Day 3a: Kersel to Duffel (75km)

Today the weather was, dare I say it, almost hot. Or at least it was warm enough for me to strip down to just a T-shirt and cycling pants (and my bright yellow cycling vest of course). According to several thermometers I saw on various buildings I passed it got to 27 degrees, which is a bit of a heat wave. Enough for me to get a bit sunburnt by the time I realised what was going on and started putting the sunscreen on. One day I am cycling with three layers and long pants and the next I am getting sunburnt, who'd have thought it?

Dinner yesterday, which was over the border in Belgium as you will recall, included a big bowl of (terrific) chips with - we're in Belgium now - a large bowl of mayonnaise. Dinner tonight was, naturally, also served with a large bowl of chips (fries, for our American readers). So far it seems reasonable to conclude that the stereotypical Belgian meal indeed does consist of a large serving of chips with mayonnaise, served with something to accompany it.

Geese and Goslings crossing

In describing yesterday's menagerie, I realised I'd forgotten the rabbits running across the path (like kangaroos, it's not the one you first see you have to watch out for, it's the one following it you're going to run into). And of course I forgot to mention all the chickens usually accompanied by impressive roosters. This morning I came across a group of geese guiding their goslings to the canal. The bike path I was riding on was between the geese and the canal, and of course I wasn't about to squash those cute little goslings, so I stopped. In any case, given how aggressive the geese were, I'm not sure how well I would have fared in any encounter. 'Gosling' - now there's a word you don't get to write (or read) very often. Another good example of English and its lack of logic, or perhaps I should say an example of the richness of the English language. Ducks and ducklings. Geese and goslings (and not gooseling), Cats and kittens (why not Catling?). What about Doglings? And the list goes on.

The bike path along the river this morning instantly changed as soon as I crossed from Holland (or more technically correctly, from The Netherlands) into Belgium, which was about 100m from where I had spent the night. Although there was still a path, the quality degraded and it was bumpy and not well maintained. The housing was also instantly recognisable as non-Dutch. As someone used to Australian landscapes I am constantly amazed how quickly things change when you travel in Europe; housing styles are a good example. Cross an imaginary line, and suddenly so many things are different. You're unlikely to spot the difference in pretty much anything as you cross from say, New South Wales into Victoria, except perhaps the different number plates on the cars.

As if to support my perhaps slightly controversial statement of yesterday that the wildflowers are really weeds, I come across a guy on a tractor (on the bike path) mowing the flowers along the path. In his wake the sides of the path are strewn with piles of yellow, white and purple wildflowers, now about to become compost.

Cafe con Leche y tapas - Belgian style

I stop at Rijkevorsel for a coffee. Today I don't quite have so much distance to cover and I've settled into a bit of a more predictable tempo, so I can afford to stop more often. In Spain I was stopping regularly for a café con leche and tapas. Here I also order a coffee and a 'broodje' which implies a little bread roll with something on it. I'm expecting something perhaps not exactly like a tapas, but perhaps more like a Spanish raccion, which is sort of a double-sized tapas. The 'je' suffix in Dutch after all implies 'little'. Instead I get an enormous baguette with thick cheese and even thicker butter. The Belgian version of a tapas perhaps.

At Lier I decide to deviate from the path, which tends to go around towns, and head to the centre of town, the 'Grote Markt'. Here, near the main cathedral, I find the St. Jacobs chapel. I go inside, hoping to find someone to stamp my pilgrim's passport. The chapel is open, but there's nobody there. But I find on the noticeboard a little sign: 'Pilgrims looking for a stamp need to go to the tourist office (across the road)'. I step outside and immediately an elderly couple call out to me ( in Flemish, which I used to think was just like Dutch, until I started trying to understand it): "If you're looking for your stamp, go to the tourist office" and they helpfully point to it, which is just as well because I was looking for it across the road (following the instructions on the sign), while in fact I was standing almost next to it. I'm not sure which point of reference the person who wrote that sign had, but it certainly want the same as mine. As I come out of the tourist office, the elderly couple is just leaving their seat in the square, so I go to them to thank them for their help. "Where are you riding to?" asks the old woman. "France" I tell her. She looks at me for a moment and then says, quite matter-of-factly, "Well, you'd better get going then, it's a long way."

A woman on a bike pulls up alongside me as I cycle through Lier on my way out of town. In Flemish she says: "You look like you're going a long way!" "To France" I reply, trying to keep the story simple, and thinking of the old woman who I had spoken to just before. She comments on how amazingly far that is on a bike.  Actually, given how small Belgium is, France is not really all that far away. It's all relative I suppose.

Strawberry Vending Machine nearby

This morning I passed a strawberry vending machine. Not the sort of thing you'd really expect to find along the roadside. And I'm not taking about a red or pink-coloured vending machine, I'm talking about a machine selling fresh strawberries. This morning I thought it was a bit odd. By the end of the day I had passed so many of this type of vending machine I realised that it was actually perfectly normal. At least in this part of the world. It reminded me of the lone Coca Cola vending machine I'd passed in the middle of nowhere last year on my trip in Spain. Totally unexpected but probably  normal.

My day ends at Duffel. I had picked this town for no better reason than it was about right in terms of distance travelled for the day, being on a river it looked like it might have some appeal, and of course I was curious to find out whether I'd see lots of people wearing the eponymous coats, carrying eponymous bags. I saw neither, which is probably not surprising. A little research showed that, indeed, the name of the clothing does come from this town; so my somewhat cheeky thought turned out to be based on facts after all. According to Wikipedia: The town gives its name to a heavy woollen cloth used to make overcoats, especially for the armed forces, and various kinds of luggage.

Dangerous road conditions ahead

There is a couple also on bikes staying at the same place I am. Not surprisingly, they are Dutch, and this trip is just a short four-day long weekend trip for them. We agree to ride back into town, a bit more than a kilometre away, for dinner together. It being Monday there's not much open and our hostess has given us a little map on which she's marked some places to try. The couple ride ahead and I follow. My bike feels remarkably light, which of course it is without the packs on. We've both just ridden in from the direction of town so really all we have to do is back tack. As we leave the B&B the woman rides off in one direction (the wrong one) and the husband in the other. Not a good start I'm thinking. We regroup and set off again, this time following the husband. He rides off confidently, find the main road into town and rides on. He rides past the turnoff to the town centre, then continues riding on confidently. I'm wondering whether he either knows some way I do not, or whether I really do have to intervene. We ride on. Eventually (I have shown remarkable restraint, despite the fact that my legs really don't want to ride any further than absolutely necessary any more) he stops, realising that he ridden the wrong way. We regroup, consult the map and I convince them we have to go back. Later, while we are having dinner after eventually finding a restaurant, I can't help thinking: 'How did these people manage to find Belgium?'

Dinner, with chips and mayonnaise (of course!), is quite nice, and we have an enjoyable meal together.