Grande Ballon to Nyon - Day Eighty to Ninety-Three

With the aid of our thirty-fifth map, we descended the Grande Ballon through grass and meadows. A shepherd led his goats with a whistle down the tourist road as we munched on a pain au chocolat, bought several days prior. On arriving into Thann, where we passed the magnificent church of Sainte Thiebaut, I pushed its weighty door open and stepped inside. The deep, flat tone of the organ resonated through my bones as the tea lights flickered.

Jake and I had decided that a rest day was required. We thus booked ourselves into the cryptically named Hotel de France, bought a truck load of food, whose calories would kill a large badger, and kicked back into a thrilling game of televised football.

The following morning I stirred with a headache, quite likely to have been the repercussions of the two beers I had sunk the night before. My boots sat by the door looking up at me, 'When are we going?' - the feeling was reciprocated.

On the last day of June we left Thann, feeling decidedly out of sorts. We had lost our rhythm and Jake's feet had softened to the consistency of prediluted jelly, not good for a long distance hiker. However, despite the atrocities induced by our day of rest, the day was rescued by, arguably, the best sandwiches ever created, which we ate on Vogelstein Rocks, a spectacular viewpoint which looked south at the dwindling mountains of the Vosges. Passed clumps of wild mint and strawberries, our route took us through a landscape shaped by glaciers. A few paces shy of the Ballon D'Alsace, we pitched our tent in amongst hungry mosquitoes then cowered inside to finish a box of chocolate biscuits.

We left the Vosges mountains on our eightieth day, pursing our long broken shadows through open beech. The day was warm and the skies strewn with bumbling clouds. On one overhead inspection, we noted a wisp of cloud streaked with the sun's spectrum. Totally absorbed in the wondrous nature that surrounded us, I found myself crashing back to reality as we rounded a corner to an expansive lake, an artificial beach boomeranged the southern shore, its sand brimming with near nude bodies of all shapes and sizes. Feeling horribly out of place, we marched through the scene at pace, inadvertently glimpsing body parts that I had long forgotten existed.

For several days the heat of the day had been building, until it reached the point where we were leaving wet footprints in the scalding black tarmac. So when the nimbus came rolling in, we knew a storm was imminent. The thunder rumbled and the rain poured for two days. Insult was surely added to injury as I somewhat ironically missed the waymarker whilst checking the map, thus sending us hopelessly in the wrong direction. On the second night of rain we treated ourselves to a room at Hotel Bienvenue in St Hippolyte. Whilst Jake literally poured water from his boots, I nursed the chafing that had flared up on my 'you know whats', with a heavy dose of soothing Vaseline.

The gargantuan breakfast hindered rather than helped our progress out of St Hippolyte, through out-skirting fields dripping with morning dew. On inspecting a rather splendid calcium waterfall, we bumped in to Janique and Gabrielle, a pair of boisterous Frenchmen, recently retired, on an eighteen day hike through the Jura mountains. We slipped our way up and down the stream riddled path, through gorges lush with ferns and vines; a weathered marker stone signalled our arrival into Switzerland. Following the border stones south, I actively walked on the left hand side of the path in order to absorb as much of Switzerland as possible. Insightful observations revealed that it was much the same as France.

Stone kicking frequented our days; long curling shots that stayed on the track sparked praise, whilst stones in the gutter would be jeered. Late on Thursday afternoon I was so immersed in a reverie that I walked head on into a fallen pine that bridged the path. I stumbled backwards and spent the remainder of the day feeling half drunk.

After a night in our first gite d'etape (dormitory style walkers' accommodation), we left the village of Fesser Viller in thick mist. Fence posts traversed the pastures through the breath-taking translucence. Soon we were swallowed by the forest where the light show continued as streaks of sun cut through the pines and droplet-decorated spider webs clung to every surface. On reaching Goumois, the sun had burnt through the mist and the days of rain were forgotten. The river Doubs led us south, undulating through a gorge thick in beech, hazel and pine. Every surface held a sponge of moss, like emerald snow. The gorge made me think of Wind of the Willows on steroids, with a twist of Lord of the Rings, and a handful of the limestone islands of South East Asia. Whilst making our way through house-sized boulders, Jake anxiously revealed a concern, 'My bottom is definitely getting saggier, I think the weight of my pack is pushing it downwards.'

