Day 7 – The Battlefields Pt 1

Another early start, and today we really got into the battlefields. We travelled to Messines Ridge Cemetery first, then Hill 60, recently brought to our attention in the movie. The word is that the explosion at Hill 60 was heard in London, more than 200kms away. The crater is overgrown now, but the depression is still visible. Larger than an Olympic-sized swimming pool and 4 times as deep.
We stopped at a museum near Passchendaele for morning tea. The spot is beautiful. The gardens are a popular picnic spot, and the locals fish with long rods in the pond. Next is a visit to Tyne Cot cemetery, the largest cemetery for Commonwealth forces, anywhere in the world. The rows of headstones seem to stretch for ever. The next stop was near Zonnebeke, at the memorial for the Australian 5th Division, which included Uncle Mervyn’s battalion (32nd). Like all the others, it is magnificently presented and maintained. Our historian told us briefly about the “Zonnebeke five” who are buried there, and that our lunch stop at Polygon Wood, nearby, would have a special guest. The story is recounted in full here: http://www.polygonwood.com/Polygon%20Wood%20Zonnebeke%205.htm
We had the privilege of meeting and speaking with Johan, the narrator. He runs the cafe/bar/picnic area and tells a great story. His current project is a memorial to brothers lost in the Great War, which, of course, relates directly to my quest for Mervyn and James. We all donated to the cause.
After lunch, some went into Polygon Wood for a walk. I stayed with another Ross, and had a quiet one as we contemplated.
The last stop for the day was the German Cemetery at Langemark. Although beautifully presented, the headstones are flat on the ground, and the graves contain the remains of more than one soldier....up to twenty in some cases. A central plot holds the remains of more than 25000 men.
We finish the day back in Ypres, and had dinner at one of the many restaurants in the central square. It’s a lovely place.

Day 6 – Ypres (Ieper)

Sincere apologies for the tardy blog posts. The internet connection at the Lille hotel was ineffective. Hopefully, it will be better from now on.
We started this morning early, which was unfortunate, given the lengthy “discussion” from the night before. The pace of the tour is cracking, and today would prove to be a drain on physical resources.
We headed for the town of Ypres (also spelt Ieper, and pronounced Eeper), across the border in Belgium. Ypres is a beautiful, almost medieval town with a population of around 24000. I say almost medieval because during WW1, the 700 year-old town was nearly destroyed by shelling, and most of the buildings now date from the 1920s, as the town was rebuilt. The centrepiece, as in many towns in the region, is the cathedral. Having taken 200 years to build between 1250 and 1450, it was destroyed in a couple of months of WW1, and took many more years of reconstruction post-war. The other major building which suffered colossal damage, is the Cloth Hall, also dating from medieval times. Ypres used to be an important centre of textile production and international trade, and the Cloth Hall was the home to all this activity. Nowadays, the Hall is used as an exhibition centre. While we were there we visited the “In Flanders Fields” exhibition, a WW1 display, which was hugely emotive. If you care to, have a read of the poem by that name. It will send chills down your spine.
The city is encircled by rampart walls, which were built so well, they survived the war. We went on a couple of walks during the day, partly along the top of the wall. There are still old pillboxes dotted along the way. And there are little reminders of the war scattered around the town. A cemetery where 2600 are laid to rest, sits behind the prison, simply because the prison was used as an aid post during the war, and they buried the dead “out the back”. It’s all beautifully kept now, though.
The historians on the tour are constantly relating stories about the various battlefields and individual soldiers, some hilarious, some inspiring, others tragic. The emotions run deep amongst the whole tour. We stayed in Ypres all day, waiting for a performance of the Last Post by the Ypres Fire Brigade at 8:00pm. Apparently, it has been performed every day since the 1920s (apart from WWII interruption). We arrived at Menin Gate, a WW1 memorial, and waited. As the time neared, and I watched the crowd assemble, it occurred to me how much of a circus it had become. I’m sure the Fire Brigade still has the same dedication, but the crowds of sight-seers generally do not. People (with little children and babies in prams) stand in the middle of the road, forcing cars to weave through the throngs. The nearby bar has a Menin Gate Happy Hour to attract customers. People jostle for a vantage point. After watching the debacle for 20 minutes, I left, not wishing to participate in something which seemed to devalue its very purpose. Maybe I over-reacted, maybe I was just tired. We got back to the hotel at 10:00pm (still daylight) after a 16-hour day. I couldn’t sleep.

