticed insect remains on the sundew’s leaves. He started to perform passionate examinations with sundews, placing insects, ash, and bits of meat on the leaves and watching them curl around their prey. His wife Emma Darwin wrote to a friend: “At present he is treating Drosera just like a living creature, and I suppose he hopes to end in proving it to be an animal.”

From these experiments, Darwin concluded that the sundew is not just a passive plant, but actively gains nutrition from insects — in other words, it functions as a carnivorous plant.

“I care more about Drosera than the origin of all the species in the world.” — Charles Darwin

He wrote the book Insectivorous Plants based on his extensive experiments. When the long project was finally completed, Darwin’s neighbour Ellen Lubbock celebrated the occasion by writing a poem from the insects’ point of view.

We saw that you were watching us,

We felt you were our friend,

And as we, in a general way,

Come to a fearful end,

It suddenly occurred to us

That we would have a look

At what you said about us,

So we crawled upon your book.

We now have buzzed all over it,

And find that, as we feared,

Voracious Plants could tell us

How our friends have disappeared.

Ellen Lubbock, 1875

Three species of sundew grow in Finland, and this round-leaved sundew is the most common. It grows in bogs, fens and marshes throughout the country. It forms a small rosette in the moss. The leaves are pale green, covered in red pin‑like glandular hairs. At the tip of each hair, the plant secretes a clear, sticky substance that works like glue.

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It flowers in June–July with modest white blossoms. The flowers open only in the late morning when the sun shines for a brief moment. After flowering, they develop into seed capsules filled with many light seeds, ready to be carried away by wind or by the movement of bog water.

When an insect lands on a sundew, it gets caught in the sticky secretion as if it were glue. The hairs bend toward it, and the whole leaf slowly curls in, enclosing the insect. The insect slowly suffocates as it is held in place, while the plant begins to digest it with its enzymes. Digestion takes a few days, and after a week or two the leaf uncurls again, and the remaining parts of the insect (mostly the chitin) are left for rain and wind to carry away. It can also survive without catching prey, though it grows weaker.

In traditional use, sundew was applied for cough, asthma, and whooping cough, most commonly as a herbal infusion for drinking. It has also been applied externally to treat corns, warts, scabies, and calluses. The plant contains plumbagin, which has anti‑inflammatory and antimicrobial effects.

Sundew has also been associated with increasing sexual desire, which is why it has been given various Finnish names linked to passion. It was also used in attempts to stimulate heat in cattle. In some traditions, its leaves were used to produce a fermented, yogurt-like dairy product. The plant can also be used to produce a red dye for colouring yarn.

In the secretive world of the bog, the sundew is easy to overlook: small, low, almost hidden in the moss. But once you notice it for the first time, you’ll want to seek it out again. It glistens, waits, and works with slow patience shaped by the bog. A plant, almost an animal — a tiny carnivore shining in the wet light.

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We walked through a beautiful, lush green forest, heading towards a lean-to shelter where we planned to eat our snacks. We stopped to marvel at a beetle, a boggy forest area, and various types of horsetails. My 6yo daughter started last summer to excitedly learn how to tell different horsetails apart, and she’s continuing that this year. She’s quite good at it, and I’m learning more too.

Wood anemones had already been blooming throughout May, and lily of the valley had just pushed up its bright, tightly rolled shoots from the ground.

At the beginning of the hike, the forest was mixed woodland and partly boggy. Sphagnum moss had taken over the wet areas. I had no idea how long this hike was going to take.

The forest gradually turned into a coniferous forest, and before we knew it, we had already arrived at the lean-to shelter. I don’t think I took a single photo of the shelter itself. There was another group there as well. The fire was already lit, and all we had to do was place the food we had prepared at home onto the grill.

My friend made us coffee. He has a habit of making coffee in a pour-over style. He brings coffee beans and a portable coffee grinder. Coffee prepared this way is really good, and it’s a nice change from how I usually make it — either campfire coffee in a pot over an open fire or instant coffee on a gas stove.

With very good hot coffee, I lingered on the cliffs, enjoying my current nature living room. My 9yo son was whittling sticks, the little girls were playing together peacefully, and my friend kept an eye on the food cooking. I felt deep happiness. No rush, we had all day. No chores, since we were far from home.

Throughout our stay, a cuckoo was calling in the distance. It would occasionally pause for a short break of a few tens of seconds, but otherwise it called almost continuously.

Then our food was ready. Grilled vegetables and halloumi tasted so so good.

