What are we doing? May 24th, 2002 35th Marche de l'Armée, Diekirch Diekirch was a dramatic affair before we'd even lifted a foot, this time over. The quarrel between van der Schelden and van Zijntergen, that had grown so onesidedly during the previous journey (although it was by no means a onesided affair, let me utterly clear about that), had not died down, despite negotiating effort from all possible quarters. To the contrary. The Wandelsoc. as a kind of Gazastrip: a sorry state of things if ever I saw one. True to my own impartial take on the matter, I had offered, in advance, to join Schelden in travelling to Luxemburg by train. You see, I'd already seen it coming that he wouldn't be joining us in the car, and so I figured it would be more companionlike to travel by twos, than by one and three. But he preferred to go it alone, because Marco would have tolerated him during the ride, but had said he would only do so because he "could only feel pity for Schelden" - and because Schelden, in his own words, did not want to "let the first contact with Marco since the argument started again be one of a consumptive nature" on his own part. Praiseworthy thought, that, in itself. And so this became a calm journey too, with Jochem and Marco, down to Diekirch by Polo, which soon got more enjoyable yet as we crossed the Grand Duchy's border, because we discovered a humongous store selling loads of tobacco and rare liquor right behind it. And so Jochem and I both bought ourselves pleasant whiskey (I myself bought a ten year old Talisker, to share with the woman of my dreams, Jochem got himself a 12 year old Jameson and another bottle - I can't remember what was in that one, but I will never forget the Jameson, more to follow on that), both Jochem and Marco splashed out on cancer sticks, and I also procured a bottle of Moskovskaya for immediate digestment. However, the calm and enjoyability did not do much for the situation. Since, after we'd reacquainted Lieutenants Marquart Scholtz and Vissers, Vissers' mum and friend, by the finishline and had managed, with some effort, to talk the organizers into, lastminute, putting us up in the Atheneum of the Caserne Grand Duc Jean on the Herrenberg above Diekirch, where Schelden already lay sleeping, and we had pleasantly roughly awoken him, then driven downhill afour in search of dinner, the bomb burst immediately. As soon as we got out of the car Marco jeeringly went on the offensive. This continued into the local McDonald's (it was, after all, too late to find an open decent restaurant), where Schelden, under Marco's constant verbal battering, finally lost the calm he'd admiringly kept until then (one would almost think he really was innocence injured, but that's bull, since the argument dated back quite a while and, I continue to state, did not rise without reason), and started to abuse the other likewise. This did not last for long, since Marco now resolutely ended it all and left. Bit rude, that, of course, since in doing so he also left Jochem and myself in the lurch. But, it was too late to change matters. He did return one last time, because he couldn't enter the barracks' grounds without the entry pass that was still in my inside pocket, and so couldn't otherwise retrieve his gear, but this didn't alter the state of affairs: van Zijntergen left with that pass, retrieved his gear and drove straight back to Holland and home. I can assure you, this was a most unpleasant turn of events, which has kept me off balance for more than a week, and still does so at the time (10.06) that I'm writing this. After all, I have lost a good friend, with this. But what in God's name should I do about this? I cannot keep two gamecocks of this sort apart if they themselves show no inclination whatsoever to want to be kept apart and I refuse to choose sides in a conflict that a. is not mine and that I b. regard as utter nonsense, coming from both inflexible parties. There. That is my opinion about this ill-fated bother, which I've now stated: I'll leave it at that. And that is where I left myself at too, since I do not give up when confronted with unpleasantries. And so I remained in Diekirch, with Jochem and Henk. This did mean that we had to walk back from the McDonald's. And because, by now, we were intoxicated by the Moskovskaya (of which, by the by, a quarter splattered apart on the floor of said hamburger joint when the bottle slid from my coat pocket as I got up after dinner, very sloppy), this became a return leg worthy of the Wandelsoc., leading, amongst other things, past 'Il Gatto & la Volpe', an Italian hotel-restaurant with walls full of publicity pics of Hollywood stars, on the Avenue de la Gare in Diekirch, where Schelden, to the amusement of staff, patrons, Prakke and myself, raised hell with loud Roman song, to further enforce his infamous extension of binge drinking. Not that he should have had to. Extension of binge drinking namely followed anyway, this being a logical effect of the shocking nature of the night. In the rain, on stairs made of natural stone, in the barracks' grounds, by the Athenée. That whole bottle of 12 year old Jameson of Jochem's was finished from paper cups slowly starting to leak, as we regurgitated what had happened. Astonishment and sadness predominated, but the liquor's taste was excellent. Until, early in the morning, accompanied by the birdsong of dawn, we set out for our sleeping bags. To emerge from them, logically, as limping living dead. Thankfully, we were driven downhill by friendly fellow marchers, but, humongous hangovers or not, we still had to walk the full forty kilometres when there. This was not an easy mission. 