This is the best I can do.
The aged, weathered wood of a log cabin gets me every time. I spent many years hunting out of this Adirondack in the National forest, sharing it with the mice who slowly, along with the weather, ate the chestnut logs away.
I have hunted there since 1986, and can understand the ache that one may have to hold a piece of country, to throw your heart unreservedly, headlong into a patch of woods, a section of mountain, a stretch of range. Something that would be in your psyche, your soul, when you were away, and calling. Open arms awaiting your return, that you may frolic together in youthful abandon like old friends.
Reunited old friends pick up the conversation where it left off, because they really have never been apart.
Killdeer