We climbed the Escelles De La Mort, stairs of death, which needless to say were less morbid than insinuated, before arriving at a wooden shelter, or abri, in which we lit a fire whose smoke was used to mask the smell of our hanging clothes.

We saw a kingfisher in the morning, then shed our clothes for a swim in the icy waters of the Doubs, an act which encouraged the retraction of certain body parts. Incidentally it was one of these retracted body parts on which Jake recorded his one hundredth and his largest tick since leaving Bristol.

We brushed past pincushion thistles and swathes of buttercups, then pitched the tent in a pretty forest at Sur La Roche. That night I was reminded of the perils of fizzy cola bottles as a tiny crystal of citric sugar unlodged itself from the main body of the bottle, falling neatly into my left eye. The pain was outstanding.

The bark of a deer woke us so we rose early and ate a breakfast of tinned ravioli, overlooking valleys whose troughs were filled with mist. Later in the day an old tractor distracted us as we once again missed our turnoff. Two hours later we found the path and were quickly rewarded with our first Chamois sighting, a sort of mountain goat iconic of the Jura.

The blue skies continued as we walked the forty kilometres to Malbuissons. Along the way we admired Joux Castle, which stood proudly upon its hill overlooking La Cluse. It was here that we met Mark, a Dutch chap, hiking the GR5. We walked the rest of the day with Mark, sharing stories and comparing gear. Malbuissons was our chosen meeting point with Brenda, a dear friend from Australia who was eager to meet us on the trail. We sat in a terraced bar for a short while until a white Peugot swung into the car park across the way, bridging two spaces with tires that seemed keen to rebel against the notion of parallel parking. As conversation turned magnificently uncensored, Lea, who worked in the hotel opposite, and who had recognised our lack of accommodation at such a late hour, offered to house us for the night. In fact, it was for the next four days that we shared company with Lea and her family, who radiated kindness, love and laughter. The family, comprising Mauricette, Christine, Iris, Sylvio, Madeleine (or Mamie) and of course Lea, pampered us with splendid food, including a fondue made from Comte cheese, a product of the cows' milk produced on their farm. We visited Orlans, a quaint Juran town, swam in a Swiss lake, and watched the sun sink down over the forest-crested mountains that swept our peripherals. Brenda's departure was, as always, both dramatic and saddening, and included a small child dropping a ceramic ashtray from a window which narrowly missed Brenda's head.

After a sizable lunch, and the opening twenty minutes of The Lion King, in French, we bid farewell to the family and left Malbuissons in the company of Lea and her dog, Charlie (Lea's intrigue had led her to accept our invitation to walk the thirty kilometres to La Source de la Doubs.)

Charlie led us through hamlets and pastures until we reached a forest at the base of La Morond, where we set up camp. With a bottle of rose and a hip flask of cognac, the sun was put to bed over fields of cut grass, ready to be baled.

The next day we climbed the out of season ski fields, plastered with gentians and giant daisies, or margarets as we learnt. From Mont d'Or we could see the snow peaked summit of Mont Blanc above a string of cloud. The tough day of hiking was rounded off with a visit to the local pizzeria in Mouthe, a nearby town. Jake and I ate snails before raising our glasses to Lea and her family, the most wonderful of hosts. Within the next three days the Juran mountains petered out, giving way to flatter terrain. In St Cergue we played boules with the locals, in which the France beat England 11-3.

On a hot, humid day Jake and I stepped onto the shores of Lac Leman, greeted by our grandparents. With two mountain ranges conquered, we looked south towards our third and final traverse. Over seven hundred kilometres of the largest mountains in Europe stood between us and the Mediterranean Sea.

