Mount Saint Peter, but the lower slope, I hope, after enough climbing for one day. The mark of big rocks everywhere in the landscape, and I don’t know where they came from; leftovers from the last ice age perhaps?
It is a different and unmarked path that I saw before, and I am curious to find out where it will lead me. A stack of just cut wood, done by those who preserve. If it is really necessary; who knows. I think this refuge: Mount Saint Peter, is large enough to maintain itself, but who am I; just a trotter who loves to be in nature...
The path steeps up, and I start to believe to know where it will lead me. Still open; a trail with a view on the Jeker valley; can I spot the houses, the mansions on the banks of the shallow river. On the other side the high slope of the Mount, that becomes less higher while I walk and climb...
There is present waiting for me: marl caves that I saw before from above, but this time I will pass them. They are fenced; it is not allowed to approach nearer. Afraid that some-one gets lost in the many corridors? Or is it a reserve for birds or bats? The Mount is wounded here; blocks cut out of the marl stone to build houses; but not as wounded as the other side where marl is mined in an industrial way.
What is that shelter as a leftover from some war, and now a house for foxes, I presume? Concrete blocks and shelves puzzled together as a cabin. One could live here. There is room enough inside, but I will keep paying my rent, and leave this to the family who claimed it already...
Early March, and trees already blossoming. What is going on that we break climate record after record? As I suspected I find my way on a well known spot: the ridge of Mount Saint Peter, with the landmarks, the shields that show the way and tell me that Nice (France) is about 2800 km walking. Too much for today; too much for what is left of my live. I keep it simple stupid, and want to find my way back home, but as much as possible over paths I did not trot yet.
Downhill again over a muddy, slippery trail, and even here are buildings. The Netherlands are too filled with too many people. There is not much nature left. When I was a child, about some 7 million people less, I played in the forests, often alone, and saw no person, which is near to impossible today.
Down there is Maastricht; Saint Peter’s quarter, above it: farmland, a desolate pond for frogs maybe, although I do not hear a sound. A strange landmark, that does not make sense to me. For what? Half a circle stones and pebbles.
Down again at the Jeker river, approaching the area where there are more people than trees. I know it: once I cross the Lombok slot, I’m almost home: a relive, because I am tired, but a feeling of sadness as well: every walk comes to an end, leads back home, where ever you live…
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