Brigitte – 110 through to 119 – our travels continue
Saturday 31 August 2013. Day 110.
Today will turn into one of those we could have done this or we could have done that, but we did very little, days. As we wake there is a lot of noise from nearby. Lying in bed it is hard to pin down from where exactly the noise is coming but come it does. We surface and breakfast and learn that there is a fete going on at the end of our lane. This is an annual event possibly to mark the end of summer? (Such fetes seem to be going on at towns across those parts of France that we visit over today and tomorrow.)
I learn about the fete from Ken and Sue Johnstone who are watching a you tube clip about a German explosive device known as a Jack Johnstone. Johnstone was a black American boxer who was said to pack an explosive punch, hence the name of this device. It seems that at least one of the stall holders at the vide grenier has a few pieces of WW1 memorabilia on sale which Ken and Sue first saw when scouting. Sadly Ken missed the device named for his uncle. This I thought had caused him as much sadness as my missing the Saab.
When Niki and I went for a walk along the line of stalls, I looked for anyone selling WW1 items but could see none and figured that what had been for sale, a brass fuse or two, had quickly been snapped up.
On a stage set up for the purpose, two banks of impressively large loudspeakers were giving voice to some very French sounding tunes. French disco is like its English counterpart in that a few words are repeated and repeated over and over with an underpinning drum beat.
As we were walking back towards the site we met with Ken and Sue who were back, perhaps in the hope of finding someone with a second killer punch. They said that they were going to see if they could get some frites at the food and drink stall. I volunteered us to join them. Niki and I ended up with a platter of chips and a couple of merguez sausages and a plastic cup of cider each. Not bad for €3.50 per head.
Various people walked by as we ate our food. Mostly they were women. Well the ones that I watched were women, mostly. They shopped for children’s clothing and also for clothes for themselves. Some were large ladies, others carried trim figures. Some were tattooed, others were not obviously tattooed. Some smoked. Most had large plastic bags filled with purchases made. The music continued to intrude, boom, boom, boom.
Niki and I returned to the van. Niki cleaned the interior of the van and I cleaned the windscreen of dead flies, moths and other assorted insects. Then I turned my attention to cleaning the roof lights and the roof. For fully an hour I laboured to remove the grime, sap, fly and bird excrement that covered the top of our home on wheels.
I have an eye for the end of our trip. It may be a month or more away but for me it is hoving into view. Progress on getting the hard to reach parts of the van clean will pay dividends in keeping her looking good for the day, further down the road, when we decide to sell her.
We try to watch the concluding part of Vicki, Christina, Barcelona and manage almost to get to the end before the TV decides to play its trick on us and stop displaying the moving pictures. The words still arrive but to a black screen. We lsiten right up to the point where the end credits should be and then turn off. My “magic” lead has failed to work a miracle cure on this problem.
It is time for bed. I have drunk the better part of half a bottle of red wine and enjoyed two single malt singles. A few pages of Slaughterhouse 5 by Kurt Vonnegut and I am falling to sleep.
Boom, boom. It is ten thrity or so and the promised fireworks have appeared in the sky above us. Some go off behind the trees. Others, packed with a bigger punch soar above the trees before exploding. A sense of surrealism grips me. Here we are almnost one hundred years after events which would have sent rockets and explosives into the sky above Albert. Those explosions would have had a devastating effect on the place and its people. Forget rainbow colours and shrill screeching noises. Think smoke, heavy crumping explosions sucking air and trees ripped apart.
Fortunately this firework display lasted only a few minutes on this one day a year. During WW1 it was very, very different.
Sunday 1 September 2013. Day 111.
I have a headache. Niki is complaining of red welts that are appearing across her body. We decide to pack up and move on. Niki has spotted a couple of interesting places on the coast and we drive towards them. When we get to the first Freecamp we end up in a no through road to which campers are not permitted access. As if this was not bad enough, when making our exit we end up in a narrow street from which we will have to reverse and then negotiate our way out of an equally narrow car lined street with belligerent car drivers thrusting their way into the town with no regard to the space that we need to get our camping car out. It was a pretty inauspicious hour or so.
The next highlight of the day, Etretap, combined impossibly narrow lanes, more belligerent drivers and more no access to camping car signs. We stopped in a lay by, drank tea and plotted our way out. To say that this became circuitous would be an understatement. At one stage after driving fifteen miles we found ourselves only eight kilometers closer to our intended destination.
