Was it the prospect of turning fifty? The recent deaths of both parents? A mini-midlife crisis? Perhaps it was a little of each, galvanized by the reading of Bill Bryson’s A Walk in the Woods, that prompted the idea: Sometime during my fiftieth year, I would walk 50 miles.
OK, I can hear some snickers: “Wow, I’m impressed, Iron Man! What’s next, climbing K2?” Point taken. This was more of a symbolic gesture to celebrate a half century of living.
The Half Century mark came and went, overshadowed by an international move and new job responsibilities. Though on the back burner, the goal was not forgotten, aided by the fact that I had mentioned it to several friends, who asked periodically, “Hey, whatever happened with that walk you were going to take?”
Now, where to walk? Now that we lived in Europe, there were innumerable intriguing possibilities. Then one day over coffee, a second idea hit me: Why not reach my goal and at the same time make it sound really impressive? I could walk across an entire country! And that country would be Belgium’s small neighbor to the southeast, the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg. I could imagine myself at some future dinner party, where, by omitting one word (Luxembourg), I could casually remark, “Why yes, Margaret, I had a similar experience on my recent trek across an entire country.”
This small country, a duchy since 1354, has been invaded many times throughout history, ruled over by such leaders as John the Blind, Philip the Good, and Charles the Mad. And now it would be traversed by Don the Getting Old.
Although many Belgians may yawn when you mention Luxembourg, we were fond of it, having made the two hour drive several times. We were drawn to the northern half of the country, with its forests, rivers, hills and rolling farmland. In contrast to the more industrialized south around Luxembourg City, this area is sparsely populated and ideal for an extended walk. After several trips to reconnoiter and hours poring over maps (I love maps.), I had selected the route. Combining the walk with leisure time with Cheryl, it would span four days.
The only problem was that northern Luxembourg is only 25 miles across, so the actual border-to-border crossing would only be two of the four days. Our base of operation would be the lovely town of Clervaux. I would begin by walking one day in Belgium, and then three days around Luxembourg. This account begins at the western border with Belgium and Day Two.
I had checked the extended forecast before and the next ten days showed the same symbol: a black cloud, sun peeking out above, rain falling below. (If a meteorologist in this region decided to sleep in and phone in their forecast, they would usually be safe by gambling on this symbol.) This September day began with rain and a temperature of 48F (9C). Today’s hike would take me along a two-lane highway through hilly farmland, with striking vistas in all directions. I donned rain gear and was on my way. I carried a small backpack with water, reading material for rest stops, and lunch. (One thing I wish I had taken was my binoculars for birdwatching.)
I passed through small villages – Lullange, Doennange, Deifelt, Lentzweiler – some little more than a cluster of three or four farmhouses. A few had cafes, most of which were closed. Except for the faces in cars whizzing past, I saw few people about, other than a few farmers in the fields.
In the villages, the houses are built flush with the narrow roads. Outside of town, houses have small yards, immaculately manicured and lushly planted. Every window of every house has a planter of red geraniums, contrasted against the white, cream, or yellow stucco walls of the perfectly symmetrical house. I am struck by the absolute tidiness of everything. In the few open garages, a typical sight is a wall covered with a variety of types of push brooms, squeegees, whiskbrooms, dustpans, and other implements of neatness. The farmhouses outside the towns are part of a larger complex which also includes barns and sheds. Only by distinguishing the types of doors can I determine which part is for human habitation and which for animal. Attached to a corner of every house are one, two, or even three mini-satellite dishes.
Everything seems to be built with an eye for quality and permanence. Even the rural bus stops are constructed of stone, with slate roofs. (Close one in and I would take it as a small study in my home.) Luxembourg is also extremely well-signed; if you get lost in this small country, you are seriously direction-impaired. Every intersection of even tiny roads has neat yellow signs giving you the directions and distances to every small village around, and the next junction just 200 meters down the road confirms that you are still proceeding in the right direction and that your destination is now 200 meters closer.
I stopped for a rest in Lullange at a café, Berger Blanche (“White Shepherd”). I hesitated at the entrance, a simple door, feeling as if I were walking into someone’s home. The discomfort lingered after I entered. The only other customer was Woody Allen’s dopplegänger (with shoulder-length stringy hair and sporting a turquoise sweatsuit), who was talking to the waitress at the bar. As I chose one of the three tables, they immediately stopped talking, leaving the room quiet except for the faint techno music coming from a tinny speaker overhead. After a few moments, they resumed their conversation, I relaxed, ordered a coffee and read the newspaper.
Luxembourgers have been variously described as simple, hardworking folk, both reserved, and friendly. My first impression was that they certainly edged toward the reserved end of the spectrum. For instance, I spent three days walking along small roads and encountered hundreds of on-coming cars. My informal survey results:
Farmer’s wave (index finger lifted from steering wheel) 1
Other fingers raised 0
Head nods 1
Horn toots (interpreted as friendly) 1
Ignoring the invisible hiker 497
The few people I encountered face-to-face in town followed suit. As I’ve read about the culture, I interpret this not as unfriendliness but that they are not openly demonstrative toward strangers. They have this in common with the French-speaking Belgians, with whom they have some common cultural roots. (I realize that my cultural comfort zone is the US South, where folks greet you with a smile, nod, or hello.)
