When you think of Belgium, forests probably don’t come to mind. I’d even dare say most people associate Belgium with Brussels, EU institutions, and maybe chocolate. Yet near the Luxembourg border, in Belgium’s easternmost province — Luxembourg province — lies one of the country’s largest forests: the Anlier Forest, also called the Great Forest of Anlier.
What makes this region even more fascinating is how deeply its landscape is tied to European history. The Luxembourg–Belgium border as we know it today was drawn in 1839 by the Treaty of London, which finalized Belgium’s independence from the Netherlands (achieved in 1830). Before that, Luxembourg was part of the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg within the German Confederation, ruled in personal union by the Dutch king. The treaty effectively split Luxembourg in two: the western half — Belgian Luxembourg, the very province I was now driving through — became part of Belgium, while the eastern half remained the Grand Duchy. It’s remarkable how borders shaped nearly two centuries ago still define the forests, villages, and quiet backroads you encounter today.
Seven thousand hectares of forest hold countless paths for cycling, hiking, horseback riding — you name it. How I ended up here? Well, I consider myself lucky: traveling from Belgium’s southernmost point, Torgny, toward Luxembourg’s westernmost corner, my route happened to lead straight through this forest. In autumn, with the colors at their peak, the view was simply incredible. The roads here are straight, following the land’s contours, so from a hilltop you can see hundreds of meters ahead. It’s beautiful, but maybe a little dangerous, because it was too stunning not to stop for a few photos.
At one point, I even thought, “Wouldn’t this be a great shot from the car?” — but wisely didn’t follow through. I parked at the roadside and stepped into the middle of the road to get a symmetrical shot. Only then did I realize that on these long, straight roads some drivers might not see me in time — and indeed, it didn’t take long before a BMW flew past.
The real purpose of the story, however, isn’t to praise Belgium’s forests — it’s about how I ended up at Luxembourg’s westernmost point.
I had studied the map online and seen that roads (at least forest tracks) led toward the westernmost corner. Google Street View hadn’t been there, so I had no clue if these tracks were drivable. Approaching from Belgium, the road first passed through the tiny village of Tintange, then over a bridge crossing the Surbich river. The road then seemed to climb sharply to the right — but the forest track toward the westernmost point unexpectedly veered left.
The leaves covered the road so thickly it was hard to judge whether the surface was good or bad. I noticed big puddles filling deep ruts. The road followed the border between Belgium and Luxembourg, with a river running in the valley below and steep hills on either side. Where did it lead? That was unclear. About a kilometer later, the track split: straight ahead or down into the valley. The valley path was the one I needed, but it looked uncertain, so I decided to park and continue on foot. Lucky for me, the road was wide enough that anyone else could have passed without trouble — even a bigger forest machine.
This is also when I realized a tiny mistake: my phone had only 10% battery. Not ideal. But I pressed on. The path looked passable enough, and my goal was to reach the westernmost point and perhaps take a few photos.
Walking up the track, I encountered steep inclines, mud, large stones — enough that every step required attention. A red-and-black sign appeared. I didn’t read the local language, but the symbols were obvious: warning about shooting. It was hunting season. I paused, thinking about how to proceed. The forest was silent; the likelihood of hunters being nearby felt low, but still… better safe than sorry. I whistled softly and kept moving.
Eventually, the path became clearer, and reaching the westernmost corner felt surprisingly simple. The forest was quiet, seemingly empty of people, though surely animals were around. Belgian and Luxembourgish hills stretched out around me. A short walk, and the border markers appeared — proof I had arrived.
I didn’t linger: rain soon began falling hard, soaking me completely. Walking back to the car, I later discovered the hunting signs were irrelevant — they only applied on specific dates, none of which included my visit. So all that worry had been unnecessary. But it didn’t matter. The journey, the quiet, the autumn forest, and the sense of reaching a hidden edge of Luxembourg — that was the real reward.