Hidden Treasures in the Ardennes

Last month, I stumbled upon a place forgotten by time while lost in thought, dreaming of scrumptious croissants.
It’s not like the snaking path through the Belgian Ardennes, which passed clumps of purple wildflowers and a stream bloated with spring rains, wasn’t doing it for me. The verdant landscape transported me to the secluded woods of my native Arkansas. Every part of me was captivated by the dewy scents, hypnotically bubbling water and vibrant blooms. Every part – except my stomach.
In my defense, the real culprit here was Falmignoul’s only baker, who was closed that day. Eight kilometers into our hike, my breakfast was wearing off. Skirting puddles on the trail down to the River Meuse, I mentioned for the ninth time to my boyfriend that maybe, just maybe, there’d be a baker in the village on our map.
At the next clearing, our stream took a steep dive onto the rocks meters below before tumbling into the meandering Meuse. Our first glimpse of Waulsort. On the edge of the sleepy town, century-old hotels with grandiose names beckoned us with their opulent facades, even though it was clear that the last guests had checked out decades ago.
We kept hiking, in top form due to pastry anticipation, when I spotted a stately chimney and intricately arranged bricks through the branches. We found the end of a drive, artfully concealed by nature under a bed of boslook. Wading through the lily-like greens, their signature garlicky scent met our noses as we entered the courtyard of a decaying villa. What was once delicate was now derelict: the rusty skeleton of a porch canopy, a crumbling stone balcony, and a sprawling garden filled with years’ worth of trash.
I pictured this villa in Waulsort’s heyday: from its majestic perch, marking the leisurely passage of tourists at a time when hotels were destinations in and of themselves. Then I realized how, hidden by the forest, it would’ve witnessed armies struggle over the strategic river through two world wars. And now, as vines and weeds crept in to reclaim the land, my boyfriend and I puzzled over the owner’s fate: Who had sat under that canopy? Why’d they let a gem get so grimy?
The sense of the passage of time hit me acutely in that moment. The incongruity of the buildings’ beauty and their rundown present baffled me. We retraced our path through the boslook, but the spell the villa cast on us remained. We moved on down the river, still pitching our best theories to each other – thoughts of croissants long gone.