The Horse Rock

In the days when the Ardennes were still an untouched wilderness, a herd of wild horses lived along the Lesse. They were swift as the wind, with gleaming coats and proud eyes. The mare who led the herd was white as the foam on the river. The people of the valley called her Blanche.

The horses drank at the river every morning and galloped over the hills as though they owned the entire forest. No one had ever caught them, though many had tried.

One day a count arrived from the north with an army of hunters and hounds. He had heard of the wild horses and wanted Blanche as a trophy. The hunters drove the herd together, deeper and deeper into the valley, ever closer to the cliffs above the Lesse.

The horses were cornered. On one side the hunters with their nets and snares, on the other the precipice. The waters of the Lesse churned dozens of metres below. There was no escape — or was there?

Blanche looked back at the approaching hunters. She looked down at the river. Then she raised her head, whinnied once and leapt. The entire herd followed her, one after another, like a waterfall of white and brown bodies. The hunters stood frozen at the edge and watched.

But a miracle occurred: not a single horse was dashed upon the rocks. Blanche struck the water with the grace of a swan and swam to the far bank. The other horses followed. By the time the count reached the bottom, the herd had vanished into the forest on the other side, free as ever. The rock has borne their name ever since, and those who stand there on a misty morning sometimes hear the sound of galloping hooves across the water.