The miles passed quickly as I savored the picturesque surroundings. Were it not for the cars and the satellite dishes, I could have imagined being in the 19th century. Every few miles my senses were jarred by the sight of a modern gas station/convenience store – Esso, TotalFina, Shell – reminders of the global world.
The next day would take me the rest of the way across Luxembourg to the German border. Leaving Clervaux heading east, I walked along a small highway lined by large trees. Beyond the trees was rolling farmland and pasture as far as I could see. A row of eight tall white wind turbines lined a far ridge, blades turning rapidly in the brisk wind. Soon I was out of the open country and into the forested hills. The road narrowed, the traffic thinned, and I was mostly alone.
(Warning! Potential Triteness Zone Ahead)
I realize that I miss so much on my daily rush through life. When I slow down, I am able to more fully experience the sights, smells, sounds, and textures around me. I saw moss not as just green fuzz on a tree but as five or six different varieties, each with unique patterns. I saw and heard a hawk gliding on the air currents above me. I watched a long pumpkin-colored slug inching across the road (and cringed a few minutes later as a caravan of 30 motorcycles whizzed by me in its direction). I smelled the pungent odor of mud and manure and mown hay. I felt the cool rain and the warm sunshine on my face (several times each in any given day). Walking forces you to take it easy and to enjoy the day to its fullest. I made a mental note to slow down and try to carpe the diem more often.
(End Triteness Zone)
Before I knew it, I was nearing the German border, designated by the blue and gold European Union sign just across the river. In this isolated region, the border is fairly un-dramatic, a two lane bridge over the Sur River. I got to the middle of the bridge and stopped, realizing that I had a foot in two countries. Making sure no one was looking, I walked in a tight circle 20 times. More cocktail party fodder – I could now truthfully say that I took 20 International trips in one day. (The report: 1) It was not as exhausting as I’d thought it would be, 2) The jet lag was minimal.)
I walked into Germany under the gaze of a herd of border sentry cows, dispersed along the riverbank. Like good bureaucrats, they were all on an extended lunch break. I wasn’t nervous: They would have had a hard time leafing through my passport anyway.
Having reached the easternmost point of my journey, I stopped at a café to rest before continuing back toward town and the St. Hubert Hotel. As my legs began to ache, I began to regret not paying the extra 250 francs (5.50 USD) for a room with a bathtub rather than a shower.
The thirteen miles of Day Four would complete the 50-miles-in-four-days goal. I had mapped out a scenic round trip heading north into the hilly, forested Ardennes.
The weather was dry for the first time in three days, and I set out with renewed energy and anticipation of one more day of solitude and communing with nature. Other than a few cars, the area was deserted. As I walked, my mileposts were rural bus stops, each with a bulletin board covered with layers of posters and notices. Had I stayed over for the weekend, I observed, I would have had a wealth of social opportunities in the nearby towns. Sadly, I had missed the Beach Party a few weeks before, but I could still dance to DJ White and the music of Main Street. There was also the Ardennes Workhorse Festival, and the Grompenfest in Nidderwampich. I’m not sure what a Grompenfest is, but the poster showed a caricature of an anthropomorphized potato being peeled. (And you were beginning to think that Luxembourg life was boring.)
At the eight mile mark, I spotted a campground down by the river, and its entrance drive descending from the road was lined with small Diekirk beer signs. I sensed coffee below and walked down to find a campground office/café. When I walked in, it seemed closed, its coffeemaker empty and scrubbed clean. As I turned to leave I heard footsteps from the back, and soon the owner appeared. I said, “That’s okay, I was just looking for a cup of coffee,” and started to walk out, but he said, “Please come in! I’ll make you a coffee!” He brewed coffee, poured us both a cup and sat at the counter to chat. He seemed quite excited to have someone to talk to. (The typical Luxembourger speaks French, German, and Letzebuergesch, and many speak English as well.)
When I told him my route, he suggested a footpath through the dense forest that would lead me back to town. I decided to follow his advice, so after finishing my coffee and bidding him farewell, I entered the darkened woods. Once inside, the sense of solitude was total. I followed the narrow trail up and down a series of steep hills until I came upon a startling sight: the wreckage of a British WWII plane strewn along the hillside, under a thick canopy of tall trees. There were markers commemorating the crew, shot down while returning from a secret mission. (There are constant reminders of WWII in eastern Belgium and Luxembourg, the sites of numerous horrendous and significant battles. There are cemeteries, memorials, American Flags and vintage machinery of war all around. Small towns might have a tank or artillery piece positioned in a prominent place, reminders of both a terrible war and the liberating role that Allied Forces played.)
I emerged from the woods and rejoined the road for the last mile to my final destination, relieved that the home stretch was downhill all the way.
One detail of the fourth day had an as-yet unrealized significance: The day was Tuesday, September 11, 2001. We arrived home back in Brussels around 3:00 pm (9:00 am EST) and turned on the television to witness a second airliner crashing into the World Trade Center.
As I’ve reflected on this for the past weeks, I’ve sensed (as we each have) a shifting of priorities. Perhaps my thoughts on slowing down and making each day count aren’t so trite after all.