Taking a €2.50 bridge crossing saved an hour off of our journey time and sliced several kilometres from the route. We arrived shattered in Martragny, eight kilometres outside of Bayeux. As we set up on site I notice that the mains lead of the couple in the tent next to us is not plugged in to the power supply. This is one of those sites where they expect you to use the French two pin socket to get electricity. It is something that routinely makes British visitors nervous and this pair are no different. I offer them the chance to hook up via a mains three pin socket in the garage of Brigitte but they decline. In the course of the conversation that follows the guy mentions Pegasus Bridge as a must see. I make a physical note.
Possibly the worst day of our tour to date?
Monday 2 September 2013. Day 112.
The first task of the day is to get a load of washing into one of the washing machines that are available on site. I identify a clear need to obtain a resupply of loo blue chemical as we have at most one “shot” left. This has me unloading the scooter, a task that seems to become more complex by the week. By the time I drive up to Cabal Losirs, the nearby camping and caravaning shop, I find them closed. Presuming that they are on their lunch I trip back at two o’clcock to again be greeted by their three dogs barking and prancing up and down inside the security fence. I then read the sign to find that not only are they closed between twelve and two, they are also closed on Sunday and Monday.
After lunch, Niki and I take a trip into Bayeux to see what we can see. Now travelling along a side road on the scooter is not bad but once you get onto a dual carriageway the traffic becomes less tolerant of slow moving vehicles – i.e. Us! We manage to make the five mile journey unscathed and park up in the centre of town. Bayeux had the good fortune to escape WW2 almost unscathed whereas nearby Caen was almost flattened. We end up walking around the interior of the Cathedral and then the nearby streets in search of the Bayeux Museum of the WW2? name? In the heat of the afternoon we are both glad to return to the scooter via a cash point and a cash withdrawl.
We decide to vist the local branch of Leclerc in search of loo blue but find that there is none. I conclude that for supermarkets the sale of camping equipment and supplies is a seasonal thing and that all shelves have long been stripped of loo blue in favour of the current fast moving items – whatever they may be.
The trip back to the van is almost uneventful except for the woman driving the Renault car, she seems to want to swat us off of the road. Fortunately she takes a side road as we sit waiting at a temporary traffic light.
The improvised washing line that we rigged up to take our washing, before we ventured into town, has done its job. Most of our washing is dry and the remainder will dry in the van.
Before restowing the scooter in the garage I have a sort out and discard the remains of the driver’s mirror that got destroyed in Ireland. I remain determined to reduce the weight on our van in order that the tyres might have a fighting chance of surviving the long autumn and winter months parked in a compound in Spain.
I have begun reading “Somme” by Lyn Macdonald and today I have gotten in to it. It may seem odd to be reading about WW1 as we tour Normandy in search of WW2 history but for me WW1 remains a fascinating subject and this book gives voice to the events.
Tuesday 3 September 2013. Day 113.
We get the van packed up reasonably smartly after breakfast. When we arrive at the caravan shop they are open and we buy a 1.5 litre container of Thetford “Green” fluid for €14.50. Once again getting caught by having to purchase from a dealer in a situation where we have no alternative.
Today is the day scheduled for David to have his heart operation in Bristol.
The drive into Bayeux in the van causes Niki to comment that she prefers being in the van on a dual carriageway. I agree. Meanwhile on the field that was yesterday being ploughed, three huge tractors are at work. The tractor pulling the double sided plough is still there but seems to be coming to the end of his role. A second tractor is busy working the ground down and is followed by a cloud of ochre dust. The third tractor is busily drilling the ground, possibly with winter corn. We take a photo or two to remind me of the high polish that the plough has acquired, its blades look almost like chrome, they glint so much.
At Bayeux we stop to visit the museum of the Normandy Liberation. Judging by the number of vehicles already in attendance when we arrive at ten thirty, this is a popular visit for WW2 historians. The four tanks parked outside act like magnets for people who to a man, those taking photos tend mostly to be men, take photos at various angles.
We enter the museum and pay our €6 per head entry fee. We catch the English film and get the overview of the sea and air borne landings by British, Canadian and American troops. This was the largest landing of troops ever to have been made in recorded history. That they drove the German occupiers from this part of France before pressing onwards to victory in Europe is the story of the museum. There is a lot to see as the events unfold day by day on a series of map boards supported by various tableaux in display cases filled with salvaged and donated artifacts.
We had our lunch in the museum car park before taking a walk just past the museum to the garden of remembrance which has been created to honour all of those reporters of war who have given their lives in the name of freedom of the press. Again, this is a very moving place. We search for and find the name of the female reporter who perished in Libya last year? “You know, the one who wore the black eye patch”. I say to Niki.
