The Valleys

When I arrived in Val d'Or or the Valley of Gold the sun had begun to seriously shine and yes, I descended into a golden valley of cypresses and little playmobil houses and tractors. The campsite I was headed to was in a town called Wiltz, or close to Wiltz, and I left my bike there to sit in the sun. A grey man with a big grey volvo drove in shortly after and said Hi in Dutch. 

            "Hoi." 

            He told me the reception wasn't opened yet. He was on a revivalist mountain biking tour and we spoke for an hour on the subject of cycling so close to heaven and all, seeing as he believed that sort of thing, and I told him that in all honesty if you looked around at this beautiful landscape, you'd be hard pressed to believe there wasn't some divine architect. He agreed. 

            Later we both checked in. I rented a tiny house they had by the river and hung up my clothes to dry, bought a pizza from the campsite bistro and drank four beers before falling asleep listening to Dave van Ronk while the valley descended into amber light, while the revivalists could be heard singing hymns around a campfire, while a single train went back and forth on the single track every hour. 

            Cold sun and the fog waved over the mountains in the morning. The hymns were started up again, or never stopped. I started packing my things, an ordeal which takes most of the morning to complete. The cold seeped into my feet and hands, and even though the sun was out I felt thinned and damp. I set my route to a short distance, looking for some rest and relaxation on the way south. There was a youth hostel not too far from where I was, a 25km track through the forest with a 600m ascent, that was my plan for the day. 

            Nothing to note about the trip itself other than the natural beauty, the rivers so glassy they become their own pattern of stillness, the mirror images of trees and rocks. Cycling is done here on the main roads, which is liberating really, cars pass now and then but you feel you can go anywhere, roundabouts are especially fun. 

            I arrived in the first town, in another valley: Esch-sur-Sûre, where I found a bench by a tree and sat down for a drink of water. The town of Esch-sur-Sûre had been, I later heard, a sleepy little nothing until forty years ago when a Dutch contractor and his wife, who was a secretary, had come there and bought the hotel on top of the hill: De-la-Sûre. Soon they bought the bakery, and a few of the properties around and they started exploiting it mostly for motorcycle tourists. I decided it would be worthwhile to stay at this hotel on top of the mountain, as they boasted a spa, and I figured a nice bath etc. would do me well. 

            On top of the mountain the hotel sat like a caricature of a hotel, too small to be fancy, with too many relics and pictures hanging about to really get a grip on what's going on. There were glass display cabinets set up all over with spoons and knives and baubles and it seemed just about every kind of plate. There were pictures on the walls by a man named Whitney Hopter who apparently was way too much into vegetables and fruit. There was one of two bananas having intercourse that was called 'bananappeal'. There was a man hidden behind a glass plate and a desk in the corner of the lobby, which was more a museum/garage than anything. I walked over to him and told him I'd booked the deluxe room via booking.com. In French. He replied in Dutch:

            "Ah the Romeo and Juliet. Yes." 

            "Ja." 

            "Well so?" 

            I hesitated and looked at the man, who wore an army cap and a cravat and reminded me in every sense of the last French imperialist in Vietnam from the redux version of Apocalypse Now. 

            "So, I'm checking in." 

            "Okay, fillouthisformthengiveitbackroomsarethroughthereupstairsisspayougothroughthe restaurantyouneedakeytogettherkeyyougetfrommethengototheelevatorandthewhirlpoolwon'tstartuntilit'sfullbreakfastisat7till10anddinnerstartsatsix, here's your key." 

            "Excuse me?" 

            He looked at me with the delighted annoyance of an aging and insecure professor. 

            "Through there." He pointed to a dark corridor. 

            "Thank you." 

            I went through there and had to walk to the end of the hall before the automated light came on. I saw in the darkness stairs and heard the man say from his little window

            "Up the stairs, yes." 

            I went up the stairs, more darkness, and the smell of a spa, eucalyptus and dampness, came over me. 

            The room was a bridal suite with heart shaped pillows and more pictures of vegetables going at it in ways dreamed up by Whitney Hopter. On the bed lay a map with all the information regarding the hotel. On a card it said: 

            'Go to the office to book massages and more.'

            The and more part interested me, considering the copulating greens and heart shaped things I half felt this wasn't actually a hotel as much as it was a brothel. I undressed, took a shower and relaxed for a while, before going downstairs and booking a massage, noting that I was only interested in the massage, and he smiled and said sure you are.

            Out for a walk, full on sun, eau de vie on a terrace owned by the same family that owns everything there, then up to the hotel, massage which was really just a massage where they give you a throwaway thong, which I felt suited me pretty well, after which a nap before dinner. 

            The last thing I want to tell you is that the man, the owner, who is the owner's son, came to sit with me at dinner, he served his mother's favourite dishes (Snails, Ham and Crème Brûlée), which I enjoyed with a big glass of beer. He said, in Dutch, how he'd always been a fighter. He fought for that spa for thirteen years with the council. Eight lawsuits were won by him just to get it (which I found pretty impressive on the council's part, holding up that long just for a zoning permit). There was a picture of an old man in the corner, surrounded by candles and I asked the man if that was his father. The man, the son, looked at me and said yes. 

"He was a fighter too."

            He then stood up and looked at me intensely before spending the rest of the night walking around the restaurant slightly aimlessly telling staff everything they already know and paying them each in cash for all the customers to see before retreating back into his glass paned office, satisfied perhaps that the fighting was done.