After eating and enjoying a relaxed break, we continued our journey with the intention of heading back to the parking area. I chose the trail which looked most appealing to me. (Wrong choice!)

Soon I fell behind the others with 6yo, because we were so excited about everything we saw. We stopped to admire a large Sphagnum moss hummock. My 6yo also likes moss, especially Sphagnum.

She also collected and compared different sticks. One was a good sword, one a gun, and another a magic wand.

We caught up with the others and took a short drink break. Walking had made us quite warm. We noticed that even here, the streams had dried up. Nature has been very dry. The water levels in the lakes are low, and the lack of water is also visible here in the forest ditches. We really need some proper rain!

At this point, I fell behind the others. I admired the cliff walls and ferns slowly awakening in the dim light. It felt wonderful to be left alone for a moment, able to simply observe and take photographs. From further ahead, I could hear the children’s excited shouts. I was completely in my own world, feeling like a completely different person. This is yet another good reminder that parents should allow themselves moments alone, even when they don’t feel the need for them.

From the cliff, a steep set of stairs descended into a damp, shaded spruce forest. The ground was covered in decaying wood, and huge bracket fungi grew everywhere.

As I descended, I felt the air grow colder. I could smell wet bark and cold earth. I would probably have continued along the main trail, but I noticed these abandoned, moss-covered stairs off to the side. I absolutely wanted to go and see them more closely, but on the way the interesting mosses kept stopping me every few steps.

There was Rhizomnium punctatum, I think. And I also found Sphagnum wulfianum, which I had not seen before. It made me so excited that I ended up writing about it afterwards.

As I set off again at a brisk pace to catch up with the others, the terrain also began to rise. With that, the greenery returned. The forest seemed to awaken again into brightness, and each new bend in the trail looked more beautiful than the last.

I caught up with the others just before we reached the huge Högberget cliff. At that point, I realized we still had about an hour and a half of walking ahead of us. I had chosen the trail without looking at the map (as I usually do), and we had ended up heading back via a very long route. The time was getting close to children’s bedtime, and I wondered whether the youngest would manage to keep walking. For a moment, I felt a bit despairing.

Then we noticed that the cuckoo we had been listening to even on our way back was sitting in a tree at the top of a cliff. It was still calling, and it felt as if it had been guiding us all day to end up right here, on the highest cliff in the area.

In Finnish, this bird is called käki, and the cuckoo’s call is described as “käki kukkuu.” In Finnish, “kukkuu” means the same as “peekaboo” in English. So to Finnish ears, it was as if the cuckoo had been calling “peekaboo” all day, and now we had finally found it.

It lifted our mood, and we kept going feeling a bit more optimistic.

From the highest point of the cliff, we could see all the way to the city of Vantaa. The contrast was striking: after all, we were in the middle of a quiet and remote national park. I thought it would be quite amazing to spend a night up there in a hammock, sitting in the evening, watching the city lights — and listening to “käki kukkuu”.

Then we started descending again, continuing towards our car. We tried to pick up the pace, which was difficult because the final stretch of the trail was so interesting. Huge boulders, paths covered in roots, and beautiful natural details.

In the end, my worry about the children’s stamina turned out to be unnecessary. The youngest, 4yo, was still running energetically at the end of the trip, and none of my three children had any difficulty managing the walk.

Altogether, we spent five hours on the hike and walked 6 km, most of it on the way back. Everyone fell asleep easily once we got home. Trips like this are a real highlight of my life.

If you’d like to support my little forest corner, you can buy me a coffee🤎

Distant thunder rumbles somewhere far away, but the lightning never reaches the bog. It feels intimate and cozy here.

The edge of the bog is a green zone. There the sphagnum is vibrantly lush, and the dwarf shrubs grow tall and healthy. This side of the bog is the one that receives water from narrow, naturally formed channels. This bog hasn’t been ruined by drainage. Here, humans are visitors, not gods. Everything has remained natural.

I walk on the bog carefully. I wouldn’t want to step on the moss at all. It feels like I’m disturbing something, as if the impressions from my steps ruin the whole landscape. I keep glancing back, only to notice that the marks are already beginning to fade. The moss slowly rises back up where I just stepped. So I continue my journey a little more boldly.

I reach an area that’s more forested and filled with cotton grass. The trees here are older than elsewhere on the bog, where they rarely grow thicker than a wrist before falling or rotting upright from the moisture.

