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We are walking the last series of hills before entering Dublin, Marianne and I. For those who were not completely clear about who wrote the beautiful last blog, that was her. And the photos also were hers,

An enormous mountain of trunks lie before us. Trees are being harvested, as in so many forests that I have been walking through. Somewhere below us there is the sound of a huge tractor. Maybe it is one of those huge harvesting machines that I have seen on my way. They cost a fortune, but they cut a medium sized tree, clean it and chop it up in 2 metre chunks, in no more then two minutes. However, it is just an ordinary tractor with a load of trunks. The height of the wheels is still 2 metres though.

The driver sees us and steps down from, or rather dismounts the machine.  Huge dirty hands shake ours. I feel my hands being swallowed up. Marianne asks, it must be difficult to drive such a big machine. Not at all, says the rugged lumberjack. Oh, could I maybe ride it for a bit then, she asks, sweetly. Now he’s in trouble. With a brief look at her frail figure he says it’s teatime and he can’t leave the machine alone.

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He is able to summarize the problems our complex society faces in a few powerful phrases, that betray a deeper knowledge of it all. Then it is really teatime for him. How simple can it be?

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