Three Days in the Semois Valley: Rain, Sun & Memory Lane

The Belgian Ardennes in April — when the weather is as reliable as a politician’s promise. We embarked on a three-day jaunt to the Semois Valley last week, full of enthusiasm, raincoats, and that quintessential Belgian optimism that insists “it’s probably just a passing shower” (spoiler alert: it wasn’t).
Out of the three days, two were classic Belgian weather — which is to say, grey skies weeping over us in a way that would make even the most stoic Flemish bon vivant reach for something stronger than a Trappist beer. But on the second day, the clouds parted, the sun made a cameo appearance, and suddenly everything was glorious. Birds chirped, the river sparkled, and even our knees stopped creaking for a while. It was the perfect day for a hike.
And hike we did — up to some of the most breathtaking viewpoints in the region: Point de Vue du Terme, Rochers du Dampirée, and the storied Tombeau du Géant. For those unfamiliar with this last marvel, it translates as “Tomb of the Giant” and comes with a proper legend, the kind that makes you feel like you’re walking through a forgotten chapter of Asterix.
The legend, as the locals tell it: After the fateful Battle of the Sambre, a brave Gaulish giant — not keen on ending up lion food in a Roman coliseum — chose freedom the dramatic way. He hurled himself from the Rocher des Gattes, rather than submit to captivity. His body was discovered by a kindly old man who, with the help of a few young lads, buried the fallen hero on the hilltop now known as the Tombeau du Géant. It’s the sort of story that makes you want to raise a glass of Chouffe (delicious local beer) in his honour.

For me, this wasn’t just sightseeing. This corner of Belgium — Alle, Vresse, Membre, Bohan — was my childhood playground. Summers were spent fishing in the Semois with my father, evenings lit by campfires and endless board and card games (we had no television in our camper, and the internet was still just a twinkle in some bespectacled scientist’s eye). Entertainment was analogue, wholesome, and often involved accusing your brother of cheating at Monopoly.
Days were gloriously unstructured: running wild with my kid brother along the riverbanks, exploring the woods, and occasionally getting lost — character building, they called it. It’s where I learned patience (fishing will do that to anyone), a deep appreciation for nature, and, if memory serves, the most effective zigzag pattern for escaping an irate goose. Handy life skills, all things considered.
But things have changed since then. All the old “wild” camping spots are gone. The makeshift cottages — built half-legally, half-hopefully — have vanished. It seems the region has undergone a quiet rewilding. Large stretches of river and forest have been given back to nature. Where there were once picnic tables and fishermen’s shacks, there is now only silence, birdsong, and a lush tangle of green.
Human traces have been gently, almost reverently, erased. It’s no longer the same place I knew — but in a way, it’s even better.
There’s something deeply moving about returning to a childhood landscape and finding it… improved. Not paved over or commercialised, but stripped back to its essence. The Semois Valley today is a hiker’s dream and a fisherman’s paradise — assuming you don’t mind a bit of rain (or, in our case, quite a lot of it).

We also had the great pleasure of dining twice at Le Fief de Liboichant, a lovely riverside hotel & restaurant in Alle where the trout is so fresh it probably gave its final flop minutes before meeting its buttery fate. In the kitchen and dining room reigns Véronique, a formidable Flemish native who commands her domain with equal parts elegance and no-nonsense flair. She served us a meal that would make any Flemish bon vivant weep with joy — and possibly unbutton their trousers. Even better, she welcomed our two poodles without batting an eyelid. No judgement, no fuss, just excellent food and the kind of warm hospitality that makes you consider moving in permanently.

We left muddy, tired, and smiling — and not just because the car’s heating worked. Sometimes, memory and landscape align just enough to remind you who you were, and how far you’ve come — and if you’re very lucky, the sun shows up too…