Antwerpen to Spa - Day Thirty-one to Fourty

Antwerp was a milestone for Jake and I. I shall rephrase that, Antwerp was our 400th mile and our feet felt like stone. But, our foot ache did not deter out joy as we absorbed the knowledge that our days of moving further and further from our final destination were over; every step that followed would be a step closer to Menton. With this nortical alteration came lush forests, romantic windmills and rain. Lots of rain.

The night after leaving Antwerp we camped in Jagerboek Forest, amongst nettles and brambles. We woke early and flicked molluscs from the tent, before rejoining the path. In Halle, we bought freshly baked eclairs which we finished in seconds. That afternoon the much awaited GR5  came into view. We danced around it for a minute or two, noticed the time on our faithful Casios, then pressed on for Nooderwijk. Whilst queuing at a checkout in town, with our evening's dinner of noodles and tomatoes in hand, Bram, who had joined the line behind us, kindly offered to buy the banquet. We accepted with a pathetic fight.

Streams ran down trees and leaves that were not quite ready to part from their branches fell. It had been almost two weeks since Jake and I last washed our clothes, save socks and underwear. Not even the relentless rain could mask the smell that almost effervesced from our gear.

A night in Diest, a beautifully quaint town whose narrow streets were decorated with flags, proved to be little help when it came to drying our clothes. My walking shorts, that did manage to dry, were quickly soaked again at breakfast when I clumsily spilled a glass of apple juice over my lap. We left Diest with the aid of our 16th map since parting from Bristol. On the outskirts of the town something odd and unfamiliar filled our vision. It was large and roundish, with jagged edges here and there. A think green blanket of deciduous trees was draped over its body. It was a hill. The towering mass peaked at a dizzying 50 metres and finally gave our thighs something to think about. Over the following hours we were to see several hills of similar stature before joining the Albert Canal, whose water's arrowed us into Hasselt.

We spent two nights in Hasslet (the second at Mija's Paalsteen Bed and Breakfast, or Cambre d'hotes, where we were outrageously pampered back to fitness), not for it's charm, but to rest a sore ankle that Jake had been nursing since Noorderwijk. A particularly strong Roquefort cheese at breakfast powered us south along the canal, passing coral-coloured poppies and stalking herons. Soon we bumbled into Zutendaal Forest, sleeping below the mixed canopies.

The following day we side-stepped into Germany, but quickly found familiar land in Belgium a few minutes subsequent. Over the next 20 kms, we noticed a stark alteration in language, Dutch to French, which we celebrated (this signified a dramatic expansion of our vocabulary) with our first meal out since arriving on the continent. I had bolognaise and Jake macoroni cheese; we were neither ashamed. We spent the night at Gheslaine's Au Ver L'Oie in Vise - delightfully cluttered and even more delightfully hosted - learning all there was to know about the town's history.

Two days of heightening hills and near continuous rain took us onto Spa, the 40th day of our hike. Wet and tired we hung our gear across the furniture of the helpless hotel room. As I lay on the bed I saw a worm fall from the dripping tent.

The bog.

Brugges to Antwerpen - Day Twenty-Six to Thirty

After leaving Brugges we quickly realised that our supply of trail mix, or scroggin as it is more affectionately known, was running dangerously low. We had re-supplied in Dover, injecting such components as Skittles, Whams, Golden Grahams, of course, and a host of other high-calory goodies, but long days in the sun had exacerbated stock depletion. Having pitched our tent on the outskirts of Brugges, we began our assult on the oddly large number of supermarkets in the nearby suburbs. Adaptability proved to be integral as we found it impossible to reaquaint ourselves with the previously used scroggin components; perhaps our most succesful discovery being a bag of rip-off Smarties.