There are very few years when no correspondents are recorded as having been killed and indeed there are a few years when the numbers of those killed looks positively outrageous, as there are so many names.
There alongside so many others perhaps less well known is the name of Marie Colvin. They have not yet started the job of adding the names of those who have fallen in 2013.
Crossing the road takes us to the British war graves cemetery in Bayeux. For a place that escaped serious damage during the second war the numbers of dead suggest that the fighting to get here was no less bitter than elsewhere in Normandy. In an immaculately kept space, there are thousands of white headstones bearing inscriptions for the fallen. Benches are dotted around to allow people to sit in quiet contemplation. Gardeners are at work watering and mulching the grass.
Our next destination is Ranville – Benouville where we are searching for the Pegasus Bridge of legend. This bridge was one of two bridges that were required to be taken intact by British paratroopers on the night of 5/6 June 1944. Three horsa gliders each loaded with thirty men and their kit were towed by three Halifax aircraft from their Dorset departure airfield across the Channel and released just off of the French coast. Using only a compass, stopwatch and a map the pilot of glider no 1 brough his aircraft in to land fifty metres from the bridge at Benouville. Gliders number two and three landed close by at one minute intervals thereafter.
Upon landing the twenty eight paratroopers disembarked the aircraft and rushed the bridge. The single on duty sentry was taken completely by surprise and the bridge was secured and the mine devices that had been attached to the bridge were rendered safe.
Two more gliders arrived on target at the second bridge and successfully completed their mission. The sixth and final glider landed some way off. The pilot of the towing aircraft had confused the rivers and glider number 6? ended up taking two bridges, the wrong bridges, which they quickly abandonned and then made their way on foot eight miles? to Benouville to join up with their colleagues and help to hold the ground that had been won.
This amazing tale became the stuff of the film “The Longest Day” in which several of the participants of the event played a part! Standing on the battle scarred bridge today all of these years after the event helps me to uderstand the great pride that those who completed this mission must have felt. They started the campaign that paved the way for the eventual liberation of France and Europe. That is how big their mission was!
It is after six in the evening when we leave Benouville and we head towards the coast at Ouistraham. We don’t make the coast as there is a pleasant little Camping Municipal that we stop at. We are one of four vans that park here for the night at €5 per van.
Wednesday 4 September 2013. Day 114.
We are both awake early trying to track down the cause of the mysterious bites that are now affecting us both. Reading in bed and drinking tea pass a couple of early morning hours.
We get up and breakfast then get away second after another British registered van. No one has appeared to collect our payment and there does not seem to be any way to pay indicated on the notice board. It is misty and visibility is so poor that we have our headlights on.
We drive a few kilometres to pick up the coast at Ouistreham, part of Sword beach. As we shall find out driving along the coastline here the place is littered with old German gun emplacements and memorials to those who came ashore here determined to liberate Europe. From Ouistreham we stop again at Lion SM and Luc SM, Hemanville SM seems disinterested in its military history and does not welcome camper vans, we pass it by.
Another stop at Bernieres SM allows more sightseeing, refuelling and a spot of food shopping at the Intermarche before we press on to the far end of Juno Beach at Courselles SM where the Canadians fought their way ashore and now have many monuments to their valour. One of the more impressive sights is a Churchill tank “Charlie 1” which made it to within 100metres of the coastline before it was disabled. Some of the crew were killed, others were wounded. The tank disappeared under the sand and was only recovered in 1977. It was taken to UK, refurbished and brought back for the 50th anniversary of the 6 June 1944 landings. Quite a memorial.
The Juno museum here seems to have been modelled on the Guggenheim in Bilbao, its outer surface is covered by tiles of shiny metal. Niki says that she has read that the aerial view forms a symbolic maple leaf design.
Here by the beach we have been fortunate to secure an available parking space in the line of camping cars, many of these seem to have been here at least the whole of the day and perhaps longer despite notices that make camping here forbidden. We munch on pate and soft cheese as in front of us a procession of people arrive at or leave the beach. A dune of sand blocks the view of the beach proper and here and there are concrete bunkers, the last remnants of Hitler’s Atlantic Wall that stretched across hundreds of miles.