Day 5 - Moving Day

This morning, after breakfast and check-out, we embussed and headed east of Paris. Large, comfortable bus, but slow going. Paris peak-hour traffic is as bad as anywhere in the world. Roads seemingly designed for medieval traffic cannot accommodate the volume of vehicles today. The cars are not the huge sedans and 4WDs seen on Australian roads. They are mostly smaller compacts, and there are thousands of two-wheel vehicles, scooters and bikes of all descriptions. These dart in between the often stationary larger vehicles, making full use of the entire road space. The odd thing: nobody gets upset. Everybody wants to get where they are going as quickly as possible, but nobody stresses. After an hour or so, we get to the open road and the buildings disappear.
We are now in farming country. Crops of corn and leaf vegetables and grain are many, and then we reach the wine region of Champagne. Fields of grapevines stretch for miles and miles. As we reach the Champagne region, we pull off the highway and stop at the Mercier Vineyard. From the outside the actuality is impossible to imagine. A tour starts with a slow lift ride down through a Disney-like adventure showing the various stages of wine production. The theme continues 26 metres underground with a robot-controlled train ride through part of a maze of some 18kms of hand-hewn caves through the chalk rock. One avenue is over 1km long. The temperature is stable. The more than 200,000 stored bottles are turned by hand daily as part of the fermentation process. The taste is sublime. The effect is almost instant unconsciousness, given the on-going bus-ride.
We travel to Reims and stop for lunch.
In the afternoon, we journey to the first of many WW1 battlefields and memorials, the real reason for this visit to France. Near the town of Peronne and overlooking the Somme River, is a small block of land, set aside for the memorial to the AIF 2nd Division. It appears out of place, nestled between houses in a suburban street, but is obviously revered and respected by the local residents. A short walk away is an area, now wooded, but in 1918 it had been pounded by heavy artillery for 6 ½ hours prior to an assault by 2nd Division troops which was hailed as the start of the end of the Great War. More than 3000 Australians were killed or injured in the short campaign. Just walking on the same earth and listening to the historian recount the details, made my hair stand on end. Today, I experienced some of the grief. No doubt there is more to come.
We arrived at the outskirts of Lille in the late afternoon, and took residence at another Novotel (Lille Ouest). It’s a sprawling complex as opposed to the previous tower in Paris. We dumped the bags and almost the entire complement of my travelling companions descended on the bar to wash away the dust, and discuss the day. The discussion went on for some time.

Day 4 – A passing look at Paris

After an early breakfast this morning, we were herded onto a couple of enormous coaches, and prepared for a “panoramic” look at the sights of Paris. The meaning of this word would become clearer later, and turned out to be the perfect day for me, given the underlying, and most important, purpose of my journey to France.
We made our way over the Seine and headed south-west towards Versailles. There’s no doubting the magnificence and opulence of the palace and its gardens, but even the tour guide complained that the whole thing had become over-commercialised, and “touristy”. The organisation of the troops outside the gates was lamentable and drew “under-the-breath” criticism from many of the individuals standing in line. Comparisons to various hooved and horned animals produced several suppressed snickers from the ranks. Eventually, after splitting the contents of our 4 buses into smaller groups by means barely more organised than by raffle, we were led to the entrance only to be confronted, jostled and bumped by other conga lines, similarly loosely convened and similarly past their allotted entry time. The administrative folks inside were just as ineffective, and also unhappy, but eventually we made our way to the security screener, dispatched our bags etc through the metal detector, and proceeded to chase after our tour guide, who had darted to a position up a flight of stairs, preparing to launch into her first trivia-filled delivery. Despite her best efforts, we were only able to catch every third or fourth word, the rest being drowned out by competing tour group leaders, speaking in different languages, and equally keen to inform their followers. To say it was organised chaos would be too kind. It was a shemozzle, but in reality did not disappoint me. This short day tour of Paris was meant just to give us a taste, an entree, if you like, before the real meat of the tour. It was pointless even taking photos inside the palace, simply because there were 200 heads, and 70 arms with cameras contaminating the view in any direction. I just took in whatever I could see, and resolved to come back again one day.
We were treated to a very nice lunch at a nearby restaurant, Taverne de Maitre Kanter, and whiled away the next hour and a half. Apparently, nobody mentioned our group was from Australia, so the beers ran out in 10 minutes, and they hastily tried to keep up with some jugs of draught called Kanterbrau, which also ran out, and then some dark brown stuff. Points for preparation: NIL. During the tour inside the palace, I had been tapped on the shoulder by a distant cousin, who was on the same tour to Fromelles to commemorate his wife’s soldier relative. I knew he was coming to France, but did not know he was with the same tour company, and even more randomly, that he and his wife would be sequestered into the same little walking group as me. We enjoyed lunch and a natter together.
After lunch, we climbed aboard the coaches again, and headed back to take in some of the other major Paris icons, the Louvre, Notre Dame, Houses of Parliament, Museums, Theatres and many other historic sites. We didn’t stop at all, or even many, of them. For this tour, just having passed by would fit the bill. We arrived back at the hotel at 5:00pm, where the next day’s orders were posted. Early breakfast, check-out and embarkation tomorrow, as we head north towards Lille. But there will still be a few niceties on the way.
Type soon.

