Dinant

I won’t forget first seeing Dinant. Everything both natural and manmade went straight up. I felt like a character from The Lord of the Rings standing at last before Helms Deep. A monolithic wave of rock wore a walled fortress as its stony crown. Far below, looking like tiny children’s toys along the mirroring Meuse River was a neat row of narrow tightly bundled buildings, green, yellow, red, white, all with different roof heights and brick chimneys. And climbing alongside the rock jutted a straight-up black cathedral with a domed spire and a cross weather vane with a rooster on top. And what was that along the right side of the cathedral? A column of some kind? They were steps. Steep, shallow, endless steps straight up the mountain.

To cross the river to those steps there was a bridge lined with twenty-four artistic renderings of my favorite musical instrument accompanied by the flag from the artist’s country of origin. I recognized the flags of the United Kingdom, Italy, Luxembourg, Japan, Finland, China. The bridge honored the man who, in 1842, invented one of the easiest instruments to learn to play, the saxophone. Adolphe Sax was born November 6, 1814 in Dinant, Belgium. There is a statue of him sitting on a bench holding the instrument he created. You could sit next to him. Or go behind him to the free museum “La Maison de Monsieur Sax.” The building where he was born has a stained glass saxophone above its door.

Dinant winds in levels of streets with many layers. I feel I will never uncover them all.

I have visited twice. Once alone and once with loved ones.

The first time it was March 2011 and I was backpacking alone by train through northern Europe. I arrived as the sun was getting low, DINANT flickering past in big white letters on its blue sign post. I got off the train and entered a small station: Gare de Dinant with the rounded circled B indicating the Belgian railway.

The first order of business was a place to stay for the night and I walked up to the Hotel Merveilleuse. It used to be a nunnery, le Couvent de Bethléem back in the 1600s, settled by a Capuchin Order of Nuns. In 1793, it became a hospital and later an orphanage. In the late nineteenth century, Dominican nuns built higher up, using the Neo-Gothic sandy red brick seen today and continued in strict austerity there for a hundred years. It became a hotel in 2008.

Like most names, there’s a story. There was a hermit who used to live in a tower on the site and he died on Christmas Day in 1675. The villagers of Dinant organized an annual procession and called the place le Couvent de Bethléem. Or at least so says the Hotel Merveilleuse website.

I walked there, picking my way among the steep ups and downs of streets and asking occasionally in my awkward French whether or not I was going the right way. The entrance was stunning with an iron gate, steps up to the door and dimly lit red brick. The woman at the front desk was kind enough to give me the privilege to stay in the Résidence de Mère Supérieure. The wood floors echoed and the long hall to my room was lined with prayer stools. The room was spare and austere, which was ideal for sleeping where the Mother Superior once slept. There was a little hospital sink right near the blindingly white and stiffly stretched sheets covering the wood framed bed. Over the bed was a photograph of what the worship area looked like peopled with nuns back in the 1950s. And I had a real key to jiggle fervently in the endless hole of the lock.

The next morning, after a wonderful traditional le petit déjeuner (un café, jus d’orange, des croissants et pain avec burre et confitures) breakfast included at no extra cost, I explored the nuns’ worship area, sat in one of the pew seats, gazed at the figure of Jesus on the cross and the surrounding stained glass. Straight up I saw that the ceiling had the rounded Gothic shapes, but was made of brick, something I’d not seen before. The hotel staff informed me that they were remodeling the area. It would become a museum.

I ambled down the steep streets, crossed the saxophone bridge, and climbed up the escarpment, 408 steep tiny medieval steps to the top of the citadel overlooking Dinant. It was not easy. I had to count each step in French and murmur “Du Courage” frequently.

Hercules Poirot was a character I’d read in the mysteries of Agatha Christie while growing up and gained a new level of appreciation for through the brilliant acting of David Suchet in the BBC series. Prizing the truth above all else, despising lies, he valued order and method. Even his breakfast eggs in cups were tested with the little spoon to see that they were the same height.

So, it did not surprise me to find that the sites at the Citadel of Dinant were numbered with strong advisement to move in the designated order to properly learn the tumultuous story of Dinant. It also did not surprise me to find people in Antwerpen waiting for the walk lights to change even when there was not a single vehicle in sight. Belgium. Order. Method. Agatha Christie got it right.

The Citadel was originally built in 1051, destroyed by the French in 1703, and rebuilt with the famous 408 steps in the 1800s by the Dutch.

In 1466, Charles the Bold threw about 800 Dinant citizens into the Meuse River and lit the town on fire. Quite the temper tantrum. During World War I, 674 citizens were massacred by German troops.

The fun experiential part was the simulation of the gun fire and the tilt of the citadel when it was uprooted during battle. It so completely confused my equilibrium, something I’d not felt before, that I couldn’t stop laughing. People near me began to join in.

After a harrowing trip down those tiny, steep steps, I went into the tall, dark cathedral. No one was there. Mozart’s Requiem played through the speakers. There was a telling of the Passion of Christ in paintings from 200 or so years ago that I thought was very well done. Jacques Stillman was the artist. The only thing I wished was that there was a painting of the risen Christ. Why does art depicting the Passion story in cathedrals tend to end at Jesus’ death?

The stained glass in the cathedral was stunning and very tall and broad. It was difficult to get the full glass in my photographs no matter how far I stood back.

