The Belgian writer René Henoumont left us a year ago, but "Le Soir Magazine" has a very good idea to continue publishing his best column each week. Here are four:
"Paradox. More than 16,000 animal species are endangered. In Wallonia, there are 40,000 wild boars and deer populations and deer are constantly increasing. These predators cause crop damage. The anger of Farmers growls. In truth, the holders of hunting big game occur in wooded areas as student pheasant plain. This is to satisfy shareholders by offering them up to target the day. It's shooting the pipe. This is the shop. Killing is not hunting. We had a game where, walking, pushing one game ahead. It was the merry chase, exploring nature during the last wild ducks and woodcock, wild boar night watch. Here we are. Last week of August 1939, I shared between the International Water Expo, the city and the village of my father. An unforgettable summer, the world of adolescence and first love. One fine evening, the great Arthur Perilous invites me to watch for wild boar. I accompany him, not without apprehension. Reached the edge of a ground oats, in the heart of dark wood, Arthur tells me a heavy gauge 12 and says he will push me boars we hear the cries of a savagery that makes me heart beat. I did not plan that! I am alone, gun in hand under the stars before the blond oats. Side of Liege, a glow in the sky, the Expo will close its doors in a few days (who knows?). We are on the eve of war, rather, between war and peace until May 10, 1940. I listen at night, starting at the slightest noise, terrified by the nocturnal birds. Time passes. Still no Arthur. I seem to hear a gallop, grunts and wild boars lead oats. Fingers twitching on the trigger, I pull my two shots. A silence disturbed only by the sound of two explosions. Out of the night, I guess Arthur looked at a dark mass at twenty paces. "It's a nice pig, you got it!". My legs are shaking and I dare believe it. And yet it is there, my first wild boar. If I remember correctly, at that time, farmers were allowed to shoot the boars on their land. Hunting today is the privilege of the wealthy at the expense of crops and plantations. Large herbivores severed the terminal bud of trees and wild boar are omnivorous. We must reduce them. Not so simple.
"During my summers buissonniers I known natural sanctuaries. My first sanctuary was the Montagne Saint-Pierre beyond ultimate purpose hills of the valley of the Meuse before Holland. I was still in high school and is along with our science teacher as we walked near the limestone where it was gentians, orchids and dwarf junipers. Where are they now? Sort? I doubt it. The Albert Canal and the fort of Eben -Emael have changed the landscape. Another sanctuary between Filot (Hamoir) and Sy, the Marniere, a plateau where the marl was extracted. There were colonies of gentian, as well as deep excavations which were thrown cattle patients. This did not prevent the mender, a character nicknamed "Tchofil unsuspectingly," to retrieve a pig burst and enjoy them. He died in his nineties ... Other shrines loops Ourthe and Amblève: Fêchereux and Raborive. Fêchereux was dominated by Roche Hawks at the foot of which good-sized trout, pike and perch abounded. He had to borrow a water passage, now repealed and replaced by an ugly bridge, so as to allow bikes to access the towpath along the River. I call it a crime. Near La Roche, an abandoned house served as refuge for supporters during the Occupation. I remember. Jewish families hiding in the nearby village. Raborive near Martinrea on Amel, was even more secret. There, Charles Martel's troops decimated the Neustrians Planer. The river flows under a canopy of weeping willows, green path to true dungeon of the castle ruins of Amel son Aymon lent to the four where it was thought that the bandits Magonette and Gena had hidden their treasure. The side of the rock stood in the 50s, the Mohinette, famous tale Marcellin Guard. There will be hidden near Louis XVI and his companion attempting to cross the Rhine. Henchmen of murdered Directory outlaws. The true is that during the dark years, members of the PS Underground found refuge under the protection of the mineworkers of the Belle-Roche, armed resisters. I remember too. A Raborive, fish reached an exceptional size. There were also huge snakes. It was a paradise. While fishing, history caught up with me, I had something to dream ... Today is a camping ...".
"Childhood your brand she ever? So I always had a certain melancholy in August. The days sped the end of the holiday was approaching. In my father's village, the festivals of the mid-August, decorated floats, outdoor games, announced the return to school. Another fortnight ... What I liked best at school, it is the holidays ... The promise of new notebooks, pen tray lined, was only a small consolation. Then I counted the days, waterfront, fishing rod in hand, watching the great river flowing. How was it during the winter? I imagined her in the blue ice and bare trees where the birds were silent. Got in my uncle's farm, I took refuge in the barn, where the straw was felt, blonde and crunchy. "Where's the kid?" asked my aunt. "I Tchoul and growls" my uncle said, sucking his pipe on the bench outside the house where the swallows already lined up on the son as a chirping power abacus. Today, it stopped raining, but the sun is reluctant in the yard. Near the source, the crocuses will bloom with large lanceolate leaves soon. I wonder if in the near muddy High Ardenne, there are still some crocuses that grazing cows on his lips blue. A friend, at my request, long ago, sent me six feet of saffron. Each fall, they are there, but my friend is gone. Mad botany and mushroom, it could offer a complete dinner, from soup to dessert, with mushrooms, washed down with the best wine. He knew how to live ... The morning mist still smokes like a wash over the river in the valley ponds lost, a laundry as there is more than either. The washing machine hums, odorless, like thousands of others. In the village there were two big ladies laundry all day long great white sheets they began to dry in the orchard. I can still see them flapping in the wind and I lost myself in picking apples. I hesitate to prune the hedges, the pigeons have nests (nice excuse!). When I wake up in the mail by the hedge charms, there is one that starts snapping wings. I know he's young, and I look forward to the house, the newspaper under his arm, something to do while waiting for the Maigret Sunday.
"taking a little space in the garage below the sloping path, where a cloudburst had accumulated 60 cm of mud, I put my hand on my fishing bag I'm lost for 20 years. The small short-handled scoop, bottle ass drilled where the minnows accumulated fond of bread, minnows box, mounts, everything is there. On the last day of summer, where Belgium is lagging, where Iran is scary, you do not want complacency. I was reminded of old days of trout fishing in the Ourthe. And I found myself playing the wrist as if I was fishing the spinning between large rocks where the river cascading Sy ... Anything else on this last day of summer, end of a rotten season, stealth gray sky and sun, I prepared my four-hours. The Herve cheese cube in the basement was ready, double cream Aubel, sweet. The toast with syrup of Liège, I found the smell of the house of my grandfather, at number 6 Rue Charlemagne, the Préalle-Herstal. I saw the policeman retired, all dressed in velvet, his shotgun still within reach. He stood leaning on the table covered with green linoleum lined side by side where the packets of tobacco Semois ruptured, large Bouffard, cartridge boxes, the big brown bread, cheese Herve, the pot of syrup and pears in the garden. I saw him as I can see you're reading me, while I was flipping through the blue pages of the catalog of the arms factory and graduate of St. Etienne which was the bible of my grandfather. In winter, the big platform to red nozzle buzzing and the only room on the ground floor smelled like all the coal Préalle. I still hear the noise of trucks tipping the top of the heap close to home. I mean tchouf-tchouf locomotive line-Liege Tongeren past the house, idling up to the crossing in front of which stood the old liver Dadite selling to minors piqued the Bacnure who had no butter on their sandwiches. Dadite had known my mother to child and called him "my binamée" and me, a little anything, to whom she offered a slice of his liver stung as I have never been found in meats. On this day in late summer, I prepared a hot coffee to get the Herve, the best cheese in the world. At least I have left it there ...".
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