“Shall we go to Wallonia?” I asked for the fifty-eighth time.
Wallonia, in the French-speaking region of southern Belgium, had been on my travel list for over five years that I have lived in the Netherlands. There was something about the mountainous region of the Ardennes that I found magnetic even before visiting. When I did visit, I found that it was the cornucopia I had sought.
On any hike, there are five elements that ground me to the present: cliff, river, forest, cave, and meadow. I found all five on the hike at the Furfooz Nature Reserve in Wallonia. Furfooz was on my wish-list because it was the closest nature reserve from our lodging. I didn’t expect much. I just wanted a short time in nature. With two septuagenarians and a toddler in tow, getting out was as much on my mind as getting in.
A welcoming ascent
At the start of the hike, a metal staircase was a rather unwelcoming sight for a trek. I ignored it as I savored the lush green and tall deciduous forest and the calls of Common Chaffinch and Eurasian Blackbird.
A short elevation gain led us to the first point of interest – the Roman Bath. It is a reconstructed structure atop the excavated ruins of the ancient bath that was discovered here.
On the trail I passed some holes, they looked like the work of a burrowing mammal.
A meadow with a view in Wallonia
Another short elevation gain led us to a meadow. A Common Buzzard flew overhead. Excited voices at a distance led me to the cliff. From atop, I saw kayakers making their way downstream on the River Lesse below. The sight kindled my memories of my trip to the New River Gorge in West Virginia back in 2005.
As I scanned the vista, a pungent, rather chemical-like smell caught my nose. I followed the stench, to discover a dead European mole. European moles spend most of their time underground, but perhaps they come out in the open to die. A Peregrine Falcon above distracted me from the funerary consideration.
I walked ahead for perhaps 10 meters and discovered another European Mole, putrefying under similar circumstances. Moles are territorial and males fiercely repel threats to their domain. Perhaps this was a joust where both knights fell. I can only speculate.
A thriving canopy
A few steps further, meadow gave way to forest, and the calls of Common Chaffinch and Eurasian Blackbird grew louder. A Blue Tit appeared and flitted away. A Eurasian Blackcap sang melodiously.
Beetles indulged themselves on the succulent moon-carrot flowers. A pleasant breeze choreographed a dance of wildflowers sans music. Yet, the beetles, many of which I didn’t recognize, sat unperturbed on the carpet of wildflower petals.
A din arose in the valley and broke the silent symphony. Red, yellow and blue kayaks appeared around the bend in the Lesse below. Ant-like kayakers paddled furiously, their voices betraying an excitement contrary to the nectar-sipping beetles.
As I moved on, I came upon a signboard numbered #5 with the text “Eagle Owl Hole”. I hesitated, looking at the daunting stairs with a steep descent. The two septuagenarians and a toddler in tow afforded me a hair’s width of latitude with bravado. Trou du Grand Duc (The Grand Duke’s Hole) was an excursion from the trail. I avoided the precipitous option and took the flat trail.
Remnants of the Roman Wall appeared. I gaped at its weathered roughness, eroded, encroached by vegetation, begging for someone to acknowledge its age — a millennium perhaps. I pointed at the wall and turned to the paternal figure in our group.
“Guess the age,” I said drily.
“Ah! One of the earliest life-forms,” he exclaimed.
Puzzled, only for a fleeting moment, I understood. He was admiring the moss. In many forms, bright to dull, moist to dry, thriving to dying, moss added character to this defiant Roman relic.
A near-vertical descent
The terrain changed rapidly. Meadows upon the plateau had given way to forest cover. The canopy got thicker. We were now descending the steps along the face of the limestone cliff. The steps were cut in the limestone with a metal handrail to add a sense of safety. A voice in my head said “Lapah”, bringing back memories of the descent during the Green Ogre trek to the Great Himalayan National Park in April of 2012.