From here we head onwards and upwards, the low coastal aspect giving way to a section of headland raised up by perhaps several hundred metres? This today is the home of the viewing point that looks down into the bay that became the Winston, Mulberry Harbour, one of two such harbours that the Allies concieved, built and towed into position to create the bridgehead that they needed to ensure the success of their seaborne invasion. Its size is staggering. Taking into account that all of the German fortifications here must have been neutralised prior to the establishment of the harbour serves only to show the level of planning that was needed ahead of the operations. This combined with keeping the actual site of the landing from the Germans and creating diversionary activities that had them thinking that the attack would be on Calais rather than here on the beaches that have become known as Sword, Juno, Omaha and Gold.
Our final stop today is at Longues SM the site of four, still insitu, large German gun emplacements. The Devons have a plaque here proclaiming their role in silencing these guns. The Royal Navy also played its part, the Naval artillery defeated the land artillery. Huge concrete bunkers some showing little damage others showing progressively more damage are a few hundred metres back from the cliff edge. Their situation helps to conceal them from view from the sea. In order for the gunners here to target their guns a forward observation post again built of huge amounts of reinforced concrete sits at the cliff edge where it would have been well camouflaged and would have had a commanding view of the seaward approaches. From here using telephones the observers were to instruct the gunners.
The guns themselves are 152mm in calibre and they were capable of hurling a round twelve miles onto a target. The design of the bunkers is such that these guns were only expected to be used to thwart an assault from the sea, the concrete sides of the bunker would not permit the piece to traverse in any more than a restricted arc.
In one of the more surreal moments of the day we watched as a couple of young German men, flew a small remote controlled helicopter device with a camera slung below it. The copter flew away over the wrecked bunkers and then out across the field towards the observation post and then back towards its controllers. The old technology was being viewed and recorded using new technology and it was Germans who were doing it.
Niki’s desire to wash bedding and clothes to remove one potential cause of our mysterious red bites has us heading for a nearby ACSI site Reine Madeline at Etreham. A tidy site of 115 pitches it is a quiet relaxing place to finish the day.
Niki makes contact with Mary and we are relieved to hear that following his procedure, which took place yesterday, David has been allowed home and is resting.
We shower, wash and dry bedding and clothes before supper Vietnamese style chicken with Nuam Choc washed down with red wine. I finish the day reading more tales from those long ago days on the Somme. Reading about it serves to make the events even harder to imagine.
Thursday 5 September 2013. Day 115.
It is a bright sunny start to the day here in the Calvados countryside at Camping Reine Mathilde. And still we are unable to connect to Bank of Cyprus via the internet to make payment to Dana S. How very frustrating! Time to be on the road to Pointe Du Hoc. A relatively short journey out to the coast finds us in the car park of the American Normandy Cemetery. There is ample parking here, all well arranged and yes they cater for camping cars by the dozen! So very American.
At the door to the visitor centre a sign tellingly states that entry is free. The place has a sense of money. There is more here than meets the eye. A team of security staff ensure that those who enter are checked to reduce any risk that may be posed. Cameras monitor all areas. America, and this is a part of America, is alert to the ever present risk of terrorism.
The story told here is of a group of people who travelled thousands of kilometres to a land they did not know to help the people there in the fight for freedom from an oppressor. Big illuminated boards with photos and carefully crafted words. Extracts from letters to loved ones. A theatre with a short poignant film picking up on the theme of letters home and the tale from the perspective of a family member. Perhaps a son who never knew his father who now lies buried here in French soil.
Then there is a rifle with its bayonet plunged into a mass of pebble – this graphically signal to the viewer that a fallen comrade lies buried here. Powerful stuff.
A tannoy message announces that there will be a guided tour of the Cemetery and we wait at the designated assembly point. There must be forty people waiting and our guide calls up assistance from a colleague. We are divided into two groups and set off. Our guide walks us to the headstione of *** and starts to tell a tale of names, French names of Americans who grew up as Americans of French parents who had emigrated in the 1800’s. Louisiana named for Louis 14th… and so the stories continued. The young French boy who tagged along with a group of Americans and the graves of the American who befriended him and that of a combatant known only unto God. (Might that have been that young boy?)
After our tour of the Cemetery, Niki and I headed back to the van for some lunch. With lunch taken we head out to find Pointe du Hoc. This is the place at which US President Ronald Regan made the speech that I first read as part of the memoirs of his speech writer Peggy Noonan (In the Kindle book about Rhetoric). Having read the speech I felt impelled and compelled to visit this place so steeped in modern history.
Here is the speech : We’re here to mark that day in history when the Allied armies joined in battle to reclaim this continent to liberty. For 4 long years, much of Europe had been under a terrible shadow. Free nations had fallen, Jews cried out in the camps, millions cried out for liberation. Europe was enslaved, and the world prayed for its rescue. Here in Normandy the rescue began. Here the Allies stood and fought against tyranny in a giant undertaking unparalleled in human history.
