Little London

Unintentionally I found myself on several routes including the fortresses of french engineer Vauban and the road of St Jacques to Santiago along the Meuse. The inspiration of our visit to Koblenz where we overlooked the confluence of the Rhine and the Mossel, where the wine growing country began, had given me a reason to discover Luxembourg. This was coupled with a pointer from Paul to Trier, also in the Middle Mossel valley, and a desire to reach South into Belgium.

Vauban's fortress at Namur in Wallonia had been impressive enough but with the wealth of the worlds strongest economy behind it Luxembourg was a sight to behold. The impecably maintained old town sat nested aloof in the fort and sheltered in controlled water gardens in what would have once been a moat. The 2007 European City of Culture boasted tight steep passages through arches, retirement homes like places and an entire parliment, judical system and royal seat.

Luxembourg does not feel like a maverick state such as Monacco, but like a complete contry with four diverse geographical regions and a complete countryside populated by attractive small towns. Sitting in a bar next to the palace watching the disasterous European Cup final, I could easily have been in central London completely surrounded by young professionals smartly dressed with more money than sense.

However, with a system which allows your average street cleaner a healthier life than your average brittish professional and the universal ability to speak French, German, English and their native Lux fluently, I did find the people a little smug. So, I was greatful to spend a day at the seat of Constantine in Germany with its impressive Roman remains and tasty Mossel reisling, and ultimately to the friendly unpretentious people of Belgium.

I stoped again at a fortification of Vauban at Arlons who's small scale hill top form offered fantastic views of the surrounding forest and the typically Belgian decay of a town which kept its life through the vibrance of its people filling the market places and cafes. I finished the evening in the Greek quarter of the substantial industrial and very typically Belgian city of Liège, on the Meuse, sipping Chimay and throurghly confussed as to how such a society could remain preserved in north western europe.

The Termite Hill of Europe

I found myself in a decaying industial town. You young workers had clearly departed and the tourist guide was full of utter gibberish. I moved through the steets, noting a couple of vaugly interesting buildings but ultimately axious to move on.

But after all it was the meeting of the river Meuse and the Ardennes forest that had drawn me here. It was, however, the town that set it all off, reaching upwards to the South through layers of defensive walls, constructed in the French era by Vauban, I found gardens, concert spaces and restaurants offering magnificent vantage points over the confluence.

I sat watching the broad toungue crawling through thickly forested hills interspersed with mixed housing and industry. A moist haze settles in the distance where the flow disappeared around a gentle cliff urging me to follow it up stream deep into France.

Flanders in May

It didn't take me long to find a nation as jolly as the Swiss. Having returned to the Netherlands for another fantastic weekend with Chris and Dom, I headed south through the Maas and Scheldt delta expecting to find another Rotterdam. Instead I found a gem.

Antwerp is the heart of the diamond industry which is largely controlled by Orthodox Jews. In all streats around the station there were men with wide rimmed black hats and impossibly long curled sideburns shifting around with briefcases. The station itself is reminicent of a medieval palace: with expansive ceilings, pointed turrets and, as I would find everywhere in Antwerp, superb attention to detail.

A wide street leads from the station to the old town which must be a womans paradise with the quality of shops off set by splendidly powerful upper stories topped with grey domes and figures clutching bolts of lightning. The streets then diverge into a maze of facades containing boutiques and brasseries with tall slim Dutch form and a decaying Roman Catholic extravagence.

But for all the architectural treasures and character of the sleepy romantic streets of Brugge, it is the humour of the Belgians that is most notable. A hostel full of manequins, hidden provocative sculptures, a monument to Gaston Lagaffe... and the people themselves who are friendly, unpretentious and full bodied such that, over many generations, they may have had one too many delicious beers and pommes-frites mayonaise but feel all the better for it.

I arrived at the "belgian national center for comic books" around 10am and had to drag myself away from their genius world at closing time. My journey through the improbable collage which is Brussels took me through two narrow streets with the densest concentration of restaurants I have seen each of them serving one thing - moules frites. I wrapped up the evening with one of Belgiums famous super clubs with a full compliment of live electronica bands, parisian folk singers and great DJ's who oversaw the movement of whole rooms full of happy belgians each reaching towards the lights in mutual jubilation. With a jazz club featuring a deamon lead bassist in the expansive inner city and musicians playing their accordians and guitars freely on the streets I am convinced that this city has the real life.

Jolly Fortress Switzerland

To conclude this leg of the trip, I headed into the rounded hills to the east of the last major port on the Rhine to survey that which I would not conquer this time. I looked over through a canopy of extremely tall trees of a valley of well maintained houses and some how elegant industrial towers and docklands which had been present throughout my journey. The bar man the previous night, in a tavern hidden in an alleyway in the old town of Basel which was adorned with cheerful traditional wooden figures, had told taken the time to give me a picture.

