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Milk? I could make out a clearing of blue above the space in the tree branches. It was a chilly four degrees Celsius in the forest grove but I figured once we were out on the open road it would warm up. I was wrong. My hands froze. I should have put on my full fingered gloves but that would have entailed digging them out of the bottom of my pannier. It was easier to freeze instead. I tried to find fresh milk but the two stores in town only had the Ultra High Temperature which was okay for hot chocolate since I could kill the taste with cocoa. It wasn't so flavourful on cereal. The clerk couldn't figure out what I wanted. "Fresh," I said, pointing to the box of milk. "Oui," she said. "Cold," I tried. "Oui," she said. No. No. No. I knew the milk wasn't bad and I knew I could make it cold. As I exited the store she looked at me strangely, but she didn't wish me "Have a Nice Day" in German, like the old gal had the day before. The clear patch in the sky went away, replaced by a thin layer of light gray clouds. Occasionally the sun shone and we were warm. But usually a cold wind blew and the sun was obscured behind a mass of continually darker clouds. In Vielsalm we stopped at a larger store to try and buy milk. "Ah," I thought to myself. "There it is in the cooler. Hey, there's only one type. Well, that makes things simpler." We took N633 out of town along the scenic river past bus loads of kids floating the river. A meadow sprawled in front of a huge château partially hidden behind trees. Across the valley was a tiny clustered village with a sharp church steeple as the focal point. Above the village was grazing land filled with sheep and cows. A bench sat beside the roadside and a walking trail ran through the meadow to the trees. We saw the river below and caught glimpses of rafts and canoes with their noisy occupants. Leaning our bikes against the back of the bench we took out bowls, spoons, Mueslix and delicious fresh cold milk. I poured a generous amount over my raison and nut cereal. Lifting the bottle to my lips I was prepared to savour its goodness. The milk exited my mouth faster than I had poured it in spraying the shrubbery in front of me with a foamy milk bath. Buttermilk to be exact. Yes, apparently Battu translated as butter. Why did a product with a name so sweet taste like sour milk? Several cyclists rode past on racing bikes. Two old Grandpas happened by, both talking to one another at the same time. I could still hear them as they topped the hill, standing on their pedals, never missing a beat. Our ride along the river would have been totally wonderful if it weren't for the occasional splatter of rain. Sharon continually put on and took off her raincoat. She would have it on for a few kilometers and the sun would burst out. She would take it off and it would suddenly begin to rain again. I hadn't bothered to put mine on. At a roadside stand we stopped for some famous Belgian fritters. They must love French fries. Stands were everywhere. In the afternoon I noticed my meter was approaching the ten thousand mile mark. We had cycled almost half the distance around the globe. With growing excitement I watched the numbers click past. Nine thousand nine hundred ninety seven, nine thousand nine hundred ninety-eight. At nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine I stopped so Sharon could take a picture of the mileage. I put the meter in my wide mug and stuck out ten fingers. I wasn't sure if my meter would reset to zero or not. In one more mile I found out. It read ten thousand! Yahoo! My fist punched the sky. At four we called it a day and followed a road behind a chain barrier. In half a kilometer we found a flat spot nestled amongst a stand of pines. We had delicious buttermilk pancakes for supper. |
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