Hills

[The time has come, the walrus said, to speak of many things. My days in The Netherlands are coming to an end. What is left to be said? Much, my dearests, much.]

There are hills in Holland. Plural. Given, I'd found one of them in Leiden. But until this weekend, I had come to the conclusion that it was lone anomoly.

But Maastricht, home of the European Union and rather representative of at least a quarter of the nations who signed the treaty there in 1992, sits on the Maas just a few kilometers from hills of a most welcoming nature. Caves, quarries, and farmlands hide between and spread over them, and forested paths lead the horseless wanderer to adventure. There are hills in Holland, and I recently muddied up my sneakers on them. I stretched my legs.

I felt English, remembering the summers I spent with my family. We'd rent a farmhouse at the end of a gravel road and prance about in our wellies. Ducks would scatter as we'd scramble up gentle inclines and then up trees.

These hills, these woods, they bring back these memories. For that I am thankful.