Baarle is a jigsaw puzzle of a town, with some pieces in Netherlands and some in Belgium. Various border disputes over the last century or two (resolved in the European High Court) have resulted in a fractal geography where there are lots of detached bits of one country in the other, some too small to play a game of volleyball on.
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Lines of + marks helpfully delineate the boundaries, and their often arbitrary nature – this house and next-door-but-one are in the Netherlands, but the one in between in Belgium – is all part of the charm of the place. Nigel had set his Garmin to beep whenever we changed country, and we could hardly hear each other talk.
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From Hasselt we took a morning train or two to Turnhout, and cycled along the (smooth, tarmac, of course) railtrail north to Baarle. After a supermarket lunch on a bench admiring the various enclaves and exclaves – and still not being entirely sure when we should use the one rather than the other – we carried on along the trail to Tilburg.
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I was beginning to suffer significantly from yesterday’s insect sting, with my left forearm resembling a child entertainer’s failed balloon sculpture. It was throbbing and painful and I needed to pack it in ice. So Nigel generously agreed to go on a ride for a few hours round Tilburg while I saw in the train station waiting room with a supermarket pack of ice smothering my arm.
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There was relief initially but the ice-cube bag proved as leaky as my bladder. The floor was quickly inundated with melted Ardennes spring water, as were my trousers.