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I remember her. Long before your time, before roads and electric pylons, I flowed wild and unshaped through the valley. I was young then, a stream born from deep in the rock and fed by snowmelt and rain, my rocky bed flanked by lichen and birch. I knew the silence of the heath, only broken by the croaks of ravens and the whispers of the wind, I knew the weight of snow in winter and the release in the spring. I knew the sorrow of loss and the joy of birth. But of all the shape

I am smiling as we turn off road number one towards Skaftafell national park on the south coast of Iceland. My husband and I are on one...

the small details in nature...

I’m watching from afar the news about the impending eruption in Iceland, near the town of Grindavik and the ever popular Blue Lagoon and...

I’ve always had a longing for forests; tall elegant pines and silvery otherworldly beech trees rising from the fern-carpeted floor, aroma...