Today we arrived at the sea. The view as we crossed over the last mountain-pass and looked down into the fjord before us was breathtaking. Sheer cliffs fell down into the deep blue sea, strewn with veins of white where hundreds of small streams fall down into the ocean.
The clouds over our heads and the lush green of the forest gave us the impression of a tropical paradise, where it not for the low temperature.
As we reached the small town, down near the shore, we met a local fisherman who shared with us some of the secrets of his trade, after which we feasted on fresh mackerel, sea brass and pike. In less than an hour we caught more fish than we could eat.
Now it is almost two in the morning, and as the seagulls cry their mournful voices out, filling their bellies on the leftovers of our meal, the sun rises again above the craggy peaks, and sleep is about to make another victim. But I shall not rest ere I finish this letter to you, my Love.
Thoughts of you fill my head as I smoke my clumsily rolled cigarette, my fingers numb from the cold.
What are you doing now ? Probably sleeping soundly in your bed, where I long to rest my weary head in your warm bosom. I miss your soft touch, your gentle, reassuring voice. I miss the feel of your skin against mine. I miss the softly whispered words of comfort, the wordless fingertip games played under the cover of darkness. I miss you, my Love. All of you.