I've recently returned from a 10-day trip to England with my older sister. We rented a car and braved the roads to visit Cornwall, Devon, Dartmour, and the Cotswolds. Some of the highlights were meeting Larkin, a Harris's hawk, on the streets of Holsworthy; seeing The Rites of Dionysus installation at The Eden Project; and wandering the Lost Gardens of Heligan.

I will be the first to admit that I am prone to dramatics. I love to embellish a story, especially one that involves me doing anything even remotely “sporty.” And yet I am being totally honest when I say my hike on Mount Olympus was perhaps one of the most physically and emotionally demanding hikes I’ve done in the past ten years.

I know this blog is about Greece, but I wanted to share some photos with you from my time abroad in Sweden, as well as some humble reflections on the Swedish culture.

Artemis is primarily a goddess of nature — a huntress and protectress of wild things. One of her most well-known sanctuaries is tucked inside a fertile valley in Attica, where the Erasinos River meets the sea. After so many years of adoring and studying the goddess, I finally was able to make Pilgrimage to the sacred wetlands of her temple at Brauron (Βραυρώνα).

We venture into the valley of Lake Stymphalia (Λίμνη Στυμφαλία). A storm hovers over the valley, the filtered light illuminating a patchwork of cultivated earth. This entire region is sacred to the goddess Artemis in her form of Artemis Stymphalia, protectress of the lake, fowl and forests.

We began our journey on the Feneos plateau, 900 meters above the sea where lake Doxa (Λίμνη Δόξα) lies nestled in alpine forest. Walking past vendors of walnuts, wild thyme and honey, we made our way down a narrow strip of land that extends into the center of the lake.

Leaving Lake Stymphalia, we drive to Psari (Ψάρι) where a series of hikes begin at the village church and descend into the valley among olive groves and vineyards.

The November air is heavy with resin as we drive over the twisting roads. Passing through the small village of Steno (Στενό), I urge my friend to stop so I can drink from a spring that pours from the bark of an ancient plane tree.