Scentimental

This isn’t the longest route on the books, but it’s probably the one that takes me to the most places – sentimentally that is.

I will never ceased to be amazed by the sense of scent’s ability to activate memories. Especially things like the forest after it rains or a the dust from a dry dirt road.

Scentsational

Start out from home. Continue past Indelukket house instead of turning into the woods as normal. As you are heading up the hill look off to the right. There is a hollowed out log hidden in the underbrush. It’s as perfect as any cartoon drawing. Juding by the path worn at the entrance, the log is the entance to someone’s secret forest hideaway. I was tempted to get down on all fours and see where it went, but then I remembered that it’s not nice to infringe on someone else’s imaginary worlds.

Continue up the hill then back down again. Cross the tracks – stop, look and listen before crossing – then take an immediatae right up the steep, narrow path. Weclome to another secret world, although I more expect to meet a witch here among the overgrown allotment gardens and abandoned cottages than the fox and the hound.

It rained yesterday, and everything was still wet. The dense undergrowth surrounding the area and the high grass give off a dank smell that reminds me of summers in New Hampshire. It’s earthy and most and my feet get wet as I make my way along the overgrown path.

Once you emerge out into the beech forest again and can see the stream, you can almost imagine what it would be like to be in Sherwood Forrest on a fair summer day or in a peaceful Hobbit wood. It’s light and airy and invites you to just sit along the stream and while the day away.

Turning towards the bridge and heading over the stream, I am back here – where I live. Just as much as the woods, the high street the stadium – or even my home – the stream has become one of the things I associate most with living here.

Running along it on the far bank, towards the road, then up the hill that looks over the house and to the horsefarm, is an unmistakeable slice of Denmark: well organised, with seperate paths for horses and for everyone else, piles of logs stacked and numbered, waiting paitently for their owner – and only their proper owner – to come and haul them away. Just to add a shock of anarchy to the order, at more than one point along the you can see the abandoned remains of a bike.

But then you are on a long stretch of forest road that – especially with the scent of wet pine needles after yesterday’s rain – brought me right back to California and the hills around Monterey. The forest here is just a spacious, but less light gets through the pine boughs. The branches sigh when the wind blows as they are forced to release their intoxicating scent.

Further ahead the forest is cleared on one side and you pass by the grazing sheep. The sweet smell of grass, the musky scent of animals, combined with the dry dust from the road and the forest on the other side aren’t unique, which is probably why I can never really remember what lies beyond the bend of this road. Is it a patch of trees felled by an October storm, or a lake, or a golf course?

Then I realise that I don’t actually follow the road. My path continues back into the forest. I cross under the train bridge and turn to follow the stream back. There’s no misidentifying the smell of a slow stream without a lot of water.

The way back should be pretty obvious, but I almost turned right to cross the stream at the crossroads instead of bearing left. I normally run in the opposite direction, so I did’t immediately recognise which way to go. Once you are on the right track – or path I should say, since the path runs parallel to the train tracks -remember to cross over at Ravnholm stop.

Continue on to Ørholm. Over the road and down the stairs to Islandsvej. Keep going until you get to the end of the road. Continue into the woods and take the asphalt path to the top of the hill.