who can be lonely when you're loved by grass?

To leave this, last Sunday evening, to return to the city and a new work week, felt impossible:

This piece of land is home and I've been coming back every summer since I was born. It consists mainly of a lot of grass, lodged between a dark forest and a quiet, beautiful bay. Two tiny and very primitive cabins, plus the mandatory Finnish sauna, house the family in the summer. It seems to me a miracle that this paradise has not yet been ruined - by pollution or noisy neighbours or, even worse, the vague feeling of unsafety that often disturbs a woman when she is alone in the middle of nowhere.

And I was alone, last Sunday evening. This happens so rarely in this particular place that I expected to feel lonely. Instead, I was wrapped in a feeling of warmth, as if the very air and grass and water were breathing love over me. This is not something a pragmatist like me usually expects. It was enough to make me understand what the Celts mean when they talk about  thin places.