#pine forest
Just playing around with a piney forest scene. Procreate on my ipadpro!
Hello beautiful people! Hello friends!
I’m back for a new Christmas winter season!
I’ll be posting regulary to keep the Christmas spirit during the whole season!
You can now support me and the blog on Patreon so XmasWonderland can keep spreading the Christmas cheer! Thank you! love you all! xoxo
https://www.patreon.com/XmasWonderland
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Happy Holidays to you all!
Photo taken by me in Visegrád, Hungary.
(One of the many forests I’ve visited this year.)
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the wind lifts me to my senses
i rise up with the dew
the snow turns to streams of light
spell, nick cave & the bad seeds
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Aredhel, Maedhros, and Fingon hunting long ago in Valinor. The dogs are a greyhound, a redtick coonhound, a blue lacy, Salukis, a Catahoula leopard dog, and my treeing walker coonhound and my Siberian husky.
12 × 9" watercolor, gouache, black and metallic ink
Vägen från kojan, akvarell, 17x23 cm
Den här lilla vägen genom tallskogen är ett av mina första och starkaste minnen. Det är en rofylld plats. Närhelst jag kommer dit så andas jag lättare.
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The road from the cabin, watercolour, 17x23 cm
This little road in the pine forest is one of my first and strongest memories. It’s a peaceful place. Whenever I go there I breathe easier.
#tallskog #skog #träd #skogsväg #natur #akvarell #konst #pineforest #forest #trees #forestroad #nature #landscapeart #watercolorpainting #art #watercolour #watercolor #aquarelle #acuarela #aquarela #acquerello #ακουαρέλα #suluboya #akwarela #акварель #水彩 #peace #petterbrorsonedh
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Our van wheels crunched over unpaved road after unpaved road, kicking up mud and gravel as we bumbled along a series of winding dirt tracks which wove their way through endless pine forest.
This was the face of Bosnia & Herzegovina’s interior, a world away from the bustle and bullet-strewn concrete structures of its capital Sarajevo. Here, pretty little stone houses were strewn across scenic plateaus which seemed to appear mysteriously out of the dense thicket of trees that surrounded them and crept up to their doorsteps. Wild animals were known to roam these forests, and we wondered how humans could live so close to them without conflict.
We were still carving our route home out, ever Northbound, savouring these last few days in the Balkans before we would hotfoot across Europe back to England. We slept soundly that night, cradled by the forest, and coaxed our van into life with jackets bundled against the icy morning air. This was our pattern of travel these days; squeezing the most of every moment, battling with our van to get it home, the road our only constant as we went.⠀
As the forest dwindled and eventually gave way to civilisation we followed a winding little road partially covered by snow up to a ledge, where we spent the night sleeping underneath the remnants of Tito’s fist. Now a crumbling concrete structure, this bizarre object known as a spomenik had once been a monument to the Partisan soldiers who fought in the Battle of the Wounded in the valley below, but was nicknamed for its uncanny resemblance to Yugoslavia’s former leader ad the iron fist with which he ruled. However, shortly after the Bosnian War, a group of vandals planted dynamite inside and blew it to pieces, although its skeleton still dominates the skyline for miles around.
We were beginning to understand more of Bosnia’s chequered past, evident in every bullet-strewn building and every crumbling ruin we passed. Twenty years was not enough time to heal, but even after the visible reminders had long since been repaired, the memories would not fade for generations yet to come.⠀
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Driving through the snow-covered mountains which encircled Sarajevo, it was hard to imagine this beautiful area as a war zone, even less so one that had existed in our lifetimes. Yet the scars leftover from the war were omnipresent; they were in every bullet hole-strewn building, in every road surface struck by a mortar, in every man who hobbled past us on wooden crutches. We had arrived in Bosnia & Herzegovina with the intention of seeing beyond its past, but found it quite impossible to ignore.
Perhaps most poignant of all the lingering remnants of war were Sarajevo’s abandoned Olympic venues; the bobsleigh track once filled with spectators, now a crumbling relic; the angular lump of concrete that was Hotel Igman, whose rooms had not been filled since the siege began. Most chilling of all perhaps, were the former Olympic ski jumps, located on the buffer zone across Igman ridge, laced with mines and used as a site for executions.
As our boots crunched through deep snow only the eerie silence in the air betrayed the area’s dark history. We’d spent the night at Hotel Igman, although not as its designers had intended; we’d camped up in what would’ve been its car park, or so we had presumed as it was buried under a foot or so of snow. Having woken up to find the bobsleigh track and surrounding pine trees painted white the previous morning, it gave us an enormous sense of comfort that the mountains on the opposite side of Sarajevo were also covered. This would be the last snow we’d see for many months, dusting the communist concrete structures and turning them into things of beauty, the snow and infinite forest of pine trees muffling all sounds as we slept beneath a blanket of white.
But now the snow was melting, icicles dripping all around us and soaking into our boots as we explored the remnants of Sarajevo’s ski jumps. It seemed metaphorical almost of our time in the Balkans; simplistically beautiful, all too brief and now slowly coming to an end.
We had just a few more days in Bosnia before our compass would point us North, and we would make our reluctant return into Western civilisation.
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