Day 6 – From Dunes to Delicacies

Good morning Drunen! Or rather: good morning half-empty coffee mug, sleepy eyes, and a head full of fog. Around eight o’clock, I joined breakfast at the hotel – still half in dreamland but with a determined look that said, “Today I’ll brave the world again.” Or at least 11.7 kilometers of sand.

I decided to keep my rain jacket on just in case. Not because I thought it would rain again, but simply because by now it felt like it had grown into my skin. At 9:15, I left the warm luxury of the hotel — two nights of a real mattress, hot showers whenever I wanted, no creepy crawlies at bedtime. What a time that was. But the adventure called. And that sounded like: “Hey, there’s some sand in your socks.”

The Loonse and Drunense Dunes were beautiful, rugged, and slightly cruel to tired feet. Dune after dune. My walking pace resembled a limping crab, but I enjoyed it. Really. Between the heavy breaths.

In Oisterwijk, Paul was waiting for me. Let me introduce Paul: he’s not just anyone — he’s the man I once struggled and panted with on the way to Everest Base Camp. We shared blisters, dal bhat, and the smell of three days without showers. A friendship forged in thin air. And now he stood there, arms wide open. His wife Patries and their son welcomed me like I was returning from a world trip. And yes, it kinda felt like that.

We had a royal lunch. I ordered a carpaccio sandwich, but when the plate arrived I briefly wondered: where’s the bread? It was hidden under a glorious slab of meat — a meat blanket so generous that even a carnivore would be impressed.

The afternoon brought something I hadn’t experienced in a long time: a warm bath. Bubbly, no less. I felt like Beyoncé on retreat for a moment. Then in chill mode to the pub where we ate spare ribs so tender they slid off the bones as if they didn’t want to be meat anymore.

And then, as the cherry on an already full day, Joris and Erik — also members of the Himalaya club — stopped by. While watching some random football match (Willem II vs Telstar, it felt like my life turned into an episode of Andere Tijden Sport), we reminisced. Laughed, chatted, and mostly enjoyed. I slept in Paul’s guest room, in a bed that felt like a cloud. Complete with fresh sheets, a soft pillow, and the luxury of not waking up because your sleeping mat leaks.

Day 7 – The Chicken Leg March

The next morning, I joined breakfast around nine, with a cup of coffee slowly bringing me back to life. Then a warm farewell to Paul and his family — hugs, waving, and promises to catch up soon (somewhere with less sand and sweat).

I trotted off towards Moergestel. Not far, but my legs acted like I’d run three marathons already. At the village square, I plopped down at a terrace where the fried eggs I ordered truly lived up to their name. The plate was so full that halfway through, I wondered if I’d accidentally ordered lunch for two.

After this eggy energy boost, I walked on to the place where dreams come true: the Jumbo. I hadn’t been there for a few days and almost felt an emotional connection to the soft drink aisle. Water, snacks, nuts — my holy trinity.

On the square was a chicken stall with grilled legs steaming. I didn’t hesitate. A portion of chicken legs came along, not in my jacket pocket (that would be a step too far even for me), but nicely wrapped in a bag — dinner for tonight.

Haghorst was the final destination. A little over 18 kilometers away, or in other words: six times telling myself out loud, “come on, just a bit more,” and still not halfway there. Once arrived, the usual routine began: pitch the tent, gently curse my feet, and then… a surprise.

Kai — an old school friend — suddenly showed up with a beer in hand and a big grin. We hadn’t seen each other in years, but as if time had stood still, we were chatting like it was yesterday during recess at the schoolyard. Normally I’m not great at spontaneous socializing (read: I often run away), but for Kai, I gladly made an exception.

We laughed, drank, watched the sunset, and talked about the past, now, and everything in between. By the time he left, it felt like I had recharged not just my body but my mind as well. Tomorrow’s destination? Bladel!

Day 8 – Currant Buns, Kilometers, and Broken Feet

Alarm at 6:00. Or well, my biological clock combined with a cold tent floor. I felt like I’d slept three nights on a concrete tile and… okay, that was actually true.

Hungover from two beers. Two. It’s official: I’m in hiking mode. Stuffed currant buns and apples down, shoes on, backpack on, and at 7:00 I started the trek. Twenty kilometers on the agenda. And no shops along the way. Like I’d voluntarily planned a survival trip through diet territory.

The route was beautiful, that has to be said. But my feet struggled. Halfway through, I came across — miracle of miracles — a sign for a pedicure practice. I didn’t hesitate. Rang the bell. The door opened, and there was a sweet Ukrainian woman. I told my story, complete with a dramatic blister emoji face, and she melted. She was actually closed, but could help me at 19:00 in Netersel. What a rescue!

After some more sweating and struggling, I arrived in Bladel around 14:00. I raided the supermarket like I’d fasted for a week. Then camp searched, tent pitched, and fried beef slices in a pan like I was competing in Heel Holland Kookt in de Regen (Dutch cooking show: The Netherlands Cooks in the Rain).

Time to go to the pedicure. Tried Uber. Laughable. Nobody came. The system seemed to have collectively forgotten me. So I called a taxi — which initially quoted an astronomical price. I negotiated like a true Marktplaats veteran and knocked €45 off. Small victory.

At the pedicure, I was treated like a VIP. She gave me tea, listened to my stories, and lovingly tended to my feet as if working on a precious restoration project. Plasters, tips, cotton, ointments — I walked out reborn. She gave me a high five and a smile that gives you half a day’s extra strength.

Back to camp in the same (still way too expensive) taxi, and just in time into the tent before the skies opened and the thunder started. Outside the thunder roared, but I lay dry, fed, pedicured, and content in my sleeping bag.

Sometimes happiness lies in a carpaccio sandwich, an unexpected meeting, or a few sturdy plasters.

To be continued…