The Rhine at Basel turns sharply east - the elbow - and becomes more interesting in itself. It twists in a treacherous with impressive waterfalls lining the border between Switzerland to the South and Germany to the North. It enters the vast lake at Bodensee before heading through glacial valleys to a crystal clear lake 2500 meters above the sea. Entering that lake is a small stream which becomes so small that you can stop the flow of the Rhine with your foot. At that point you can cast your mind over hundreds of kilometers towards the mouth. To the point that its waters are oozing in a thick organic mass through the cannals of Utrecht, lined by rows of tall thin houses and arching bridges dimly lit by lamps on iron pedestals.

Having been greeted with cheer in the incredibly equipped hostel and waited on with entertaining enthusiasm the night before. I was picked up by an insistent old lady who, with only German, was determined to make sure that I got back to Basel safely and knew all the correct trams to meet. I jumped of the tram in a bustling street and, when peeking into a restaurant, I was greeted with cheers and shouts of welcome, come in and sit down, here have a drink with us.

I sat with three locals who bought me beers while I ate Ross (Horse) steak and chips cooked by an expert Austrian chef. They talked of their lives in Basel, the great social structure, their dependence on the Rhine for work and of their travels in their youth. They also gave my an explanation of why they speak perfect Italian and excellent English rather than French despite the proximity - "You see the french: they make noises like frog, they eat frog, they are frog... We don't like the frog. At school we learn French then after school we unlearn French."

It turns out that they were delighted that someone had stopped in kleine Basel, rather that gross Basel where the tourist attractions are. I thought that gross Basel looked better from the other side anyway, peering over the Rhine with all the boldness of Edinburgh's Royal mile from Princes Street and the colour of Carcasonne. I challenge you to find a jollier nation than the Swiss. I will return one day to learn German the Swiss way and complete the journey to the source.

Definately not Germany

After the superb efficiency, the politeness and the perfect level of cleanliness maintained in Germany, even the euro capital Strasbourg was a bit of a shock to the system. I planned to go for a walk down the Rhine so was waiting at the tram stop until someone came up to me told me that the drivers don't work today but there might be some trains. I visited the station and there were some trains running but no ticket offices open.

I headed across town where there amongst blue white and red knapkins blowing across the street and children chassing paper cups. The sign on the cathedral read "Fermé au cause des vents forts" which translates as "Today we couldn't be bothered". I proceded along the streets with cars rudely blasting their horns and tairing about in a manner that questioned my basic confidence in pedestrian crossings past shops that were shut.

Eventially, passing through a fortress which has been transformed into a park and substanial semi-derelict dock lands I came the euro pont which took me over the Rhine to Germany. I tried trecking for a bit but my path was blocked by abandoned work sites and by this time I was well behind sechedule so I returned again to Germany to enjoy a beer.

By the time I made it back to the campsite it was getting late, so I settled in a bar full of men with bristling mostaches and skin worn by playing boules in the sun over many years. Amidst the smoking and gambaling that was going on I asked one what was up. "It's the first of May. France doesn't work on the 1st of May."

The grumbling bus driver, the waiter who refussed to serve me any thing but crisps and wine because it was 5mins to midday and the immobility of the "we can't be bothered" sign the next morning suggested that this might not have been a complete explanation. Of course the washing machine doesn't work. We haven't changed it over from francs and don't stock them. Why would you want to use the drinking water taps? We don't turn them on. Strasbourg is absolutely full of character.

The Temparate Rainforest

We moved swiftly onto the small spa town of Baden-Baden. Completely surrounded by the Black Forest it offers a refreshing retreat for wealthy Germans. We managed to find a small traditional German Brauhaus which served up plates full of Goulash, Schnitzel and Sausage which for the first time in a long time defeated me. We then settled in a modern English theamed bar that, during the World Cup, was the scene of the disgraceful antics of the English Footballer's Wags but now in this fine weather it was teaming with people in neatly cut suits.

Awaking the next morning, it was envigorating to look out the window at the sun rising over the dense blanket of trees covering the surrounding hills as far as the eye could see and the streets of Baden-Baden streatching out in long elegant fingers over the floors of the gentle V shaped valleys that converge there.

I took the time to climb to the hights of the surrounding hills and castles, from where on three sides you can see forest and the third the low lying Rhine valley streaching out towards the haze on the horizon. A 5 minute burst of rain on the third day cleared the air as I walked for 7 hours without seeing anything but trees and the occasional youthful stream.