Pollen

I could hardly see the woods on the far side of the valley for pappi, and seeds drifting idly on the light breeze. Only the uppermost branches of the trees were moving, and even then they moved only ever-so slightly. The rest of the forest was remarkably still; woken only by occasional cool breaths of air that were very welcome under the baking heat of the sun.

If there had been any doubt that we were still in summertime, there was none now. I could feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead, chest, and neck already; and I had been in the sun for hardly more than a minute.

The enchanting dichotomy of a perfectly still forest, set as a background for the dancing snow of parachutes that waltzed around me, was enthralling.

I felt myself relax. There were no people; you could only just hear the roads. There was only the occasional rustling of a rabbit or small bird among the ferns and grasses, or the humming of a dragonfly's wings as it hovered over the ground in search of whatever it is that dragonflies crave.

I regret that the distance I can wander in these places is limited by how much water I can comfortably carry. I drank a litre of water, had only covered about a mile, and had nothing left to drink. Fortunately the way back was mostly downhill.

Some of the paths were overgrown with flowers and weeds; others were virtually impassable without something to cut down the foliage. I must go again.