We stand on a lonely, windswept point on the northern shore of France. The air is soft, but 40 years ago at this moment, the air was dense with smoke and the cries of men, and the air was filled with the crack of rifle fire and the roar of cannon. At dawn, on the morning of the 6th of June, 1944, 225 Rangers jumped off the British landing craft and ran to the bottom of these cliffs. Their mission was one of the most difficult and daring of the invasion: to climb these sheer and desolate cliffs and take out the enemy guns. The Allies had been told that some of the mightiest of these guns were here and they would be trained on the beaches to stop the Allied advance.
The Rangers looked up and saw the enemy soldiers — the edge of the cliffs shooting down at them with machineguns and throwing grenades. And the American Rangers began to climb. They shot rope ladders over the face of these cliffs and began to pull themselves up. When one Ranger fell, another would take his place. When one rope was cut, a Ranger would grab another and begin his climb again. They climbed, shot back, and held their footing. Soon, one by one, the Rangers pulled themselves over the top, and in seizing the firm land at the top of these cliffs, they began to seize back the continent of Europe. Two hundred and twenty-five came here. After 2 days of fighting, only 90 could still bear arms.
Behind me is a memorial that symbolizes the Ranger daggers that were thrust into the top of these cliffs. And before me are the men who put them there.
These are the boys of Pointe du Hoc. These are the men who took the cliffs. These are the champions who helped free a continent. These are the heroes who helped end a war.
Gentlemen, I look at you and I think of the words of Stephen Spender’s poem. You are men who in your “lives fought for life . . . and left the vivid air signed with your honor.”
I think I know what you may be thinking right now — thinking “we were just part of a bigger effort; everyone was brave that day.” Well, everyone was. Do you remember the story of Bill Millin of the 51st Highlanders? Forty years ago today, British troops were pinned down near a bridge, waiting desperately for help. Suddenly, they heard the sound of bagpipes, and some thought they were dreaming. Well, they weren’t. They looked up and saw Bill Millin with his bagpipes, leading the reinforcements and ignoring the smack of the bullets into the ground around him.
Lord Lovat was with him — Lord Lovat of Scotland, who calmly announced when he got to the bridge, “Sorry I’m a few minutes late,” as if he’d been delayed by a traffic jam, when in truth he’d just come from the bloody fighting on Sword Beach, which he and his men had just taken.
There was the impossible valor of the Poles who threw themselves between the enemy and the rest of Europe as the invasion took hold, and the unsurpassed courage of the Canadians who had already seen the horrors of war on this coast. They knew what awaited them there, but they would not be deterred. And once they hit Juno Beach, they never looked back.
All of these men were part of a rollcall of honor with names that spoke of a pride as bright as the colors they bore: the Royal Winnipeg Rifles, Poland’s 24th Lancers, the Royal Scots Fusiliers, the Screaming Eagles, the Yeomen of England’s armored divisions, the forces of Free France, the Coast Guard’s “Matchbox Fleet” and you, the American Rangers.
Forty summers have passed since the battle that you fought here. You were young the day you took these cliffs; some of you were hardly more than boys, with the deepest joys of life before you. Yet, you risked everything here. Why? Why did you do it? What impelled you to put aside the instinct for self-preservation and risk your lives to take these cliffs? What inspired all the men of the armies that met here? We look at you, and somehow we know the answer. It was faith and belief; it was loyalty and love.
The men of Normandy had faith that what they were doing was right, faith that they fought for all humanity, faith that a just God would grant them mercy on this beachhead or on the next. It was the deep knowledge — and pray God we have not lost it — that there is a profound, moral difference between the use of force for liberation and the use of force for conquest. You were here to liberate, not to conquer, and so you and those others did not doubt your cause. And you were right not to doubt.
You all knew that some things are worth dying for. One’s country is worth dying for, and democracy is worth dying for, because it’s the most deeply honorable form of government ever devised by man. All of you loved liberty. All of you were willing to fight tyranny, and you knew the people of your countries were behind you.
The Americans who fought here that morning knew word of the invasion was spreading through the darkness back home. They fought — or felt in their hearts, though they couldn’t know in fact, that in Georgia they were filling the churches at 4 a.m., in Kansas they were kneeling on their porches and praying, and in Philadelphia they were ringing the Liberty Bell.