Abresviller to Le Grand Ballon - Day Sixty-seven to Eighty

We left Abreschviller having met two wonderfully benevolent couples, Don and Hazel, and Dick and Anneka, whom we talked fondly of as we climbed for seven hundred metres in 30 degrees centigrade heat, with water rations of just four litres between us for two days on the path. Through eyes stinging with sweat, I noticed the welcome injection of purple foxgloves and small white butterflies. The viewpoint at Belle Roche revealed the vastness of the Vosges mountains, as the tree-blanketed peaks staggered on to the horizon. That night we camped at the foot of La Donan, a distinctive summit that had been in our sights for over a week. The following day we woke at 4.00 a.m. to catch the sunrise, but on reaching the temples at the top of La Donan we received views of just a few metres as we were swamped with thick mist. Walking east for three days, Jake found himself at the wrong end of several unfortunate events, including the resurfacing of a back problem, a head first tumble into a ditch, and a punch in the face from his own fist as he tried to pull his pack on at speed. The trail mix, or sproggin, had gradually transitioned away from a healthy nut, raisin and banana chip mix to a high energy bag of jellies and boiled sweets. The sugar had clearly gone to Jake’s head; as I crunched into a sherbet grenadine (like sherbet lemon but grenadine flavoured) he shook his head, stating, “You know something is wrong with the world when people are biting sherbet grenadines and not sucking them”. Our woes are all relative, as they say.

We emerged from the Vosges forest to the east looking out over the staggering expanse of the Alsace plains, scarred by the Rhine which meandered through a dappling of towns and villages. We dropped rapidly into the pleasant town of Barr whose surroundings were combed with vineyards. Hiking south once more, we were gifted with two more trail angel generosities. The first, a bowl of salade vert, offered to us by Piret, a French lady who seemed keen to keep our vitamin levels up. The second, a bout of delightful conversation, coffee and cake, courtesy of Peter and Barb, a Canadian couple that we met as we were leaving Andlau.

Ascending back into the heart of the mountains, we spent the day bypassing castles and cyclists whose attire left little to the imagination. Appropriately, we spent the night next to Chateau de L’Ordenbourg, whose crumbled walls overlooked a mesmerising nightscape of village lights.

As Mid Summer’s Day faded into the past, we followed a rising and dipping path, studded with wartime relics - rusted wire and metal prongs jutted from the tussocks that bounced with orchids, purple and yellow.

From Le Hanneck, we saw snow on the nearby mountains, the same moment as a conversation with a pair of French ladies spurred the one with the twig in her hair to describe our French as ‘tres bien’. This most certainly, a gross overstatement. A steep descent saw us step out at Lac Fischboedle. From its mysterious waters, one hundred-metre valley walls shot skywards. On one flank a waterfall spilt from the crest in slow motion, its waters absorbed by the conifers below. On the opposite wall a boulder slide toppled into the lake. I clambered upon it whilst watching fish leap and swifts swoop. Ted the tent was propped up at the base of the falls. Waking early, our legs took us down nature’s own cobbled street and into Mitlach. With next to no food in our packs, our hopes of finding a small shop had added emphasis. Alas, a shop there wasn’t and so began the boulangerie ambush. We bought five baguettes, eight pain au chocolat, a loaf of bread and six pastries to last us the two days that would see us into Thann. We lugged the carbohydrates out of town, stopping at a viewpoint to catch our breath. As I photographed Jake looking down at Mitlach de Haut, my bag slowly rolled from the bench I had placed it on and continued on down the hill. Panic went to my head. I flung the camera to the floor and darted down the slope after the bag, finally leaping on the orange ball before it disappeared over the edge. Despite my sodden clothes, I was relieved to escape without becoming an entrant of the Darwin Awards.

The weather was dynamic, to say the least. One minute a lashing of cold wind and rain swung in from the west, next, the sun would poke its guilty face out from behind monstrous looking cumulus nimbus, causing the grass to steam. As mid afternoon came, the mist cleared once more to unveil Le Grand Ballon, the tallest mountain in the Vosges. After winding up the northern flank, we summited at 1,424 metres as another tranche of weather came in. Having camped just down from the peak, we rose the following morning to the most anticipated view of the walk so far. On the horizon stood the Alps and Mont Blanc. A sea of cloud, tinted orange by the low sun, immersed the Alsace Plains. In three weeks time we would be at the foothills of the Alps. Suddenly our venture had a purpose that could be seen, and with each day that passed, our purpose would become increasingly vivid.

The Alsace

 Snow.

Seed fall.

 Yanik and Gabrielle, our pace makers

In the Abri

Lea, mauricette and the family at La Grande Oye

La Dent de Volion

Luxembourg City to Abreschviller - Day fifty one - sixty six

After a hashed-up map resupply, solely the blame of the Luxembourg City postal service, of course, Jake and I were back on the path. With a refreshed supply of cartographical literature and bags filled with condiments, abducted from the hotel breakfast buffet.  On our way out of the city we stopped at AS Adventure, a huge outdoor shop, where I bought walking poles for the hills that were soon to bend our knees. Raffaele, a hairy gent who ran though the specs of the walking aids, was so delighted that their were young people outdoors that he slipped two boxes of Compeed (blister protection) into Jake's bag, telling him to “just smile” as he walked out.  He did, and we were not arrested.

