7) Bliss cannot be registered

7) Bliss cannot be registered

We live in an age that makes it easy to register almost everything: sounds, images, movements. We can glue these temporary phenomena for eternity to tapes, disks, cassettes. Now image the treasure trove were we to find similar memorabilia of times long gone by.

Seventeenth century Dutchmen looking from the wall that protects their city to the Spaniards beneath. A Neanderthal family in front of a campfire. Romans boating on a lake. Celts gasping at the Colosseum. Just imagine the host of details that will intrigue us.

But our family in front of the TV, paddling across a pond or looking at the Eiffel tower, who would ever find that fascinating? I do of course. I still do. The kids will do so too I hope. So I keep them. But what of a life they have never been part of? My life with Chantal. ‘Look our father with eh, that must be Chantal I think?’

How do our travels start? Before we leave Amsterdam for the mountains Chantal and I read booklets and brochures. Internet does not exist. We ask the people in the travel-shop what they know about our destination. This shop will not be able to cope with Internet and is now long gone.

The people selling cards and maps are travellers themselves. You can ask them anything. When is the best time to go, what not to forget, what to wear. They know or else they know people who know. The door to their shop shows a bewildering array of notes: mate sought for camping trip; who wants to join our group of women cyclists? Tent, only used once.

We read and talk and prepare. Shall we take freeze-dried food with us? Nuts and chocolates? Raisins, high calorie food-bars? No food at all?

A trip to Italy, to France, to Spain. Walking, camping and making pictures. Color-slides in frames row after row that lay dormant for decades show our trips abroad.

And then, after a slide or two you sense already that the most rewarding places and moments have never been photographed. Like when we come upon a small church high in the Italian mountains, the Piedmonte, the foothills of the Alps. The door is locked but one of our books says the key is hidden behind a stone near the door. We find the key and make our way inside.

Wooden stairs lead us to an attic where we lay down our inflatable mattresses and our sleeping bags. We cook a simple meal on our stove. From the attic we look into the valley deep down. A few glimmering lights show where a hamlet is still inhabited. We top the meal with a watery pudding that tastes like sweet chemicals.

Sheer bliss. Impossible to capture in a picture.

So the mountains are important to us. I have introduced Chantal to this world because I have had some experience in  mountain walking.