I like forests as much as the next person. Notwithstanding, I suffer from an abiding inability to distinguish one forest from another. The ‘real’ Belgian forest lover, on the other hand, suffers no such weakness of the spirit or feebleness of the mind.

He gladly drives 300 km to walk in a different forest every weekend. To his mind, it is a unique forest; to mine, one that looks the identical twin of the one behind his house.

I do not pass judgement, or at least I shouldn’t. Similar behavioural disorders flourish among Norwegians, too. However, with us, it is more often near-identical mountain-tops instead of doppelgänger forests.

As I have tried to immerse myself in the Belgian nature enthusiast’s mindset, I have started to take greater pleasure from the forest.

My eyes, formerly accustomed to, and therefore, expecting crude topography has in time become more sympathetic to the subtle beauty of the forest; the forest floor; the underbrush; the canopies—and the continually changing interplay of light and shadow.

Living on Brussels’ southern fringe, my ‘goto’ forest has become the Sonian Wood.

True connoisseurs of arboreal recreation, may find this forest too urbane for their discerning tastes. But… there is something to be said for a large forest, within cycling distance of a capital city.

That the Belgians mainly have managed to keep this forest free of the ever-expanding footprint of ‘progress’ does them great credit. Elsewhere this would quickly have fallen victim to urban sprawl.

One Belgian forest that not even the most ardent defender of orthodox forest walks can find fault with, regardless of its proximity to Brussels, is the Hallerbos.

For a brief time about the middle of April, this forest comes alive with purple and bright green.

Due to the restrictions on movement, I could not stray here during the flowering season this year, but I place my faith in what will hopefully be a more liberal 2021.

Growing up in Norway, Christmas Day was usually wildly anti-climactic. We opened presents on Christmas Eve, and by the 25th, the euphoria of the previous night’s bonanza had died. Only the lingering self-righteous disappointment over unfulfilled wishes remained.

Convention in my village dictated that the day must be spent with family.

I had just spent ONE evening with them, and while there was nothing wrong with them as such, the concept of being OBLIGED to enjoy their company was distasteful.

I longed for nothing so much as to see my friends, neighbours, or anybody, really, as long as they were not family.

In time, a grudging acceptance that a short walk was permissible in the afternoon developed. But it had to fit between two of the extraordinary number of meals taken on that day. Consequently, I was confined to my immediate surroundings. That forced me to learn to appreciate living close to nature.

Since March this year, life has had much in common with my childhood’s Christmas Day, except, I live in Brussels—not close to nature. Luckily, though, I live near a park.

There is something about the urban park; the sudden presence of green among the wreckage of what humanity curiously has chosen to call progress.

But is the park a satisfactory substitute for nature?

My younger self would have protested wildly against such blasphemy. But my older, possibly wiser, but certainly more battle-worn self has come to hold more pragmatic views of things.

Whatever the urban park may be, it is undoubtedly better than NO nature.

So, come March; I began walking in Woluwe Park every day. Soon I walked every day AND every night, and when I didn’t walk, I bicycled.

As time passed, I learned the proper place of every loose rock, every broken branch, and a good number of dead leaves. If anything changed from one day to the next, I took it as a personal affront.

While it may have set off a dormant streak of OCD in me, I firmly believe Woluwe Park to have been essential in keeping up my spirits this year.

Merry Christmas, Woluwe Saint-Pierre!