When I said goodbye to Dinant that afternoon, I didn’t expect to come back, but I did a little over two years later with the man in my life along with his son and son’s girlfriend.

The best travel stories come from the worst moments.

Previously, I looked up a youth hostel called Splendid Palace and was sure it was located right under the Hotel Merveilleuse. But it wasn’t. We went down the steep streets, then up the steep streets looking for it. Eventually, I led everyone up to the Hotel Merveilleuse only to find that it was not open as a hotel at that time. They were doing renovations. They did have a Leffe Museum open, so we could come back for the museum and lunch the next day, which we did.

But what about a place to stay that night? The woman at the front desk did not recognize the hostel I was looking for, which was concerning. She looked it up in the phone book and was able to provide directions. We attempted them, but encountered a no trespassing sign and spooked an older woman in her home.

I felt terrible. It had been my idea to show them Dinant and I had not only failed to get a place for us to stay, but ended up dragging them up and down the streets of the town like a dog’s chew toy. On top of that, hungry, Dan watched all the restaurants close for the night as we walked past.

I knew the Belgians did not stay up late, so I became concerned that the hotels would close before we could arrive and we would have nowhere to stay. I remembered that there was an Ibis Hotel across the river. If you are not familiar, Ibis is a chain of hotels throughout Europe. Simple, straightforward accommodations and typically the price is not bad. I said that I would power walk ahead. Follow the river and you’ll get there, I told the others.

It was quite the power walk. I felt great the next day. Apparently, a strident power walk with a fifteen pound backpack is just the exercise for me. I didn’t know.

Everyone else straddled uncertainly behind. I hated doing it that way, but I didn’t want the Ibis to close.

I got to the lobby of the Ibis a bit breathless. It was farther than I anticipated. I was relieved that they were open. I asked about a room for four or two rooms for two each. They only had a single room and a double available. I asked if an extra person could go in the single room, but they said that wouldn’t work. I know my French wasn’t stellar, but they did understand me and clearly didn’t want to accommodate. When I realized that they weren’t going to provide a room, I asked if there was another place we could stay. They said that there was a Best Western. Would they be willing to call to find out if they had rooms? Almost with a huff, the blonde young woman called the Best Western and discovered that they did have a room for four. Wonderful. We’d take it. How do we get to the Best Western? The woman pulled out a map and showed the route from the Ibis to the Best Western. How far was that? About three kilometers. Was there a taxi we could take to get there? Yes. Would you be willing to call for a taxi? She called and said a taxi would be there in five minutes. Thank goodness. Although getting help from her was like pulling teeth, I thanked her and felt good about my ability to communicate in French.

I walked outside the hotel to greet the others as they arrived. Very soon the cab driver pulled up. He was abrupt, direct, and cussed out a few drivers and one walker on the way to the Best Western. It was dark, so I didn’t know what it looked like outside. I had the sense that we were going out into the country.

The cab driver screeched up to the front of the hotel and we paid him. Once a castle, the hotel is completely set in the woods. Castel de Pont-à-Lesse.

After a good night’s sleep, the new day dawned sunny and beautiful. We had the best breakfast spread of the trip in an enormous dining room with large glass windows revealing the surrounding greenery. Bicycle riders were gearing up for a day of riding.

When we were ready, we called the cab again and the same cab driver showed up. Thanks to him, I know what it feels like to be in a car chase scene in a movie. Along the way to the cave, we zipped through a dramatic split in a rock just big enough for a vehicle to pass through. It has a name. Rocher Bayard. It is a 100 foot tall rock needle. The legend is that it was split from the main rock by the huff of Bayard, the magical horse carrying the four sons of Duke Ayman on the run from Charlemagne. It was here that the British stopped the advance of German troops in December 1944.

Even the advance of German troops would not be able to stop our cab driver, I was convinced. I hoped he’d understood where I told him we wanted to go because he seemed to zig and zag through most of Dinant. I now realize that was simply because so many streets don’t connect. I was relieved when we crossed the bridge and soon we arrived at La Grotte Merveilleuse. We pulled up next to the little store in front of the cave entrance, which was just opening. The man was an inspired, kind scientist willing to give us a tour in English after I asked him politely in my very best French. He just needed a few minutes. We perused the store, found places to stash our backpacks, and then followed our guide to the caves. Soon we saw stalactites, stalagmites, and columns made of iron and limestone. We went through room after room. He asked us what shapes we imagined in the limestone and shared some of his own inspirations. At one point, he announced dramatically, “We are now in the presence of pure limestone” and put his high power flashlight against the very white deposits. We gasped. We stood in the place where the residents of Dinant, roughly 300 at the time, hid for a week during World War II bombing. Imagine a week crammed in a cave with 300 people.

We walked from the cave to the Hotel Merveilleuse to see the Leffe Museum and have lunch on their outdoor terrace.

Much had changed since my visit five year’s earlier. There were few vestiges of the space where the nuns would worship. Instead there were experiential displays of the history of Leffe beer and how beer is made. Green clusters of hops were growing on the terrace. Nearby we ate wonderful food and drank Leffe beer; I had moules avec coriander and curry.

We chose not to visit the Leffe Abbey which was built in 1152 and is where Leffe beer originated. It is not possible to uncover every layer. Leaving something for next time makes it more likely you will come back.