And the cotton grasses are at their best. The spent flower stalks look like tender little tufts, swaying out of sync in the wind. I’m sitting on a fallen tree trunk that’s still fresh enough not to crumble under my step, yet old enough that it has already partly sunk into the bog. Moss has grown partly over it, though the thickest part of the trunk is still above the surface, held up by the raised root base. Across the silvery wood surface trail cranberry runners, already carrying pink buds.

My favourite of all bog plants is bog rosemary. There are many reasons for that, but the biggest one is probably the small element of surprise it always carries. Like many other dwarf shrubs, bog rosemary has its own fungal gall — a fungal plant pathogen.

That causes this otherwise inconspicuous green plant to turn into something completely different: all the leaves expand, round out, and turn bright pink. The species responsible is Exobasidium karstenii. Bog rosemary also has another pathogen, Exobasidium sundstroemii, which causes some of the leaves to become pale pink and enlarged.

But right now I don’t see any signs of them yet — only healthy, normal stems putting out fresh growth, and some plants already in bloom.

I’m noticing different kinds of sphagnum mosses. I also came across spiky bog moss (Sphagnum squarrosum). It was growing half‑hidden at the edge of the bog, in the dim light. It has a spiky look to it, almost as if it were covered in frost at a quick glance.

I can hear a cuckoo calling somewhere farther away. I start walking toward the sound, hoping I might see the bird. I’m literally wading through waist‑high Labrador tea. They’re in bloom, and the scent is wonderful.

The vegetation thins out and the sphagnum turns greener and wetter. In a hollow left by an uprooted tree, dark water stands still. I reach a narrow hollow.

From here, the water enters the bog. It doesn’t rush in; it hardly moves at all. The water stands still, and beneath the surface there is only slow absorption. The peat works like a sponge, taking in what it needs in order to stay alive as a bog.

I’d like to follow the hollow and see where it leads, but this isn’t the moment for that. I sit down on a fallen trunk above the still water and take the coffee thermos from my pack. I no longer remember the cuckoo.

I’ve packed sandwiches too, and this would be a good time to eat them. But I’m too caught up in the spell of the bog. As I sip coffee, I slip the sphagnum samples from my pocket between the pages of my field journal so I can later figure out which species they are.

After finishing my coffee, I continue toward the middle of the bog. Out here it’s stark: dry hummocks with wet hollows between them. In Finnish there’s an enormous number of words for all of this. Bogs have been such a deep part of everyday life and language here.

I walk past the bog eye we found a year ago. I still recognize it, even though there are no real landmarks. But the way the hummock curves around the hollow in that particular shape has stayed in my mind. On the surface it looks only slightly wetter than the surrounding moss, but in reality there’s at least a metre and a half of depth beneath it. It’s not a place I want to step. Moving through a bog means being careful and knowing where to put your feet.

Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles again. Here on the bog it stays calm, as it always does. The sun is out now, and the layer of clouds begins to break, revealing patches of blue sky. It’s time to head back to the cottage. I remember the sandwiches and sit for a moment in the forested spruce mire at the edge of the bog to eat.

The bog remains unchanged, as if I had never been there at all. The peat is already swallowing the traces I left behind, while time drifts onward in its slow, almost suspended way. Tomorrow, everything will be just the same as today.

♡ If you’d like to support my work, you can buy me a coffee.

This is one of my favourite bog plants. Its Finnish name is very simple — suokukka, literally “bog flower”. It grows commonly on acidic bogs and blooms in early summer with pale pink, bell‑shaped flowers.

In English its name is bog rosemary, although it is not related to rosemary. It has been used as a medicinal plant in the past, among other things for arthritis. Bog rosemary is poisonous throughout the plant.

The leaves are leathery, elongated, and greyish on the underside. The leaves overwinter. The root system is extensive, up to two meters long and extending to half a meter deep. The flowers are nodding and bell‑shaped, with colours ranging from almost white to soft pink.

The developer of modern biological classification, Carl von Linné also regarded this plant as something exceptional. When he found it on a bog in Sweden, he named it after the Greek mythological princess Andromeda — chained to a rock by the sea and surrounded by monsters.

He saw the plant as delicate yet tied to the dangers of the bog with its toxins, and even drew an illustration of bog rosemary and the princess merging into one figure. It was one of the few plants he described in such openly emotional terms.

Fungal pathogens

Like many dwarf shrubs, bog rosemary can host its own fungal gall. Exobasidium karstenii can transform the plant completely, turning its normally narrow green leaves into rounded, bright pink ones, while Exobasidium sundstroemii affects only part of the foliage, making some leaves pale pink and enlarged.

