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Monday 9th July 2018 – NOT ONLY DID I …

… make it to Canada today, I was actually in Newfoundland and Labrador too!

But more of that anon.

With something of a very disturbed sleep (and I’ve no idea why) I finally crawled out of bed at some time rather later than the alarm.

There was plenty of work to be done this morning but for some reason or other I wasn’t really in the mood enough to do it. I don’t know where my energy seems to have gone to at all.

Anyway, at 09:00 and the morning rush-hour gone, I went outside and hit the streets. First stop was to load up with food as the lunchtime stuff is getting low, but would you believe that I drove all of the 45 kilometres to Serre, all the way through the city of Arras and several other small towns, and didn’t even find a single supermarket?

Serre was one of the vital points on the Somme front line that needed to be taken, but the attack had bogged down long before the village had been reached. The “Accrington Pals” who had attacked the village had been decimated.

All around the area are several cemeteries that contain the bodies of the fallen that were recovered from the barbed wire when the battlefield was cleared after the German retreat in early 1917 and were still being recovered in the 1920s.

One piece of land that had been part of the front line had been given to the City of Sheffield and it’s known as Sheffield Park. Tile has worn away many of the features but you can still see the trenches and the shell holes quite clearly.

Narrowly avoiding being squidged by a French lorry driver who was speeding and not paying attention, I visited a few other cemeteries of note and then headed for the Hawthorn Redoubt.

This was a prominent hill overlooking the front line and the British Army dealt with it by the simple expedient of tunneling underneath it and packing the tunnel full of explosives. The explosion of the mine at 07:28 was the signal for the attack to begin.

The crater is certainly impressive – it has to be seen to be believed, but it’s by no means the largest that was exploded on that day. It is famous however as its detonation was actually captured on film.

Down the road from there I entered Newfoundland and Labrador. This is another corner of a foreign field that is forever Canada, although I can’t claim asylum there (I did ask).

It’s where the Newfoundland Regiment, all 800 of them, were ordered into attack but due to a misunderstanding, instead of going through the communication trench to the front line, they left their trenches in the rear and advanced in the open, in full view of a couple of German heavy machine guns.

It has to be said that there were a couple of hundred German machine gunners on the Somme front line, and they alone counted for a very large proportion of the 60,000 or so British casualties on the 1st July.

By the time the Newfoundlanders reached the front line, there were just 95 left. They probably hadn’t even wounded a single German.

I ended up having quite a chat with a nice Canadian girl from St Johns who told me that her great grandfather’s brother is still lying somewhere out there on the battlefield.

Here we were interrupted by a band of pseudo-Scottish pipers who insisted on attempting to play Scotland the Brave and Cock o’ the North and were most unimpressed when I suggested that they went to practise a Highland Fling on the field containing the unexploded ordnance.

Next stop was the Thiepval Ridge and its massive memorial to the missing. Over 75,000 soldiers who lost their lives on the Somme have no known grave and when you see the size of the shell holes that remain, it’s hardly surprising.

Their names are all recorded here,but you’ll see several gaps that are clearly where names have been filled with cement. Bodies are regularly discovered even today on the battlefield and if they are identified, their names are removed from the memorial.

And there are several cases of the “missing” subsequently coming to light, having gone to ground in rural France.

The leader of the pipe band and his acolyte came over to me here (they had been going from memorial to memorial trying to play the pipes) and demanded an explanation of my earlier comments. This led to quite a heated and animated discussion, particularly when I suggested how he could obtain a better sound from his pipes (a method which involves eating several plates of baked beans).

It seems that all of these Scots pipe bands who died for freedom only died so that Scots pipe bands can express their freedom and no-one else is allowed to have any freedom of expression if it disagrees with the opinions of the Scots pipe bands. But I put him right on that score and he slunk off with a flea in his ear.

A good pipe band is a magnificent thing, but a poor pipe band is one of the worst things in the world to have to suffer to hear. It’s even worse than a mouth organ, and regular readers of this rubbish willknow my opinion about that.

The sky had clouded over by now, but I carried on, visiting Sausage and Mash valleys, where a couple of machine guns on a spur of high land in between them decimated the attacking soldiers.

It’s here thuugh that we have the Lochnagar Crater. This was the largest mine exploded on the day and you can tell that by the size of the crater.

Cecil Lewis, an RFC pilot who was flying over it on the day, gives a vivid description of it in his autobiography Sagittarius Rising.

