When I walk out the street where I live there is a path, the border path. Where I come from: the Netherlands. The fields and meadows in front: Belgium. Thanks to the hick-ups of history I live in the Netherlands, a divided Limburg, as should Maastricht belong to Belgium in the first place, but the ruling powers of the 18hundred’s decided otherwise. A strange shape like a penis as a symbol for Holland's penetration in the southern countries; We won’t give up, because we can, but they could not, and now borders are fading, but the horses in the meadows don’t mind. They are hugged by anyone who passes: Dutch or Belgium's, or even foreigners...
One can see the landscape and some wild aspects, as a scenery of no-one knew where it belonged. Still farmland, but also unplanned trails, only kept by those who walk the walk. Old smuggler-routes, where once the butter moved from N to B, and cigarettes traveled the other way. Smoking was still cheap in those days, but in Belgium even cheaper. And the butter; well, the Dutch are famous for their cows: that is why.
It is good soil for fruit, where I live; cherries, apples, pears, even grapes to grow, and to drink the bottled wine of this area. Become drunk and walk with me, explore the hills, but also the cross over the canal. And if you fall, it does not matter; the water is deep. Just don’t hit a boat or ship, but swim back ashore, and shake your winery head, the water out of your eyes, from your hair, and climb up the steep marl slope that brings you back on the road again.
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