It was a sunny late-summer day, a Sunday afternoon, when we visited the forest property Björkesö for the very first time. The air was clear and soft — the kind that only September can offer — with warmth still lingering in the sun and autumn gently beginning to show in the colors.
The property we visited was around ten hectares of forest, beautiful yet difficult to access. The terrain was uneven and largely untouched, and the forest consisted of a rich mix of oak, pine, birch, and spruce in many different age classes. Young trees stood alongside older ones that had weathered decades of wind and seasons, giving the place a strong sense of continuity and life.
We moved slowly through the forest, stopping often, listening. The silence was striking — not empty, but filled with subtle sounds: the wind in the treetops, dry leaves underfoot, a distant bird breaking the stillness.
From the shoreline, the island could be seen out on the water. It lay there quietly, inviting — so close, yet still out of reach. We had no boat that day, and so the island remained something to observe and imagine. Perhaps that distance made the experience even stronger — the sense that there was still more to discover.
Already during that first visit it became clear that Björkesö is not a place one fully takes in at once. It is a place that asks for time, presence, and return visits. And perhaps it was there, on that sunny day in September, that a longer journey truly began.