Day 3 – Bastille Day

Today did not begin well. I haven’t got the sleeping patterns quite right yet, but was dozing in my hotel room, when at 5:58 a.m. the door burst open and all the lights went on. Imagine my surprise as I blearily stared at the middle-aged gent, who was muttering the room number in French, while staring, aghast at me. Anyway, after a few seconds of shock, he went back to the door, confirmed the number, then left, shutting the door behind him, leaving the lights on, and without so much as a “Comment allez-vous?” or a “Pardonnez moi”. It took twenty minutes for me to get through to Reception, and all I got was a “Pardon, monsieur, it was a mistake.” Sacre bleu!! Froggies. Just as well I had the covers on, or he really would have got a nasty surprise. Mental Note: ALWAYS throw the door safety latch, when in one’s hotel room, and planning not to be surprised by hotel staff blunders.
I rose not long later, still weary, but determined to get onto the right time zone. Did some blog work, but couldn’t see the value in paying €18 per day for the privilege. Decided to check out the free Apple Macs provided on the Ground Floor, and looked for local internet cafes. Not a lot about. Strange how one expects to see the same sights, within reason, on the streets of any city. In my wanderings, I saw only two fast-food outlets, a Subway and a McDonalds. Both were tiny corner shops, not the barns we see at home. Plenty of boulangeries, bistros, bars and cafes, or combinations thereof. Many coiffure shops and patisseries and some other indecipherable ones as well. Anyway, I found one listing near the tower, and decided to wander down. It was cooler this morning, as I made my way to the Fat Tire Bike Company in a small back street, rue de Edgar Faure. I was understandably dubious. I had looked at the map provided, but if you haven’t been here before, you cannot imagine the street structure. There is none. You’ll come to an intersection, with streets north-south and east-west, and it’s like one sector of 90 degrees has been divided down the middle, and a fifth exit goes off to the north-east or south-west. Then throw in a stack of lanes at abstract angles, and you get the idea. It is really easy to get lost.
Anyway, after plenty of time spent re-tracing my own tracks, I found a group of people practising their Segway moves. Those are the two-wheeled motorised bikes you ride standing up. I saw one young lady was the leader and she had on an identifying T-shirt, and she directed me in an American accent, around the corner, where I was welcomed to sit down and use the free wi-fi. There were hundreds of bikes, and lots of American accents, and they could not have been more accommodating. I sat there for a couple of hours while I composed the Day 2 blog, and all I bought was a bottle of water. They wouldn’t take anything else, gave me a free map when I offered to buy one, and invited me back to hang out at any time. These guys have outlets in Berlin and London as well, and give people directions on normal tour options as well as their own, and freely provide lots of local knowledge. There were plenty of visitors over the time, including several Australian folks. They are great, and they certainly kept my blog alive. I think I’m in better shape internet-wise at Lille and Amiens.
While I was there, the skies went grey and the heavens opened. The rain came down vertically. Not good for the Bastille Day festivities, I thought. I came back to my room and from the 25th floor looked out on the storm. The lightning/thunder delay was very short, and I thought at one stage it was going to come through my window. I sat and watched a couple of movies this afternoon, before the first tour get-together at 6:00pm.
It seems that only passengers from coaches 3 & 4 are billeted at this hotel, but it was good to mix and mingle with other people affected by this event. We enjoyed a drink or two, then a simple, but tasty traditional French meal, and then went for a walk at 8:15pm in bright daylight. A group of us went up to the tower, where an expected quarter of a million people or more were gathering to celebrate Bastille Day at the traditional fireworks spectacular. There were many streets blocked off, and more gendarmes, police, security, fire-fighters, ambulance and a number of other agency representatives, with full riot gear, armed to the teeth, and with every utility vehicle in the combined forces, lining the blocked streets. With an early start to the official tour on Thursday, I and many others decided not to wait until 11:00pm for the fireworks. They had to be left that late because it doesn’t get dark until then. As it turns out, my room faced exactly the opposite direction, but I got a reasonable idea of the proceedings just by watching the reflection in a couple of mirror-type buildings close by. A fireworks show is a fireworks show is a fireworks show. Enough said. The real interest was in how the public roll up and park illegally, 2, 3 and 4 deep, almost blocking the road arteries altogether, and this under the noses of the aforementioned security personnel.
Tomorrow, we will start our tour with a local look at Paris and its attractions. Am looking forward to reporting on that.
Bye for now.