Even though the lake itself is quiet, it is not silent. This is the birds’ hour. I often go out paddling in the evening. My paddleboard is always ready, and all I need to do is push it into the water and step onto it.

Let me tell you about one of those evenings.

The air was warm with the softness of evening, resting lightly on the lake. The water was like a mirror — calm, thick and heavy to paddle through. To the right of our cottage shore, the sun was setting. To the left, a sleepy blue hour was unfolding. I headed toward it and left the sunset behind me.

First I saw a lone swan, slowly drifting along the shoreline of the cove a couple of cottages away from ours. On the opposite shore, on a small island, about ten gulls were chattering and screeching. Their noise only made the swan’s solitude stand out more. Some of the gulls were circling above the lake, and I found myself wondering whether they notice the beauty of a sunset — or whether it is as ordinary to them as a white wall is to me.

I reached the tip of the island, and a few swift swallows darted above me. They nest under our dock just like they did last summer, and these could well have been the same birds.

I slipped past the point of the island to its far side in near silence, with only the softest strokes of the paddle. That’s when I heard rustling coming from the island.

I moved toward the sound and tried to stay as quiet as possible, my eyes searching for whatever was making the noise. Then I caught a small glimpse of the rustler, and I knew immediately what bird it was.

It was a great spotted woodpecker, bustling along the island’s shore. It flew from one tree to another and I was able to watch it go about its important business.

At that moment an odd, harsh call sounded behind me — a crane. I turned quickly on my board and caught a glimpse of it as it fled from the gulls with powerful wingbeats. The gulls were clearly driving it away from the area near their nest.

Right after that came the swan’s evening call, carrying clearly from the cove all the way to the far side of the island. From the other direction I heard the pigeon’s low duh-duu sounds, and in that moment I understood that an evening lake truly belongs to the birds.

It was the year 1847. Bryologist Gustav Karl Girgensohn — a researcher of mosses — arrived at an Estonian manor estate because the forests there were old and unexplored. The landowner, von Wulf, allowed him to wander — not because he cared about mosses himself, but because the visit of a scientist sounded refined and important.

Under the spruces the ground stayed damp, even in summer. There, at the edge of shadow and water, Girgensohn leaned over a small hummock and saw a sphagnum moss with more branches than any he had seen before.

Girgensohn named the unusual moss after the landowner, von Wulf: Sphagnum wulfianum.

Sadly, the original site did not survive unchanged. The swampy forests surrounding the manor were drained, built over, and Sphagnum wulfianum no longer grows there at all. I’ve been studying the old maps and scattered notes, trying to understand what the landscape once looked like.

I took a small peatland course some time ago, and that’s where I became fond of this moss. I’d been hoping to come across it ever since. And when I saw it one spring day in the dim spruce forest, I recognised it immediately.

The ground was just as wet, the light just as dim — and there, on the wet ground I found the same species Girgensohn once leaned over.

So lush and green, so firm and softly shaggy. In Finnish it’s called pallopäärahkasammal, literally “round‑headed bogmoss”.

It’s not a very common species here. Sphagnum wulfianum prefers deep shade, steady moisture and old, undisturbed spruce forests — the kind that feel almost closed to the outside world. It doesn’t shout for attention, but once you know what to look for, it’s unmistakable.

There was something grounding about it — the idea that this same moss had caught someone’s eye almost two centuries ago, and here it was again, unchanged, doing exactly what it has always done.

This moss is one of Finland’s responsibility species, one of the species for which Finland carries a special responsibility. It feels fitting that this moss grows here, hidden deep in Finland’s northern forests.

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I made a few small noticings. Nothing big, just small details that made me pause.

fresh blueberry leaves everywhere under my feet. stopped for a moment — everything felt new.

wood-sorrel blooms with delicate flowers.

found this egg on the ground. probably fallen from a nest. a little sad, but that’s nature. something out here will make use of it soon. there’s a viper somewhere nearby, or so i’ve heard.

the common blackbird (Turdus merula) on a big rock, singing like it owns this small patch of forest.

a coal tit (Periparus ater) nest in this hollow. a thin, raspy call from within, and the bird flew in.

these blueberry flowers made me happy, and i tasted a few. maybe these berries will end up in my porridge in late summer.

wood sorrel covering the old bridge over the ditch.

a spiderweb between the trees. easy to miss until a beam of sunlight caught it.

ferns slowly waking up. unfurling like they’re stretching after a long sleep.