We drove down the road. I saw such wondrous things. My eyes took in the steep sided grassy valley. In the bottom was a sparkling river. Sun reflected on the water which flowed over rocks. The small river had cut the valley. No more than a stream.
It wound lazily, climbed steeply in places and was powerful in size. They said Vikings settled here. I see no evidence. The local village was set up by Danes. They named it, their legacy. Both vocal and in stone.
Looking up from the river, up the valley side, I see a tree. A huge one by the road. The base must be twenty feet thick. And two hundred high. It's a Danish tree. Transported here as a seed by soldiers. A thousand years old.
I've seen such trees in Denmark. In that tranquil little country, the highest places are trees. There are no hills or mountains there. And only one small two metre waterfall there. Nothing like this stunning one. The Danish invaders must have loved this land.
I want us to stop and sleep under the tree. To hike up the river. Our time here is so brief. We have other sites to see. Will they be magnificent like these?