Day 2 - The Longest Night and Strangest Day

Day 2 – The Longest Night and Strangest Day
Part 2
I found my allotted coach on the EuroStar train, boarded and went to my seat. I had been unable to book a particular seat, having had one allocated automatically. I sat in seat 51, and looked sideways. You guessed it, no windows either side. Don’t ever let me book you a seat online. I’m jinxed.
But things turned around after that. After we got underway, I lurched my way from coach #2 to coach #6 to buy some refreshments. I watched the scenery whiz by at 160kmh, as I sipped a vin rouge for medicinal purposes. The lurching got worse on the way back to my seat, but I sipped another. Conversations started, and I discovered a mother and daughter from Perth were also making their way to a hotel not far from the Eiffel Tower. We agreed to share a cab, which proved to be one of the cleverest things I ever did. Having arrived at Gare du Nord, we all fronted the chaotic taxi ranks. Utter bedlam!! So many horns: so few brain cells. But we lucked out. Our driver was very accommodating, and spoke enough English to pass on some valuable snippets of advice. His dulcet tones somehow distracted us from the traffic nightmare. What is it with other countries, and their driving habits? My jocks were starting to show the wear already, after the non-stop journey.....they didn’t need this extra strain. Anyway, we made it in three pieces, the ladies went their way, and I arrived at the Novotel Paris Tour Eiffel. That is also a slight misnomer, since the object itself is some 2kms down the road. But, what the hey?
Having checked in, I decided to use my second wind to explore. It was very warm, and humid. I’m sure my general body condition was becoming more and more unpleasant to others. I wandered the streets, and eventually found myself dwarfed by the tower. So many souvenir vendors: not enough superlatives. I wasn’t able to climb it today, the lifts being stopped for the day. I strolled again, and found a little bar. I quenched my thirst with a handful of Carlsbergs, and threw a few bits of Francais into the requests for refill. On the way back to the hotel, I found a little restaurant, Turkish, I think....middle-eastern, anyway, and supped on spicy sausage and pommes frittes. In my state of tiredness, it was nothing short of superb. And then, in the darkness again, I headed for the hotel, but the Carlsbergs must have affected the inner compass and I got lost and ended up back at the tower. That couple of kilometres to get back to the hotel late at night were torturous. I peeled my stale clobber off, showered and hit the sack for the first time in 48 hours. Lights out!!