From Brugges, we began to walk northwards, passing along a number of GR routes, both national and regional. Buttercups and daisies sprawled across our view as we meandered through the undeniably flat farmland that makes up much of western Belgium. After we crossed the Leopord Kannal, we found ourselves in Holland and began to follow signs which sent us in the direction of ´Asperges` (we later realised that this is the Dutch word for ´asparagus`). That night we slept amongst fir trees whos northern-most branches stretched out over the adjacent asparagus fields.

The following day put wind through our hair as we walked the canal. After a long day, we should have arrived at Sans Van Gent, however, worn-out feet stopped us prior.The Hoeveterras De Vlienthoeve is both a dairy and potato farm, but also runs a warm and wonderful cafe. Els, Luc and the family kindly offered us a pitch in a field close to their cows, along with some delicious food, local beer and conversation. We could not help but leave the following day with a skip (not really a skip) in our step.

The land became increasingly wooded as we passed fields of tulips - red, pink, purple and white - and traipsed through nettles and ´toilet plants`, named for their smell. We passed in and out of Holland and Belgium several times, soon arriving in Hulst, a Dutch settlement, just a days walk from Antwerp.

On our 29th day since leaving Bristol, we trundled, largely in the rain, the 37 kms to Antwerp. As the blister on my heal further highlighted it´s existence by acquiring a heartbeat, Jake and I sucked on old bread whilst discussing which colour we would make the wind if it were visible.

Compeed clinging on.

Belgian tulips.

Canal trees.

The wonderful family that we met at Vlienthoeve.

Asparagus scrumping.

Dover to Brugge - Day Nineteen to Twenty-five

We were welcomed to Calais by smoke and motorways as our P and O ferry, filled with snap-happy passengers, arrived into dock. After cutting our way through a number of fences, several hurried road crossings and the traverse of a bank of dunes, which held both incredible girth and a number of squatters, we were spewed out onto an expansive beach. This coastal environment of beaches and dunes would dominate the next few days of walking. As we trudged along the sand we were constantly reminded of the coastlines wartime involvement; sunken bunkers, battered by the elements, lay strewn across the beaches. 

After two days on the French coast, we crossed the inconspicuous Belgian border. Belgium appears to pride itself on it's ability to be pristine and well organised. Jake and I like this, but are looking forward to a little more character.

On our 22nd day we hiked 40 kms on dunes and concrete, with 18 kgs for company. This was too long; an inspection of my legs later that night revealed that I had lost yet more hair from my thigh. Furthermore, my feet felt like they had been canned by a small Malaysian boy with a strong arm (Malaysian has no relevance to anything, it was merely the first nationality that sprung to mind).

From Ostend/Oostende, we bid farewell to the saline water, which we will not see again until the Mediterranean comes into view. We joined the Oostende-Gent Kannal - wider and cleaner, but lacking the character of its English counterpart - and arrived in the 'fairytale town' of Brugge, 27 kms later. Unfortunately we had timed our visit with the town's most popular annual event, thus resulting in us being forced to check into the worst hostel/establishment in town, Charlie Rockets Hostel. we quickly dropped our bags and reunited foot and boot to pavement as the sun crept down. The buildings are beautiful and there is bird life to match; we saw a heron catch a fish as a goose chick grazed the grass nearby. As night fell, we sat in a candle-lit restaurant drinking Zot, a local beer. Before putting our eyes to bed we would have one last stroll of the streets. The dimly lit buildings and bridges reflected on the waterways, whilst scores of swans bobbed on the black water, necks on backs. Beautiful Brugge, but we miss our tent.

On our way to France.     

Our first Grande Randonee sign

 In the dune slacks

 Strung up.

Belgium in our sights.

Brugges by night.

Farnham to Folkestone - Day Nine to Eighteen

Seventeen days and close to 400 km/250 miles after leaving Bristol, Jake and I arrived in the charmingly name seaside town of Folkstone. On our combine total of over one million steps (513, 105 each, or 256, 552.5 per leg) we have trundled through the South’s heart, absorbing a landscape steeped in wildlife, history, culture and, now, a thick blanket of my inner leg hair; short-shorts may bare the distinct advantage of exposing milk bottle knees to the sun, however, their abrasive ability, especially on the inner thigh, is comprehensive. I have chosen to abstain from attaching a photo to compliment, just imagine a plucked and slapped goose breast and you are as good as there.

