A Stuga On the Cusp of the Orust Riviera, tucked away next to a hobbit hole in the woods.
My town used to be as bare as a picked bone, with no tree anywhere around it larger than a ten-foot willow or alder. Now it is a grove.
The axles were unpeeled poplar o cottonwood logs, and the wheels could not be greased because grease would have collected dust and frozen the hubs to the axles. The shriek of a single Red River cart was enough to set tenderfoot visitors writing home: it was an experience of an excruciating kind.
Speed on, speed on, good Master!Canadian Boat Song by Tom Moore and sung by Cosán
The camp lies far away;
We must cross the haunted valley
Before the close of day.