Something else helped the men of D-day: their rockhard belief that Providence would have a great hand in the events that would unfold here; that God was an ally in this great cause. And so, the night before the invasion, when Colonel Wolverton asked his parachute troops to kneel with him in prayer he told them: Do not bow your heads, but look up so you can see God and ask His blessing in what we’re about to do. Also that night, General Matthew Ridgway on his cot, listening in the darkness for the promise God made to Joshua: “I will not fail thee nor forsake thee.”
These are the things that impelled them; these are the things that shaped the unity of the Allies.
When the war was over, there were lives to be rebuilt and governments to be returned to the people. There were nations to be reborn. Above all, there was a new peace to be assured. These were huge and daunting tasks. But the Allies summoned strength from the faith, belief, loyalty, and love of those who fell here. They rebuilt a new Europe together.
There was first a great reconciliation among those who had been enemies, all of whom had suffered so greatly. The United States did its part, creating the Marshall plan to help rebuild our allies and our former enemies. The Marshall plan led to the Atlantic alliance — a great alliance that serves to this day as our shield for freedom, for prosperity, and for peace.
In spite of our great efforts and successes, not all that followed the end of the war was happy or planned. Some liberated countries were lost. The great sadness of this loss echoes down to our own time in the streets of Warsaw, Prague, and East Berlin. Soviet troops that came to the center of this continent did not leave when peace came. They’re still there, uninvited, unwanted, unyielding, almost 40 years after the war. Because of this, allied forces still stand on this continent. Today, as 40 years ago, our armies are here for only one purpose — to protect and defend democracy. The only territories we hold are memorials like this one and graveyards where our heroes rest.
We in America have learned bitter lessons from two World Wars: It is better to be here ready to protect the peace, than to take blind shelter across the sea, rushing to respond only after freedom is lost. We’ve learned that isolationism never was and never will be an acceptable response to tyrannical governments with an expansionist intent.
But we try always to be prepared for peace; prepared to deter aggression; prepared to negotiate the reduction of arms; and, yes, prepared to reach out again in the spirit of reconciliation. In truth, there is no reconciliation we would welcome more than a reconciliation with the Soviet Union, so, together, we can lessen the risks of war, now and forever.
It’s fitting to remember here the great losses also suffered by the Russian people during World War II: 20 million perished, a terrible price that testifies to all the world the necessity of ending war. I tell you from my heart that we in the United States do not want war. We want to wipe from the face of the Earth the terrible weapons that man now has in his hands. And I tell you, we are ready to seize that beachhead. We look for some sign from the Soviet Union that they are willing to move forward, that they share our desire and love for peace, and that they will give up the ways of conquest. There must be a changing there that will allow us to turn our hope into action.
We will pray forever that some day that changing will come. But for now, particularly today, it is good and fitting to renew our commitment to each other, to our freedom, and to the alliance that protects it.
We are bound today by what bound us 40 years ago, the same loyalties, traditions, and beliefs. We’re bound by reality. The strength of America’s allies is vital to the United States, and the American security guarantee is essential to the continued freedom of Europe’s democracies. We were with you then; we are with you now. Your hopes are our hopes, and your destiny is our destiny.
Here, in this place where the West held together, let us make a vow to our dead. Let us show them by our actions that we understand what they died for. Let our actions say to them the words for which Matthew Ridgway listened: “I will not fail thee nor forsake thee.”
Strengthened by their courage, heartened by their value [valor], and borne by their memory, let us continue to stand for the ideals for which they lived and died.
Thank you very much, and God bless you all.
President Ronald Reagan – June 6, 1984 (http://www.historyplace.com/speeches/reagan-d-day.htm)
To walk over the pock marked ground and to visit the guns that these brave men silenced in order that the landings could go ahead is to witness something really special in my opinion. To know that 225 US Rangers came here and in over two days of fighting managed to secure the place. At the end of that fight only 90 of their number could still bear arms.
We then drove down into the port of Grandcamp Maisie, a very smelly place, a mix of rotting seaweed and dead fish. The museum of the American Pioneers was externally a let down, it looked dowdy, there was nowhere to park and having negotiated the narrow streets, filled with horses and carts. They had been plying their trade on the beach during the day, taking punters for a ride along the golden, smelly, seaweed strewn sands. I wanted out of the place and so we set course south. In so doing we missed what would have been the find of the day! http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/1574521/Amateur-historian-unearths-Nazi-battery.html also http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grandcamp-Maisy All of this only means that we will have to return at a future yet to be decided date!
