Autumn draped Szczyrk in a cloak of gold and amber, the forests ablaze with the quiet fire of falling leaves. Dorota and I set out early, Monty bounding ahead, his paws stirring the crisp carpet of leaves that crunched underfoot. The air was sharp, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine, and every breath felt like a promise of discovery.
We followed trails that twisted through the mountains like hidden veins, the trees whispering among themselves as their leaves pirouetted to the ground. Monty disappeared now and then into the underbrush, emerging with a triumphant shake of his fur, as though he had uncovered some ancient secret. Dorota paused often, captivated by shafts of sunlight that pierced the canopy, turning every leaf into a tiny lantern of amber light.
There were moments when the forest seemed to hold its breath. A sudden gust would scatter leaves like sparks, the world shifting into something almost unreal. Monty would freeze mid-step, ears pricked, as if listening to a language only he understood. Dorota and I would exchange a glance, each silently acknowledging the strange, delicate magic of the mountains in autumn.
We climbed higher, the mist curling around us like the breath of some unseen giant. Streams whispered over smooth rocks, carrying reflections of the fiery canopy above. Monty paused by one particularly hidden pool, sniffing intently, then nudging our hands as though insisting we share in his discovery. I crouched to photograph the moment: Monty, alert and triumphant; Dorota, her eyes catching every sparkle of light; the forest, alive with the subdued symphony of fall.
At midday, we stumbled upon a secluded plateau. The valleys below shimmered with the mosaic of autumn colours, and the mountains rose like silent guardians. Monty flopped in the sun-dappled grass, exhausted but victorious, while Dorota and I drank in the panorama, letting the quiet grandeur of Szczyrk settle into our souls. Time here was measured not by hours but by the rustle of leaves, the distant call of a hawk, and the playful tug-of-war with a stubborn, muddy dog.
We wandered through hidden paths, occasionally startled by the sudden cry of a distant bird or the whisper of the wind through the treetops. Every bend seemed to reveal something unexpected — a fallen log perfect for a quiet pause, a patch of mushrooms peeking from the moss, a golden leaf clinging stubbornly to a bare branch. Monty led the way, authoritative and whimsical in equal measure, turning sharply at forks as though reading some secret map etched in the forest floor.
As afternoon gave way to evening, shadows lengthened, and the autumn light softened to honey and rose. The mist thickened again, lending the forest a sense of mystery, a quiet reminder that Szczyrk keeps its secrets close. We descended slowly, careful not to disturb the fragile spell that had held us all day. By the time we returned to the warmth of the town, Monty’s paws were streaked with mud, Dorota’s cheeks flushed from the crisp air, and my mind was alight with the quiet wonder of a day that felt longer than hours — a day that seemed to stretch into something almost eternal.
Autumn in Szczyrk is not just a season; it is an invitation. To wander, to notice, to pause in the subtle magic of the mountains and forests, to follow a little dog with boundless curiosity, and to discover, quietly, that adventure is not always about the grand or the loud — sometimes, it is simply about being present in the golden hush of a world unfolding around you.
Discover the alpine charm of Szczyrk — nestled in the Beskid Śląski mountains, where forested slopes meet clear valleys and quiet adventure beckons — explore the full gallery here: Szczyrk.
