A quiet day. We have a leisurely breakfast at one of the local bakeries and read the newspaper. We mentally prepare ourselves for an entire day of nothing to do. It’s hard work.
We ignore the hands of the clock as they march on and eventually head towards our afternoon rendezvous with some friends of ours. We are due to meet by a lake in a wooded part of the town and I am keen to see if it will be the sort of place that would be worth re-visiting in summer.
We barely spend five minutes on the main roads and soon find ourselves meandering along the winding roads that snake their way through the Belgian countryside. We reach our destination and I choose to get out of the car to stretch my legs while we’re waiting.
An industrious fowl family waddles past and the ring leader shakes her beak at me with an admonishing look on her face when I try to take pictures.
Across the road, I can see a path through the woods. The path is narrow but wide enough for me to walk through. Around me, branches huddle round, the sight of leaves creating a natural canopy above my head. Underfoot, the dead leaves and twigs do not crunch but squelch, showing that winter is not far behind us. Ahead of me, I can see pockets of light where the sun beams have managed to wrestle their way into the depths of the countryside.
I step back as our friends’ arrival interrupts my exploration. I pass the entrance to the forest and catch sight of signs that solemnly announce what is and what is not allowed.
I do not intend to cycle or drive along this narrow path. Next time, I will not bring any fake, pantomime horses either.
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