Back 40-odd years ago there were plans to fill in and redevelop the crater, as has happened with a couple of others, but a British person bought the land to preserve its integrity and he’s made quite a passable job of a tourist attraction of it.

But from the top of it, you can certainly see the futility of attacking up “Sausage” and “Mash” valleys.

It was already 19:00 by this time and so I shot off back to Lens. I’d had no food at all during the day, so I was well-pleased in stumbling across a LeClerc supermarket where I could grab some stuff to make a butty – just before they closed the doors too.

And back here in the heat I had a shower and washed my clothes before eating it too.

But 143% of my day’s activity on the fitbit told its own story. By 21:30 I was tucked up in bed and I’ll do the rest tomorrow.

Sunday 8th July 2018 – WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT …

canada national parks vimy ridge france… that by the end of the day I would have been setting my foot inside Canada?

Only in your wildest flights of fancy would you have imagined it, but nevertheless, here I am. And quite right too if you ask me.

I DID say “never say never”, didn’t I? And where there’s a will there are relatives. So Canada here I came.

But I’m getting ahead of myself here, aren’t I?

As expected, I had a bad night with my noisy neighbours. But not so bad that I wasn’t able to go off on a nocturnal ramble.

A rather distressing one in fact. Two men were trying to extract a piece of wood from underneath a huge pile halfway up a scaffolding at IKEA of all places. The pile titled alarmingly and caused two yellow dumper-type lorries to swerve. One of them crashed into Caliburn and badly damaged him, but the lorries didn’t stop until they were round the corner. I didn’t know which one was responsible for the damage so I challenged them both. But they both denied it. A friend of mine, someone from school, was travelling as a passenger in one of them and he reckoned that it was the other so I challenged that driver but he still persisted with his denial. I tried to explain that I had seen what happened with the wood so they could hardly be blamed and the insurance would deal with it anyway, but they still refused to admit which one of them it was.

premiere class hotel rocourt liege belgium july juillet 2018Awake before the alarm, I did some more paperwork and then tidied up ready to leave.

I had a gentle moan at the receptionist about my neighbours (it was hardly her fault, was it?) so she offered me a complementary coffee.

It pays to complain, if you do it nicely enough.

Round the corner to fuel up Caliburn, to the Carrefour Sunday supermarket for bread and some buns for breakfast, and then on the road in the blinding heat for France, eating my bread rolls and drinking my coffee as I drove.

My route took me all the way down the motorway well into France, and I came off at Denain and headed for Douai.

Regular readers of this rubbish in one of its very first incarnations will recall that I called Denain “The Land of the Living Dead”. All of that area, Denain, Douai, Doullens, they are all old mining and heavy industrial towns and the collapse of Western European heavy industry in the 1980s affected them terribly.

They were bad 20 years ago but now they are even worse than parts of Stoke on Trent, and that really is saying something, I’ll tell you that. Horrible, sad, decaying cities.

I found a place to stop and eat my sandwiches, and then went to book a room in either Albert or Arras. And I don’t know what is happening there right now but prices are through the roof. There’s clearly something going on.

All that I’ve managed to find in my price range is a flea-pit in Lens about 20 miles away from where I want to be. That’s not a good sign.

But anyway, I’m back on the road and heading for this afternoon’s destination. And The Lady Who Lives In The SatNav is doing her best to confuse me.

But before I actually reach there, I’m side-tracked … "yet again" – ed … by something that’s not on my list of places to visit.

tank cemetery guémappe franceI’d heard of the “Tank Cemetery” somewhere in the back of my mind, where graves were laid out in the shelter of an abandoned tank, but that was up north.

So seeing a sign for the “Tank Cemetery” around here at Guémappe, I went for a look.

It relates to inter alia an action on 23rd and 24th March as a continuation, I suppose, of the Battle of the Somme, when the village was stormed by soldiers of the Loyal North Lancashire Regiment, and then subsequently by a couple of Field Ambulance Units until it was overrun in the German “Spring Advance” of March 1918.

And there are 64 Cameron Highlanders buried in one mass grave here.

foncquevillers military cemetery franceAnyway, I eventually reach my destination. This is Foncquevillers Military Cemetery.

Foncquevillers was a British stronghold behind the front line in early 1916 and it’s where part of the british Army assembled to plan its attack on the Somme.

What we are going to be doing over the next few days is to sketch out the plan of attack of 1st July 1916 when General Rawlinson’s disastrous handling of the the Third and Fourth Armies led to a debâcle unparalleled in British history and a disaster second only to Dunkirk.