A trekking friend once told me: When you are descending, the only thing in your mind should be “where do I place my next step?” I betrayed him at Furfooz. I crumbled to the stimulation of the habitat I had entered – the Tilio Acerion forests. My mind wandered in this sloping, calcareous, crevice-abundant forest reverberating with calls of Eurasian Blackbird and Common Chaffinch.
Comparison is criminal. Comparison reduces masterpieces into a single frame of reference. It robs uniqueness from diversity. A scale balances a kilogram of gold against an equal measure of cast iron in weight. The needle cares less about the strength of the iron or the malleability of gold, for all it cares about is the interplay between mass and gravitational pull.
It was an almost vertical elevation drop. Zigzag flights of steps cut on the rock face created a sense of urgency in descent. “Lapah!” flashed in my mind again. The comparison, however, does injustice to both the Great Himalayan National Park and Furfooz.
Comparison is criminal. Comparison reduces masterpieces into a single frame of reference. It robs uniqueness from diversity. A scale balances a kilogram of gold against an equal measure of cast iron in weight. The needle cares less about the strength of the iron or the malleability of gold, for all it cares about is the interplay between mass and gravitational pull.
The subalterns appear
A brave skink, unfazed by the leaden footsteps fast approaching it, lay basking on a slice of wooden step. A smile crossed my face. Sighting reptiles in the wild in this part of Europe brings me the same joy as watching big cats in India. It slipped away into the alpine shrubs when I thrust my phone camera into its face.
Further down the flight, I found myself near a cave. I connect with caves the same way I connect with mountains. There is something mysterious and reassuring about caves. As I tried to get closer, the toddler with me protested, so I paid hip service to the cave by turning my back to it. I found two more caves further along the hike.
“What do you call three caves together?” I quizzed my companions. They didn’t laugh when I revealed the answer: “Cavi-three!”
A river runs through it
After the first cave, the trail kissed the Lesse. The berry-sized kayakers I had seen from the panorama point had now grown to the size of humans. The trail was a meter above the river bank and, in dense foliage. I became aware of the sound.
The Lesse, which is a tributary of the Meuse (called Maas in the Netherlands), was loud. Rivers that flow through ravines sound different. The gushing water and the occasional gulps of the descending river belie an urgency that is lacking in a river flowing through plains. Is it lethargy or complacency? I don’t know. All I know is, I had never heard the sound of a river in the Netherlands during the scores of walks I took along the banks of the Maas. The Maas — compared to its Belgian benefactor, the Lesse — is silent. Perhaps Simon and Garfunkel realized this, else why would anyone title a song, The Sound Of Silence?
Rivers that flow through ravines sound different. The gushing water and the occasional gulps of the descending river belie an urgency that is lacking in a river flowing through plains. Is it lethargy or complacency? I don’t know. All I know is, I had never heard the sound of a river in the Netherlands during the scores of walks I took along the banks of the Maas. The Maas — compared to its Belgian benefactor, the Lesse — is silent. Perhaps Simon and Garfunkel realized this; else, why would anyone title a song, The Sound Of Silence?
The rest of the hike was flat. I heard Eurasian Robins, Common Chaffinch and Eurasian Blackbirds, and what I suspected was a Common Cuckoo at a distance. The loop ended along a stream. In the time it would take to watch Lawrence of Arabia, I had my own adventure.
I will do it again
The hike at Furfooz was the icing on the cake that was the visit to Wallonia. Who knows, it might even become my annual pilgrimage. I offer my sympathies to those who visit Europe and get caught in tourist traps. On the other hand, perhaps that is what keeps gems like Furfooz Nature Reserve hidden.
Andy grew up watching nature documentaries. He indulges in reading and travelling to feed his interest in nature, history and culture. He is easily thrilled by trivia, anecdotes and conversations. Writing lets him bring his passions together.
In his day job, Andy defines cloud solutions and, in his spare time, he builds castles in the air about his next trip to an exotic destination, settling in the end for something unobtrusive and amenable to his budget.
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