Grobbendonk to Westerlo

Saturday 21 April
But next day my feet felt fine and I set off at nine. An hour later I crossed the Albert Canal and stopped for breakfast at Bouwel. Bacon and egg sandwich. Coffee came accompanied with a Snickers bar, a little biscuit and a shot glass of Avocaat topped with whipped cream. Is this usual?

The path took off into fields behind the cafe. A man and his dog stopped to talk. He spoke English, also Spanish, Portuguese, French and German, having been in the transport business. "Then a very bad thing happened. My son died. He was 38. I go every day to visit his grave over there, to talk to him. It's been a terrible time. My father and sister died too." "You must be happy sometimes." "Yes, when the sun is shining." I hadn't seen 10 minutes sunshine for a week. After a while we shook hands and parted but I thought about him all day. Took my mind off my feet on the 30km hike to Westerlo.

By mid-afternoon I had of course daydreamed off the path. I asked a man in his garden the way to Westerlo. "This is Westerlo." Didn't look like a town. Where was the Abdij? He pointed to a tower on the horizon. Shuffled down oak avenues for another hour. The secret police had been doing their work on my feet with the iron bars again. Found the youth hostel. Full up with youth. I called up the Hotel Geerts, best and only hotel in town. Pricey at 116 euros but it was a seller's market. Another half hour's walk into the centre. Lovely room. Long bath! I was going to use that. Cleaned my ears with the complementary cotton buds. Moisteurised my face with the complementary moisteuriser. Dove! Checked my email on the complementary internet. Checked out the complementary garden and attached forest. I was practically making a profit on this place. I booked in for a second night. Needed a rest. 120 km in 4 days. Too much. Had a cuppel of dunkels and a pork stew in a cafe opposite the hotel. My face was stinging. You can get burnt even when it's overcast.

Back at Geerts Hotel another of those "we don't see many strangers round here'' moments. An elderly party engaged me in conversation. He was a GP, studied medicine at Louvain. Every year he comes here for a reunion. The club is 120 years old. He is too old to work but his patients are even older and refuse to let him retire. "Perhaps you could hurry them along a little?" He didn't understand. "And you are walking for pleasure?" "Well, it's not a penance." Ho, ho, ho. But the way my feet are feeling...

Later got in the bath with all my dirty clothes and a bottle of dunkel. (3.60 euros from the minibar but at 10% a bargain. "Like an angel pissing down your throat.") I went to the moisteuriser again. It wasn't moisteuriser, it was soap. I was digging yellow gunk out of my laughter lines for the next two days.

Sunday 22 April

Complementary breakfast. All my dreams fulfilled. Silver service, fruit, yoghurt, stewed stuff, bacon & eggs. Didn't know what to do with the chocolate sprinkles. No Avocaat.

Ambled a couple of km north to Norbertitijnabdij in Tongerlo. Red brick buildings surrounding a lawn the size of a soccer pitch. Deserted, not even a monk. The church was the size of a small cathedral, C19 neo-Gothic. Absolutely empty and amazing acoustics, my smoker''s cough echoing for seconds. Lit a candle for the man in Bouwel.



Kalmthout to Grobbendonk

Friday 20 April

An hour to get clear of the suburbs of Brecht. An easy walk along the canal and farmland with usual inhabitants - cows, horses, geese but no humans until I got lost in a large oak and beech forest. I was overtaken by three horsedrawn wagons full of schoolkids. Was invited to jump up but like a fool declined (the sound of schoolkids sent a shiver up my spine). Watched them disappear into the distance and resolved never again to decline a ride in a horsedrawn cart.

Later met up with two rasta carthorses, placid and friendly brutes. Was only mildly lost - a passing jogger pointed out the Westmalle Abbey. Large, walled estate - "privaat domein."

The restaurant across the road was large and modern and, like all things Belgian, of exquisite taste. Bliss. A bottle of Westmalle Dubbel (7.2%) and a Trappist club sandwich (Club sandwich met Trappistenkaas, gerookt spek, sla en tomaten - aka BLT). I promise not to post any more pictures of meals. No separate billing here - "Graag 1 rekening  per tafel." I wonder what those monks get up to when they're not brewing or cheesemaking.

