It was May of last year when I wrote that I was setting off to hike the Alsace region of France. In that post, I speculated when the wheels might fall off my metaphorical bus. It turns out, it was imminent. Day three, in fact.

Pat needed an unexpected minor surgery, and I needed to be there. I left the trail in Barr and caught a train back to Paris.

Last week, finally, I returned to Alsace to finish the job.

Day one: September 4, 2023:

Strasbourg 7AM … as I cross the river into the old town, church bells are ringing. It’s chilly. I consider grabbing my sweater from my pack, but instead I walk faster. I’m on my way to the train station and from there headed to Sélestat.

Delivery trucks, garbage trucks, joggers, dog walkers. It’s early morning life in the pedestrian part of town. Soon it will be teaming with tourists, but I’ll be long gone.

I walk by the cathedral. Kids on scooters. Men and women dressed for work.

I stop for an espresso and croissant. It’s a busy place—and from the interactions, largely locals. A most pleasant woman is working; she sings a greeting to everyone … Bonjour! Bonjour! She reminds me of Belle from Beauty and the Beast singing as she heads out to start the day.

I board the train in Strasbourg.

It’s an unsettling feeling when a train leaves 6 minutes early. The good news, I am heading to Sélestat. The bad news, I’m on the local train which stops everywhere. Shortly, I should see my intended train zoom past. I refuse to let this bother me. Instead, I read my book.

A hear a buzz. It’s an alert that my train—the one I’m supposed to be on—is delayed. The travel gods, it appears, take care of fools and little old ladies. If this is a sign, then I’ll be fine.

Sélestat is the largest village between Strasbourg and Colmar. From here, I’ll take the train to Dambach-la-Ville, and from there, the hike begins.

But first, I explore Sélestat—a church from the 13th century, whimsically painted houses, boulangeries that sell pretzels. It’s a quaint place—not a must-see town, but I’m here, and I’m glad I’m here.

I talk to a woman at the travel information office to get some insight on my walking route. She tells me that I’m not taking the traditional bike path, but I should be able to walk through the vineyards. At her recommendation, I buy a trail map. She wishes me luck. “What’s the worst thing that can happen?” I ask. She gives me one of those Gaelic shrugs and lets out a puff of air. I take it she’s not an optimist.

After a second coffee, I’m back at the Sélestat train station which is located at the edge of the Vosges mountain range. The foothills are immediately to the west, and in those foothills is my hiking route. For the first time, I can actually envision what’s ahead.

Day one of hiking is always the hardest. The angst of what the heck am I doing collides with it’s too late to turn back now.

I have no intention of turning back.

As I await the train, this might be a good time to talk about the region. Alsace is in the Rhine Valley just west of the German border. Over the course of the 20th century, it has ping ponged between France and Germany four times.

To me, it feels more German, but certainly there’s a French twist—the Riesling is drier. The sauerkraut can be topped with fish and smothered in a white wine and butter sauce.

But then, there’s the German influence: sauerkraut more commonly crushed under a mountain of pork, an alarming amount of brown bread, and the ubiquitous pretzels.

But while I am interested in the history, I’m not overthinking this trip. Walks are, quite honestly, for walking. Before some trips, I’ll read a pile of books (Spoiler alert: the book I’ve brought with me is The Rise and Fall of the House of Medici). In Sélestat, I see a French T-shirt that sums up my walking philosophy: when you expect nothing, everything is a surprise.

On these trips, the little factoids are my surprises. They delight me. Like this one. Yesterday, I went to the Alsace history museum in Strasbourg (highly recommend BTW). There, I learned that houses were once taxed by the size of the ground floor. Consequently, they were built like an upside down wedding cake with each consecutive floor larger than the one below.

An example in Sélestat.

The train arrives. Ten minutes later, I’m in Dambach-la-Ville. Half-timbered homes, patchworks of repairs scattered across centuries-old tile roofs, vines dripping with white grapes. The town is pushed against the hillside—actually more charming than I expected. Medieval, walled, a stork’s nest atop the city gate.

Soon I’ll walk on, but first it’s lunchtime.

I find the most adorable restaurant with murals of winemakers who look like the seven dwarves. I linger. I have a six-mile walk ahead of me—a short day. But I’ve walked six miles in my morning explorations. I fuel up. Drink all the water I can hold.

It’s time to put away my phone and stop taking notes. I need to wander, daydream. Occasionally, I’ll jot a memory, snap a photo, text my family. But more than that, I just want to simply walk.

Let’s go:

Dear lord I picked a hot week. I pull into town Chatenois looking like this:

I have an hour of hiking left. My son asks if I have a first aid kit (no), food (no), water (just bought some). I assure him that I have a topo map.

But seriously, I’m seldom more than 20 or 30 minutes from a village. And unless I’m in a village, I’m never more than six feet from this:

It’s been a tough day. I’m glad it’s over.

Day two:

I leave before sunrise to hike in the coolness of morning.

Entering Bergheim. A woman is gathering eggs in her backyard garden. I sit on a bench and do not hear a man-made sound.

Ribeauvillé is one of those adorable villages where locals dress up like old timey characters and you realize that a good lunch will be hard to find.

Day three:

I leave just after 6:30. It’s going to be a hilly day. The church at Hunawhir is always photographed as if it sits in the middle of nowhere, but it’s actually just on the top side of the village.

There’s a beautiful village perched on a hilltop. I take 5 or 10 photos thinking it’s Riquewihr until apparently it isn’t. Goodbye hilltop village whoever you are.

This is Riquewihr. A bit disappointing from the approach.

But charming inside.

On my way to Kayserberg, the vendage is starting. A caravan passes—each van filled with pickers who wave to me with all the excitement of school children setting off for the first day.

Day four:

Every single time I enter or leave a town, the church bells ring. I imagine they are greeting me, and then wishing me well.

Finally, Eguisheim. You are adorable. It’s not a secret.

Day five:

Colmar. You too are adorable. You too are no secret. As I type that last sentence, the church bells start to ring.

My memories:

Church bells ringing at 6AM…. On and on.

The heat: It’s been relentlessly sunny. I leave early every day and hope to arrive by noon. (Except for day one, and you’ve seen how that turned out.)

The food: I eat it for two days and that’s enough. It’s massive. Rich. Porky. Cheesy. Not hot weather hiking food. I buy pistachios and dates at Carrefour.

Farm life: I grew up in a family whose roots were in farming. I hear the tractors heading out each morning at six. I love that sound. I’m a lifelong morning person. My dad always said that farming families get up with the sun.

The vineyards: the harvest has begun. There’s nothing quite like a French village during the grape harvest. No matter how good or bad the vintage, it feels like a collective sigh of relief.

If I did this again, I would spend the nights in Dambach la Ville, Saint Hippolyte (sadly unphotographed), Kayserberg, and Eguisheim (or maybe Turckheim). I’m writing that down lest I forget.

But next year, I’d rather repeat Burgundy.

Day six:

I wake up in Colmar and google: hiking the Cotswolds. I take my last predawn walk. My train to Paris leaves in 3 hours. I’m ready for it.

Categories: Exploring France

Tags: Alsace, hiking Alsace, walking France