Oblivious to the site of interest that we missed, we rolled into Camping Le Lac des Charmilles in Torigni Sur Vire at around six forty five. There was a bit of an issue around plots. We were allotted a pitch that when we arrived had someone very clearly ensconced. We took another vacant pitch and were about to level the van when a Belgian family of three hove up with their car and caravan. They laid claim to the pitch we were in and I didn’t feel like moving. Niki and the Belgians went off to find the helpful site owner and she sorted matters out by allocating the Belgians the pitch next to us!
We took supper in the restaurant where we were served by Madame, one of the owners of the site. A very chatty woman who with ease sold me the fresh local butchers sausages and frites. Niki had a mixed grill type dish comprising a piece of gammon, a sausage and a merguez sausage. The bottle of Normandy cider washed it all down and yes Niki had a boule of ice cream for dessert!
Friday 6 September 2013. Day 116.
After an early morning rain shower it is a bright sunny start to the day. Our order of a baguette, two croissants and two pain au chocolat gave us a slightly different breakfast. We still have porridge, making do with only half a bowl each!
By the time we shower, wash up our dishes and pack up the van it is approaching mid day. The Finnish couple who had occupied the pitch just below us, with their large GMC van and built for Finland caravan get onto the road about half an hour ahead of us. The Belgians who had occupied the pitch above us, after we had been forced to occupy their allotted pitch because another party has taken our allotted pitch, had left whilst I was washing up our dishes. As neighbours go all of these folk were cheery easy to get along with for the night types. I hope they thought similarly about us.
We drive through the last of the Normandy bocage, the hedgerows and fields that gave good cover to the retreating German troops and made the job of flushing them out hard for the American forces as they advanced across country from the Normandy beaches.
We wended our way along the roads of the Breton Marais setting a course for the Atlantic coast and Carnac in Britanny. With a goodly distance to cover we made us of dual carriageway roads as best we could. It was an amusement to me that after perhaps an hour and a half of driving, we caught up with and passed the Finns. A toot, toot, toot on the horn and waves signalled acknowledgement. I wondered if we would see them again but of course we have not.
Carnac is not the place I remember from years ago. It has become a huge resort filled with seaside villas and the like. Our planned camping site although easy enough to find, is closing in a couple of days and when we arrive has the look of an abandoned place. We head onward in search of the Neolithic stones. A car park close to the centre of town could have offered us an overnight stop, there were dozens of camping cars there but the place felt somewhat unsavoury.
We drove out to the Menhir Visitor Centre and took a walk around. The centre itself was possibly of interest if one was a strong French speaker, or at least, if one could understand the more technical words written in French. At the time we arrived there seemed to be some sort of event going on with people selling postage stamps, perhaps a “First Day” cover of sorts?
Outside in the car park a loud rumbling growling sound marked the arrival of a very lovely old Bentley open tourer. As they had parked close to our van we felt inclined top take a few photos of this rather rare motor car. I estimated that such a car is now worth £350,000. When we get home I’ll check to see. Niki says that she couldn’t imagine leaving the car parked unattended.
Beyond the Centre we looked around a couple of the sites of massed stones. At the second we walked right around the field of stones. En route we stopped for a crepe in a cottage that had been built in the stone field and is today doing good trade with tourists like ourselves. We munch on a couple of crepes before returning to the van where fuelled with a strawberry jam pancake, I am determined to set off for Camping la Foret.
The journey down to the Vendee is something of a slog. The thing of note is the incredible bridge across the Loire at Saint Nazaire. Towering up into the sky this great arch of three lane highway is impressive to behold. I wondered what crossing would be like in the teeth of a howling gale. Fortunately the weather is such that we glide along quite securely without being buffeted.
At the campsite we pull into pitch 47, eventually. Niki’s directions and the lack of a clear view of all obstacles from the driving seat are not quite up to getting Brigitte onto a pitch where inch perfect positioning and turning are required. Fortunately a staff member is at hand and he helps me position Brigitte so that she slides with ease into her berth for the night.
All that I want to do is to sit out in the last of the sunshine, have a glass of pastis and continue reading book two in the series of three that I have about the First World War – They Called it Paschendale. Niki rustles up supper and then it is time for bed.
Saturday 7 September 2013. Day 117.
We take an early, for us, walk on the beach. The preceding walk down through the pine trees that cover the margin behind the sand dunes reminds us of the fun that we all had pushing Jacob along here in his push chair last summer.