We began the North Downs Way (NDW) close to Farnham train station, on day nine of our walk. After 20 meters of the national trail we were redirected back onto the path by a lady sanding at her upstairs window in the April sun. The NDW runs through what is predominantly a chalk influenced landscape, threading in and out of grassland and woodland. As we followed the well-marked trail east, the delayed spring began to finally show itself, with the flowering of the abundant bluebell forever in our observations. But this dainty woodland dweller was merely a sample of the bounty of wildlife that blesses the NDW; to name but a few, deer, foxes, butterflies, rabbits, a host of birds, several amphibious species, the usual pastoral gallimaufry and, less predictably, tortoises.

In all, the weather has been more than kind to us, with just a few rainy nights in the tent and the occasional heave of thunder. In fact, Jake and I both have Casio tan lines, which says it all.

Adversities so far have been relatively few and far between, but include a number of blisters (for me that is, Jake, unbelievably, has had none), sunburn (mostly Jake’s right shoulder), uncomfortably tangled hair in an uncomfortable-to-name place, a worryingly sore ankle (Jake’s), which thankfully disappeared, the consumption of too much pork pie, and, oh yes, Jake’s near death experience; a particularly steep climb was rewarded with an apple. Jake, as always, ate the whole thing, consequently choking on the unchewed stalk.

Our diet has been opportunistic, by which I mean awful. Noodles, bread, pastries, sweats, biscuits, chocolate and Golden Grahams have dominated, whilst the word ‘vegetable’ vanished, or should I say leeked (apologies) from our vocabularies.

Odd sights have been plentiful. Whilst in Biggin Hill we were passed by a fire engine which was plastered in images of Boris Johnson’s smiling face, accompanied by the resonating sound of ‘Ring of Fire’.  At Dunn Street campsite, we walked in on a medieval re-enactment  and in Larking we bought a banana the size of a Diplodocus femur, or a little smaller. We also passed through a number of amusingly named hamlets and villages - Clench, Crowdown Clump and Cuckoos Knobb.  

Our evenings so far would enthrall the most boisterous of party animals, even the golden lion tamarin. A typical night in the tent goes a little like this:

-         -  Stop drinking fluids by 18.00 p.m. so as to reduce the chance of needing a nighttime tinkle.

-         -  Cook then eat, teeth (thank God for comas).

-         -  Bed, diary, and then a little French.

-          - Asleep before dusk.

Conversely, a typical night in a Bed and Breakfast appears to be even simpler:

-        -  Buy heaps of snacks and eat them whilst watching either football or Made in Chelsea. Yes, you heard me!

Whilst walking, Jake and I spoke to scores of intrigued passers-by, many of which related to our expedition in one way or another, or were simply interested. On several occasions we even received ‘on foot’ donations. Carol and Roger, who own and run the magnificent Old Farmhouse, close to Biggin Hill, donated £85 to our WaterAid fund. Meanwhile, we are continuing to get wonderfully generous donations from those at home. Gwynneth, George and co. had a race to fill water bottles with coins. The girls reportedly won, but we would like to thank them all.

The beginning of the North Downs Way.

Camping in amongst the bluebells.

Luxury at The Old Farmhouse

View of the Kent countryside and the English Channel from the Wye Crown.

The 'Ocean'dance.

The beginning of the North Downs Way.

 The Bee Orchid bench

The rambler.

Arable farmland.

The M25 in all its glory.

Misty morning.

No words.

Jake, Roger, Carol and I at The Old Farmhouse.

Lunch stop.

Bluebells in bloom.

Good morning lambs.

Our first Grande Randonee sign.

Beware of the Moose!

A beautiful visit from our Grandmother and Dad whilst in Ottigne.