Put on my thongs to air my feet and flipflopped along the leafy lanes to to the youth hostel. I planned to check in and maybe flipflop back to the Trappists for supper. A sign in English announced the place would open in June. I thought unkind thoughts but choose not to publish them. Next place where I could find a bed was Grobbendonk, another 16km or 4 hours away. Poxy little country. Who would call a place Grobbendonk? An hour late I looked up a shortcut on the map. My feet were hurting and my pack felt heavy. Do I really need 2 shirts? It started to rain and I left the forest and started down the road. I had a DUH moment. I stuck out my thumb and the second car stopped. A young mum with her daughters. They were sweet and going to Grobbendonk. She stopped for a minute at the baker's (he roasted chickens on Fridays.) What a place! What people! I asked if they had many tourists in summer. Not that she'd noticed. Small town Flanders doesn't do tourists. There's a tourist guide, but it's only in Dutch (which is what the Belgians speak when they're not speaking French.)

I had the phone number of the only B & B in town. In fact it was a garage converted into a nice little apartment. 35€. The luck of the Wisemans! Dinner at an ordinary looking bistro in the beautiful town square. Lamskroon - perfect. Outside the restaurant a man engaged me in English. "You sound very English." "I'm afraid so." "Ho, ho. Don't be afraid. It's good." He agreed Grobbendonk was a lovely place. Peaceful and law-abiding, too. "We don't have your English criminality." I was again tempted to take a day off, and see more of this area.

GR5: Bergen op Zoom to Brecht

Tuesday 17 April

Checked into the Stay Okay Hostel in Bergen op Zoom. Had an apartment to myself for the price of a bunk. I checked out the start of the path ( getting lost in the process) for next day. Met two American women who asked where I was headed. "The Mediterranean." One said: "Where's that?" "Italy." "Oh."

Wednesday 18 April
Cold and overcast but pleasant walking through woodland. It took me 2 hours to get lost but I'm glad I did because I found myself in a beautiful private estate of immaculately maintained 17 or 18th century buildings. A man in a Landrover politely pointed out my mistake and directed me back to the path. My Dutch had led me astray. I had thought a notice said No entry to all except walkers but in fact it said No entry to anyone at all. A question of confusing toegang with foetganger. A cyclist by the way is a fietser.

Vast green fields and rectangles of recently ploughed land. Mainly dirt roads, immaculately maintained farmhouses and posh private estates. Big barking dogs. I promised I'd cut myself a stick for tomorrow. Just in case.

Crossed the (insignificant here) Bergen river, op which is presumably Bergen op Zoom.

Got lost, tried a short cut or two, and made it to Kalmthout about 4 in the afternoon.Walked about 30km which was too much for the first day but unavoidable because there was nowhere to stay in between. I'm starting to get a handle on this blogging game. It's like a conversation where no one can interrupt you and you can say what you like as they're probably not listening anyway. It's like being a female member of the family. Just kidding, girls. Did you want to say something? No? Well I'll go on. Kalmthout is an impossibly twee little town where I stayed in an impossible twee B & B and had a good meal of kabeljauw florentine, atlantic cod to you.

Thursday 19 April

Was tempted to take a day off and rent a bike to see the sights of Kalmthout since it is such a beautiful spot; immaculate fields; gardens, houses, cafe bar like something out of Cheers. I also felt I had been subjected to the bastinado, a torture supposedly invented by the Turks in which the victim is beaten on the soles of his feet with iron bars. However, I decided to press on to Brecht. At lunchtime I reached Wuustwezel where I joined a sociable old party for a bottle of Westmalle ( the dubbel, which is only 7% as opposed to the tripel which is 10%).Fortified by my lunch, I walked on. 10°C, constantly threatening rain but little falling. Reached the hotel outside Brecht mid afternoon. The owner had previously bred horses, indeed there was a tariff for stabling on my bedroom door; 8 euros a night; including hay. The town was next to a confluence of highways  and railway lines so not appealing; although the centre was pleasant enough. Found a nice little bistro, as they all seem to be in country Flanders. None of your low bars of Antwerp here. The only jarring note is sounded by the slogans framed on the walls: SMILE IT CONFUSES PEOPLE, LIFE IS WONDERFUL, MY NEXT HUSBAND WILL BE NORMAL.English is truly a second language to these people. I haven't heard a word of French.More Westmalle. It comes in dark and light versions and is brewed by Trappist monks. I was to pass through or near the brewery on Friday.It's amazing how it takes away all pain from the feet.

