Spa to Luxembourg City - Day Thirty-two to Fifty

Having spent the day drying our clothes, we left Spa and walked ominously into 'The Land of the Springs', our last of the Belgian sections. Jake's camera rarely left his hands, as we scrambled through beech forest up busy rivers.

The town of Stavelot, four hours south of Spa, was an odd place. I shall justify this statement by revealing three observations. Firstly, it appeared that only zimmer-frame supported old ladies resided in the town. Secondly, Stavelot had chosen to hang a grotesque looking head of a nun, with a carot for a nose, from many of it's buildings.However, it was my third observation that disturbed me the most; in the centre of the town there was a beach shop selling buckets and spades on the cobbled street. The nearest beach lies 250 kms north.

The nip in the air followed us for the next two days. We stopped to sleep in the Ardenne's conifer forests, on the second of the two nights waking abruptly as a nearby shotgun unloaded three shells.

1,000 kms after leaving Bristol we crossed the Belgium-Luxembourg border. From high on the hill we looked down into a deep v-shaped valley, carved out by the Our River; this would be our route south for the next week. From the forested valley we spilt out into Ouren, a quaint village whose houses were ladden with vines and small shuttered windows. A couple more kilometres passed, when we realised that the fun looking Luxembourg maps were not so fun when it came to exploiting their primary use, navigation. Furthermore, the red and white stripes, which we had become well-aquainted with whilst in France and Belgium, had been replaced by a vague, wavy line. Over the duration of the following week, this GR5 representative would change, no fewer than five times, in both colour and shape, with no warning of it's spontaneous transformation.

Hiking in Luxembourg was magical. The paths dipped and rose, drifting towards the river, then gradually pulling away. At the top of one particularly tough ascent we found ourselves propped up against a wooden post signing the confluence of the E2 (our path) and the E3. The sign read, 'Sentiere de la grande randoneé N°2 - Holland - Mediterraneé'.

Whilst stopping for lunch one day I discovered a tick high in my groin (don't ask why I was rooting about in that region whilst eating), which then spurred Jake into a frenzied groom. By the end of the week my cumulative count had risen to six and Jake's eleven, including one on his 'you know what'.

Kapp Woods sat high on a tapering ridge, which pointed south east. It's steep slopes were covered in mossy stones and boulders, and tussocks of feathery grass beneath birch and oak. Spider webs crossed the path implying our solitude.

Halfway down the country we were forced to spend an extra night in the tourist town of Vianden. I had contracted a stomach bug that induced tremendous spewing out of two unnamed orifices. The bug proved to be contagious, seeing Jake transport a bowl of chips to the toilet, via his digestive tract.

We left Vianden in the dripping rain, weary, but glad to be on our feet again. The scenery transformed from buttercupped hills into deep gorges filled with boulders and waterways. The 25 km section from Beaufort to Rosport was little shy of sensational. Perhaps less splendid, however, was our dinner that night. We had picked up some tins of beans and 'meat' whilst in Echternach, which incidentally is beautiful, from a backstreet shop. After polishing off one tin I curiously read the label in a bid to determine what the meat, that melted so delectably in my mouth, was. We had just eaten pigs head, which made my already fragile belly churn. On opening the second tin I was attacked by a bouncing, jelly-coated trotter, followed by a piece of wobbly skin, bristled with thick black hair.

The Our River joined the Sùre, and the Sùre joined the Mousel, whose waters were wider and banks mildly more populated. On our approach to Grevenmacher I noted the occasional vineyard on the valley slopes. By the time we had arrived in the town, every patch of land, that was neither forest, nor built upon, had a vine in it's soil.

We left the GR5 and branched west, camping for the night in Katebresch Forest. In the early morning I opened the tent to see two deer grazing for new shoots beneath the rusty oak and beech leaves. I crouched down to watch them; they appeared unphased as they ate, bathed in a streak of sunlight that broke through the thick canopies above.

On day 50 of our trip we traipsed into Luxembourg City, our first and last capital, and checked into the aptly named Bristol Hotel. This was our re-supply point and a chance to recharge our bodies before dropping, with a heavy dose of ignorance, into the expansive French countryside.

On our way out of Spa

 5.30 start

Luxembourg arrival, the Our River

 Our 1,000 km

Chateau de Vianden

The repercussions of the stomch bug

Gorge walking

Luxembourg City arrival

 The box of gold; our maps

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.