Skäralid

From Skäralid’s large car park, the natural thing to do is to plunge straight into the park. I make straight for the viewpoint at Kopparhatten, doubtless spurred on by my own memories of the Grand Canyon. From Kopparhatten, you don’t quite have the world at your feet − just half of Scania. On summer visits I gaze out from beneath the leaf canopy out at the view before me. The ravine can be glimpsed through the trees, and after a while I yield to temptation and begin my descent.
In summer, the greenery is so intense that the woods are almost rainforest-like. On winter mornings, the water in the crevices of the crags turns to ice, cracking open the rock with a gunfire-like report. Every season has its special appeal, but my great love at Skäralid are early summer days, when the fresh green leaves are so tender as to be transparent.
At Skäralid, the four seasons pass amid a symphony that puts Vivaldi’s version in the shade. The early morning beauty is something out of paradise. The mere thought of walking through this landscape elates me, and my joy at returning to Skäralid grows with every visit.
Old Father Time has left his mark on this land. The Söderåsen ridge on which Skäralid sits was formed 150 million years ago by a geological fault. The rift valleys that give the area is special character are almost as old. Silence hangs heavy. At the foot of the ravine you can stand and listen to the sound of silence for ages at a time. I walk alone; chattering companions would disturb the feeling of oneness with nature. Yet the silence is not absolute, but merely the absence of human noise. Within Skäralid’s temple, nature is heaving with activity. Life here differs radically from our urban existence, but reaching out to it is not always easy. Many visitors lack the will to do so, like the boisterous school classes that pass nosily by.
At Skäralid I often feel I could keep walking forever, whether on the trail of flattened earth along the summit of the ridge or on the gangplanks down in the canyon, which sway silently and congenially beneath the feet.
The path reaches a stream, where the splash of rising fish can be heard. Sometimes their migration takes them all the way to lake Odensjön, which, according to legend, is bottomless. The water’s always cold, but those who have drunk from the Rörödpågen spring can testify to its quality.
The world is restful in its movement, and in the movement I find rest of my own. Every twitching leaf epitomizes a non-human life, and every step one takes in Skäralid represents a step away from our contemporary world that moulds us in its own image. To explore this landscape is to step out of one’s human existence. Somewhere, deep in the foliage, another type of existence beckons.