12 year old Jameson makes one uh... ...loose, inside, as pertaining to all parts of the physique. And squeakingly hinging. You become a Scots' castle, of sorts. A haunted one, that sort. Also, the optimistic thought I had during the Berner Zweitagemarsch (where I thought that Bern, what with the new course and all, could by now consider itself the equal of Diekirch) was utter poppycock. Diekirch's still a monster. The fact that the route was almost exactly the same as last year's did nothing to lessen that. In addition to which we marched at the back of the pack, having left late due to our oversleeping. This was fine with Schelden, but not with me. After all, I'm in Diekirch to meet my fellow walker. I don't have to go there for Vianden: better to spend a weekend in Hotel Oranienburg with my newfound love (which, I just realised, is an excellent idea all by itself). And so being at the back of the pack was uncool. And so I laid down a brisk pace. Which did cause me to, by the end of the day, be many a good conversation the richer (with amongst others Huib Bavelaar and Georges, present with hot soup, just like last year), but also completely stiffsore. Much to my discomfort, since it prevented me from partaking in the evening's big party. And so, shortly after a nonetheless pleasant reunion with both Astrid van Loon and Reservist Spaan (2x, since he brought his brother), I left early, so much so that I entirely missed sweet Marquart Scholtz (darling, we must stop meeting like this). She had, namely, already left when I reached the finish, and returned for the party, but by then I was asleep somewhere halfway up the mountain. Grrrr. The next day I felt a lot better, due to my good night's rest. So good in fact, that I could shrug and follow Jochem, when, in the early morning, he decided to march down the Herrenberg on foot, because he didn't feel like waiting for a hitch. Which eventually meant that, halfway down the Herrenberg, Schelden, grinning broadly in his Wandelsoc.-outfit, drove past us in a bright red car he'd stopped (he could hardly walk since he'd marched the entire day before on the office shoes that went with his Securicor-uniform that he then wore above them). Nonetheless, our arrivals at the starting line almost coincided, because the path downward, which Jochem had discerned the afternoon before when travelling up the mountain (much later than Henk and I did, since Jochem, being a bartender after all, is more hangover-proof than ourselves), plunged down almost vertically, straight into the city centre. Not good for my ankles, but very good against the stiffness. I was warmed up before I started marching. Which was even more of a good thing because today, too, was a killer (and again, the course was exactly the same as last year's). Beautiful, it must be said, and actually less hard than last year, because it was less hot, but I was still more sore than then and moreover, the second time you partake you largely remember what it was that was awaiting you. This does not make Diekirch easier to complete, since what was awaiting you, you clearly remember to be murderous. Which, by the time about three quarters of the day's march are past, did lead to memorable moments. Those Belgians who thanked us, moved by the few bars of the Wandelsoc.-hymn we sang behind them. Or the cute girl, close to tears and biting her lip, who, as her boyfriend and father were pissing into the roadside behind her, stood looking out across the river, breaking into a beaming smile as I raised my thumb at her while prancing past, and who broke into tears after all when, at the bridge across the river Sûre, two hundred metres from the finish, where I was waiting for Schelden, I applauded her, as she passed with her boyfriend and father. But it did also definitively kill the long awaited reunion with Liz. Since she had, again, already left by the time I arrived, me being almost the last one to do so. This was partly caused by Schelden, for whom I had waited, true to tradition (but I hadn't this time informed him about it), on the bridge just before the finish, but who had stopped at a bar along the way. But on the other hand I shouldn't have missed her on the day before, and that really was my very own fault. It's a good thing that, looking back, this turns out to probably be for the better. You see, that bottle of Talisker, a short week later, enriched a beautiful evening on which the woman of my dreams became my new love. This might possibly not have happened, otherwise. And so, as horrid as Diekirch was to me this year, just so nice was what followed. And so my memory of it will nevertheless forever be a good one. To your health gentlemen, ladies, excellent walking there. Marche-en-Famenne awaits.