Day 2 - The Longest Night and Strangest Day

Day 2 – The Longest Night and Strangest Day
Part 1
During the flight to Singapore yesterday, I was able to track the onset of darkness, as I followed the flight path on the plane’s entertainment system. For all intents and purposes, we experienced sunset around 6:00pm somewhere over the Indian Ocean. Having taken off on the second leg from Singapore to London at 11:59pm Singapore (and Perth) time, we then careered headlong into the blackness, for another 12 hours, making it an 18-hour night. We came in to land at Heathrow at around 6:35 am and I thought I’d be relieved to see daylight again, but having descended through the cloud, one could have been forgiven for thinking we had flown in a huge circle, and landed back in Perth, just as it was on Monday afternoon, when I left, grey and rainy.
The flight itself was pretty easy, despite my misgivings. I had chosen an aisle seat for this leg and as I took my seat I noted that where my feet were meant to go under the seat in front, there was some metal enclosure attached to the seat’s left leg, which left me a gap of 30cms or less. Not a comforting thought, when you think you are going to be trapped in that position for the next 13 hours. There was a young gent seated in the window seat, and, can you guess? Yes, another misnomer. Seats 41 A, B and C on a Boeing 747-400 do not have a window. Not that it really mattered, because the whole flight was in the dark, anyway. The flight was not full, and the captain had barely turned off the seat-belt sign, when the young gent was up and off to find something with a bit more legroom. That left me with three seats to myself, and things were looking up. There was a similar situation in the row in front....one guy in the window seat (not a misnomer, in this case), and another in the aisle seat, with a vacancy between. But these guys had plenty of legroom, and weren’t going anywhere. Anticipating correctly, I quickly heaved myself into the middle seat of my row, just as the two lads in front set their seats backs to the recline position. One for the good guys, I mused. Now I won’t tell you the flight was comfortable, but I did have room to move.....and three pillows to myself. So I spent part of the time lying down across all three seats, and part of it sitting up with pillows to support my still sore back. There was no sleep, but I dozed, I’m sure. The lights, as you would expect, were off for most of the journey.
The Heathrow experience was not bad, at all, despite major renovations going on. A few questions from Customs, a few minutes wait for the baggage to appear, and I was heading for the London streets. As I followed the signs pointing to the trains, I ran smack, bang into the mobile ticket-sellers. A quick swipe of the credit card, and I received my discounted return ticket for the Heathrow Express. A 15 minute ride on it takes you to London Paddington station on the Underground. And here’s where things got a bit messy. I believe all the escalators in London Underground stations have been removed, although I am unable to fathom why. You see, from London Paddington station I had to change lines so I could take a Circle Line train to King’s Cross – St. Pancras International station to get on the EuroStar train that goes under the English Channel to Paris. Changing lines, however, often means changing levels in a station. And, of course, this meant I had to purchase another train ticket. The time was around 0745 when I alighted from the comfortable Heathrow Express, and launched into the morning peak-hour rush at London Paddington station. I followed the signs pointing the way upwards to the Circle Line, but ....no escalators....just dozens of stairs.....and me toting a duffel and a backpack, both fully laden. First task: buy ticket. Presented at the one and only ticket machine on the pathway, and joined the queue. A well-meaning, but geriatric attendant frowned when I pulled out the £20 note. “There’s not much change in the machine. Use your credit card.” I duly supplied the card and the attendant punched all the buttons, but the machine obstinately refused it. “Try it again”, suggested the attendant. “No way”, said the machine. Meanwhile the rush-hour queue has grown behind me. A slightly frazzled, but polite businessman tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Excuse me. I have a train to catch.” I pulled away from the queue to ponder my options. As I looked around, I noted there were no stalls or machines to get notes changed, and no other ticket machines. While I am puzzling, another tourist, who turned out to be from Melbourne, was trying to buy tickets for his young family. He suffered the same fate, and as he turned around, I commiserated with him. The pair of us had to walk downstairs and across miles of the station to find the main ticket counter, where I purchased a £4 ticket to go the five stops to KC – SPI. Back down the stairs again, with bags, and waited for the underground train. I tried to press myself into the smallest possible footprint against a glass panel near one of the doors, but I couldn’t hide. It seemed that the sheer mass of myself and the baggage was enough to cause every clown on the underground system to gravitate towards me. I can’t possibly squeeze in any smaller, but still there were people looking at me to get out of the way, while other passengers, with no annoying accoutrements, would just stand there and complete the blockage. I made it eventually.
Arrived at KC – SPI, and trudged downstairs, only to go back upstairs, still with the bags, which by now, has increased in weight by a factor of several tons. By now the sweat is pouring off me, and I present myself at the EuroStar access point with the ticket I pre-printed at home. I placed the barcode print on the reader, expectantly. Bong-bong. Reject!! As I cried, a bemused official came to my rescue, and pointed out that the check-in for my train at 11:01am had not yet opened. It was only 8:30am. That’s local time, of course, but for me it was 3:30pm, and the mind and body were starting to fail, after 33 hours on the go. But press on, I must.
I waited the required time (30 minutes), recovered my breath, and my composure, went through the meat-grinder that is the EuroStar “enregistrement” process, and flopped at a small cafe, in the waiting hall. After a bacon baguette and a coffee, the soul was restored, and I was ready for more shenanigans. Bring ‘em on.
Continued in Part 2.