Antwerp

Checked in at the Billiard Palace Hotel, which is a find for the budget traveller, close to the Central Station with a billiar hall cum card parlour on the first floor. Found a low dive off a side street - the Arizona - (no pictures) populated with a mixture of local  Belgians, Turks and Arabs. A large drunk sat next to me and said, ' Let me give you some advice. This is a dangerous place.' I did not stay for a second drink.

I spent the next day walking the streets of Antwerp, a beautiful city. Ticked off the cathedral and its wonderful paintings. Walked under the river in the pedestrian tunnel under the Schelde to buy a guide book for the Belgian stage of my walk.



Dutch doesn't seem to be a difficult language. Many of the words are cognate with English, even if they are spelt differently. This establishment offered edible crotchless gummy undies. Perhaps the chewing would help with my smoking. Or perhaps the candy posing pouch.

Found Hoffy's, a Kosher Restaurant, in the Diamond Quarter. Both the cook (pictured above ) and the manager are married to women from their ultra-orthodox Addis community in St Kilda's. Sea bass and accompaniments were excellent and not expensive.



Gloucester

Message from Rich: My growth has been very pleasantly stunted during your crash visit, the first night in a week that I went to bed sober was after depositing you at the airport on Sunday. The itinerary during the one week blitz included the following pubs ....... the Old Badger, the Halfway House, The Black Horse, The Green Dragon, Butcher’s Arms, The Woolpack, The Painswick Inn, Hunters Hall, The Tipputs Inn, pub near Westminster, pub near Paddington railway station, beer on train, Calcot Manor, Sapperton pub, pub in Freshford with Andrew, etc. etc., maybe more, can’t remember....... plus of course, more at home !! Culture & walks included quick spin around Cheltenham & Glosser, National Gallery, St. Paul’s, Tate Modern, wander past Trafalgar Square, Houses of Parliament, Westminster Abbey, No.10 Downing Street, Whitehall, Newark Park, Hereford Cathedral, Mappa Mundi in Hereford, SAS graveyard in Hereford, Berkeley Castle, boats’ graveyard on River Severn, B&Q DIY shop (twice), occasional supermarket, Austin Reed’s for cheap shirts, walk on Malvern Hills, Bagpath valley walk (near Hunters), Bath Royal crescent, Royal Playhouse, Roman baths, Bath cathedral, Bath rugby ground, snake & pygmy pasties, Social stuff....... Viv the chef/gardener/homemaker, Bart the Builder (& Serena), Roy the Ferryman, Paddy the Horse trainer/rider/owner etc., tea and supper with Ishie, Andrew & Alison Orme near Bath, walk along River Frome & Avon at Freshford. I think I’ve peaked now, off for a snifter and bit of kip.

UK April 2012

Had a magical week in Gloucestershire with the saintly Viv and not so saintly Rich and dog Annie.

Usual programme of country walks, stately homes and beer. Rich had business in London on Tuesday so I trained in with him and spent the day sightseeing. It being rush hour the ticket cost more than my flight  to Amsterdam. Started at St Botolph without Aldgate, walked down to Tower Bridge. London looked wonderful - clean, modern and bogan-free.

Popped into Southwark Cathedral where I lit a candle to help me stop smoking. It hasn't worked yet.  

Found myself at Tate Modern where I rediscovered one of the favourite paintings of my youth. Very impressed with the security guard who seemed to know everything. I wanted to see if they had any Australian paintings. They had a rather crappy Sidney Nolan painting of the Australian interior.

Next to St Paul's. I spent 3 years in London and never saw it. I had planned to spend a few minutes there knocking it off my list but couldn't tear myself away. As fine as anything I've seen anywhere, including the Duomo in Florence. Loved the military memorials and particularly taken with the memorial to Lord Cornwallis whose sculptor clearly thought big and liked nipples. I scampered up to the Whispering Gallery and the roof for a fine view of London and then on the National Gallery where I met up with Rich. He's keen  on the Pre-Raphaelites whereas I am more of a Renaissance man. He escorted me round the nearby streets to knock off Downing Street, the Mall, Horseguards and the Houses of Parliament.