I’m not going to write too much about it here because there is so much to say and I can go on for ever … "not with a bayonet through your neck you couldn’t" – ed … and besides, it’s going to be spread over a couple of days … "and several fields too" – ed.

So I shall just say that I had a very pleasant afternoon ambling through the sunshine.

And you’ll be surprised at just how much is left to see after 102 years. Most of the stuff has been ploughed away but you do occasionally find some gems.

But from there I headed north to Lens. All 45 kilometres of it and it’s rather a drag.

vimy ridge memorial franceBut Rupert Brooke famously talked about “a corner of a foreign field that is forever England”.

What he didn’t say is that there’s a couple of corners of foreign fields that are forever Canada and I’m standing in one right now.

I came here with Nerina 30 years or so ago, but I’ve no idea where my photos might be, and so I came by again.

vimy ridge memorial franceAnd for those of you who couldn’t see the monument clearly, here’s a close-up of it in all its glory.

It’s a monument not only to the events on Vimy Ridge over Easter 1917 but also to all of the fallen Canadian soldiers who have no known grave – more than 11,000 of them.

And their names are engraved on tablets as we saw at the Menin Gate at Ieper.

vimy ridge memorial franceYou can see why possession of Vimy Ridge was something worth fighting for – if anything is worth fighting for, that is.

The view all over the plain between Douai and Lens is phenomenal, and it’s the first real occasion that the British and French had of actually overlooking the German front lines – the Germans always going for the heights.

But I’ll come back to all of that in a bit.

Right now I’m off to my hotel. I eventually find it by the railway station in Lens. I’m pretty disappointed with this one – not for the least of the reasons being the weird landlady who clearly ought topass the bottle around instead of keeping it for herself.

The room is OK and stifling hot, so I nip downstairs and bring up the fan. That’s much better.

A quick wash of the undies and I sit down to do some work but my heart isn’t in it and eventually I drift off to bed with most of the stuff undone.

I can’t keep it up these days like I used to.

Wednesday 13th July 2016 – I’M BACK …

… in Leuven. My stay back in France didn’t last too long, did it?

I had another good sleep, only having to leave the bed once. Well, twice actually, but seeing that the second time was 05:50, just 10 minutes before the alarm was due to go off, I didn’t bother going back downstairs. Instead, I dressed and went down to make breakfast.

By the time that I had done that, made my butties for lunch and had a shower and change of clothes, it was 07:10 and Terry was ready so we hit the road.

It was a beautiful drive right across France to the Rhône valley and Lyon, and we were there on the outskirts of the city by 09:20. The next 6 kilometres was a different proposition. With the traffic queue that we encountered and then the changes to Lyon’s road network that weren’t shown on Terry’s Satnav, it was 10:10 when we arrived at the station. It’s a good job that we had allowed plenty of time for the journey.

There was however plenty of time for a coffee as the TGV was late arriving. 11:00 was the time of departure, but we finally set off at 11:25. We stopped at Marne la Vallée, Paris Charles de Gaulle and Lille as I expected, but also at Haute-Picardie and Arras which I hadn’t realised. Consequently it was 15:30 when we pulled into Bruxelles-Midi.

The journey wasn’t boring though. I did a pile of work on my website, though and I was sitting next to a woman whose father was born in Les Ancizes. We had a lengthy chat about the Auvergne, and she and I set the world to right about the Brexit. It’s not very often that I meet someone who thinks along my lines.

A brief amount of excitement at Bruxelles-Midi was when I bought my ticket for my onward trip to Leuven. I used one of the automatic machines and I received my ticket, plus one from the previous passenger who had clearly forgotten to pick it up. I had to find an information booth to leave it there.

15:56 was my train to Leuven, and by 16:30 I was there on the station. And it was pouring down too. It started almost as soon as we arrived at Charles de Gaulle and had continued for almost all the way. Typical Northern French and Belgian weather.

It soon brightened up though and so I set off for my place of residence. Half an hour’s brisk walk it took me to arrive here and that was carrying a large bag too. That made me think how much my health must have improved. I would never have done this two or three months ago, and round about now i ought to be experiencing a collapsed blood count and expecting a blood transfusion instead.

It’s nice to be back in my little room again, even if I am moving on to another room tomorrow. I grabbed a coffee and sat down for a relax. Tea was rice with lentils peas and carrots and it was delicious too. I must remember to buy some more boulghour tomorrow.

Now, I’m going to have an early night. After my marathon voyage today, I reckon that I’ve earned it.