We traipsed up a dirt track brimming with heavy-duty machinery, making the most of the fast growing pines. On one occasion a truck hammered past. As the dust settled, the familiar red and white of the GR way markers came into focus; this symbolised our return to the French countryside.

Whilst in Fonty we bought arguably the most refreshing drink ever consumed; peach Fanta. We drank the chemicals on a crumbling wall, spilling with small purple flowers and backed with tall grass.

Our first few days in France were studded with small villages and towns, whose stunted streets were clad with houses coated with jasmine, wisteria and ivy. In one small village, to my delight, a leathery skinned man with stubble and a more managed mustache, stepped out from a Boulangerie with a baguette under his arm. I desired a beret to be flung headwords, but alas.

On Saturday 08 June we walked 42 Kilometres with packs budging, near splitting at their seams.  After getting lost, we finally found ourselves back on the map. I celebrated by buying, and eating, a whole round of Camembert, which saturated my body with fat. That night we welcomed a sleep away from the trees, after several consecutive pitches in conifer forest. Dominique, the drummer of Fisc, a French 80’s rock and roll band, allowed us a spot in his field overlooking vineyards and forests. The following day I woke to a crippling back pain and an outrageous thunderstorm. Jake dragged me, and all of our gear, up the street, into the 1500’s village of Jussy. Eliane, Dominique’s sister, and her son, Pitou, homed us for close to two days. We ate freshly made food almost continually, whilst learning much about the history and culture of the Lorraine region. Eliane and Pitou stood at their doorway as we bid them goodbye, reacquainting ourselves, somewhat gingerly, with the south leading path.

The mosquitoes were prolific, feasting on any skin that was left uncovered, making wee stops a particularly unsatisfying event.  Further down the track, Jake gifted me with another fantastic fall, seeing both feet flung skywards and finishing with a hearty splat onto the mud below.

On our 60^th day of walking, I pulled up once more with a bolting pain in the small of my back. I walked like a chameleon, as Jake took my bag. He reminded me of a pack horse (save for the stark difference of him tucking his shirt into his underwear).

The following day saw my back strengthen, as the hills grew stronger. We passed alongside potato fields ordered with blackthorn, who’s fallen blossom painted the path white and pink. Red deer, dragonflies of emerald and azure, stoats and kites frequented our view.  We picked cherries and wild strawberries, which we ate at lunch, with the never tiring baguette and sausage, on a grassy verge beside the track.

Using a 1:2500 IGN map, printed before we were born, we skirted the northern fringes of Nancy, arriving in Liverdum just before the rain came.  We spent the evening speaking to two German brothers, who were on a two-year walking adventure of Europe and Northern Africa. At dusk the clouds transformed- pink, purple and rainbowed – the old town of Liverdum lit romantically on the hills below.

Nights in the forest had taught Jake and I several things: there is little better to fall asleep to than the sound of birdsong; roe dear wake up early and noisily, and finally, a bag check before departure is wise, as fermenting slugs, left to pool at the base of a bag, certainly tantalize the gag reflex. 

We stopped by four metal silos, just after the hamlet of Fleur Fontaine. An old lady tended to her vegetable patch and a small girl rode her bike.  We had walked 1,392 kilometres and had 1,392 kilometres to go. The insignificance of the location added to the poignancy, as too did the jam sandwiches. 

Looking eastwards we began to see the undulations of the Vosges Mountains. As each day passed, their peaks grew stronger and our excitement heightened. We woke at sunrise and ran to the Etanges  de Lordre, seeing amber waters splashing with hungry catfish and unfortunate pond skaters.  The white stalks, iconic of the area, stood tall and the moorhens busy.  That afternoon we leapt into the waters of la Petit Etanges and absorbed the bliss. We spent the evening surrounded by men, whose wine-filled bellies hung over minuscule Speedos.

On a roasting hot Tuesday, the foothills of the Vosges Mountains finally greeted our worn-out boots.

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.