The paths of childhood. Field and pond

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The road from the Gorodische to the ponds leads through a field...Well, like a field, now it's a young forest. Previously, the Northern Dvina River was visible from the field, and it is a few kilometers from here. The field is also located at the top of one of the hills.

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Previously, every piece of this field was divided among the locals – potatoes were grown here.

My grandmother also had a strip, which was the name of a potato patch of several hundred acres.

However, it was at the other end of the field...

The road through the field leads to another part of the Gorodische. It is called the Second Gorodische or the Small Gorodische.

All neighborhoods are physically separated by hills, rivers, or other landscaped areas.

Then the trail goes into the forest, through centuries-old fir trees.

And again, a wooden staircase that leads down to a system of dams and ponds.

It was all created for the needs of the flax mill, which was a city-forming enterprise....which ceased to exist a few years ago...physically.

All workshops have been destroyed and dismantled...

Ponds look like lakes. There is a dam system between the ponds.

All this is fed by the small forest river Lapinka.

...And again the path along the pond, which runs along the hillside.

There is also a flat area in Krasavino, but the city center is located there, which is least connected with my childhood.

Although I love all corners of this city, there are no bad places here.

Even as a teenager, I knew every corner of this city.

A forest path leads to an abandoned dispensary building.

Its appearance has not changed for decades – it has always been abandoned for me, but it always looked like a worker.

This is the pond where I learned to swim for the first time.

I caught my first fish on this pond.

To be continued...



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It is strange to visit the places of our childhood when we are adults, especially if we have not seen them for a long time. The half-melted snow envelops the scene in an atmosphere that accentuates the nostalgia. The roots of the trees are my favourite, as a metaphor for someone trying to hold on to something that nature makes them let go of.

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