The weather in September is much cooler than it was in August last. The beach apart from Niki and I appears deserted for as far as the eye can see. We walk up the beach to where it shoulders around a curve and then walk back again. Sarah responds to the text message that I sent her saying that La Foret is her favourite camping place that we visited in 2012. It was memorable. Perhaps Jacob playing in the pool, perhaps the chicken and chips from the campsite servery, perhaps that walk down to the beach, La Foret is a place of memories.
We determined that as the weather would likely be better further south, that is where we shall head. We breakfast, pack up and move on for the Ile de Re. A three hour drive is ahead of us. We stop to buy some energy drinks and Werthers type sweets at a conveniently sited Lidl on a shopping estate on a roundabout ???
We take a few minutes to have lunch here, in the car park, munching on a baguette filled with yummy ham and mustard. The journey out to the Island was always going to be slow. I dread to think what it must be like in summer. We were following a long queue of traffic that was following a guy towing a caravan who to put it bluntly was not up to the job. As the cars in front of us overtook, we came closer and closer to caravan man until we ended up being behind him. As luck would have it the single carriageway road that we had been on for mile after tedious mile became a dual carriageway and we and a tide of others were able to overtake the moving roadblock that caravan man represented.
The bridge onto the island is a tax collecting tool. They raise the bridge fee to eighteen euros for the summer and drop it down to eight euros in the winter. Once on the island the roads are narrower but the pace of traffic does not reduce by much if anything. I’d plead a special case for the place having a reduced speed limit to make it safer and more pleasurable. There are hordes of cyclists and pedestrians here and therefore who needs to get anywhere on a very small island at high speed? (I exclude the blue light services from this).
We fetch up at the campsite at La Flotte only to find that they are full. A charming couple in a younger Autocruise advise us that they have just left a pleasant site, Les Amis de la Plage at Le Bois Plage. We head there and secure a sunny, sandy pitch just behind the dune and within earshot of the surf that is arrving on the beach.
Once we are set up we get the scooter out and set off for a sightseeing tour. We find the centre of the local village and then head across to St Martin a port fortified by our old friend Vaubin. A charming place where it seems that moneyed people gather to spend and show off. A few weddings have taken place today and people are about in their finery. Happily the weather has played its part.
We drive back to the campsite in time to take a walk along the beach as the sun is setting. I’m hoping for a few rather good photos from this walk as the skyscape is wonderful. Back at the van we play a game of cribbage before reading and bed.
Sunday 8 September 2013. Day 118.
A sunny Sunday morning and all around us people are getting up and getting breakfasted. Someone is bashing away at something that is resisting being bashed at and kicking up a loud noise. Our neighbours in the twenty year old Hymer are keen to chat. They chose to retire to France three years ago and built here in the Dordogne. The camper van allows them to travel and see more of the country. Interestingly, they have not ventured into Spain citing the language barrier.
After breakfast we scooter into the village to by fresh bread, fruit and cheese at the daily market. We get there just in time as at one o’clcok people are closing down and packing up to head off for their lunch and a restful afternoon. We head back to the van, tussle with the combination on the entry gate and take our lunch sat outside in the sunshine.
After I have a snooze we head off on the scooter and find the Eco Musee de Marais Salant close to Loix. The tour proved to be an interesting insight into the art of marais salt production. Niki of course could not resist the opportunity to buy yet more salt. We have bags of the stuff in the van already but we now have two more bags. One is sel des fleurs and the other is the coarse grained sel gris (grey salt) presumably used for cooking.
As Niki has her sights set on having a crepe and a drink in St Martin we scooter into the port area and go to fetch up alongside a couple of other parked scooters. In doing so I gain the admonition of a woman driver who points out to me that I have driven against a No Entry sign for all of two metres.
We park and walk onto the port area. Niki does a bit of wondow shopping at I check out the yachts and motor vessels tied up on the marina. The first creperie that Niki points out looks empty and we walk past a second which seems to be doing a good trade. When we walk back the second place is somewhat quieter and we take a seat and receive a menu. A colourful character is sitting a couple of tables away with a glass of red, a glass of water and is puffing on a cigarette. This is all very amusing until thirty seconds after he extingusihes his cigarette he lights up another. To top it all a waitress comes outside under the canopy and occupies the seats across the way that offer the only respite from yer man’s fug. I fume and we get up and leave.
By the time we reach the creperie of Niki’s choice and look inside we see that they are ticking along quite merrily. When we take a seat and check out the menu we are in for a treat. The place very soon starts to fill, mostly with young families and couples. Our food is delightful, promptly served and tastes delicious. Our carafe of red hits the spot and we have a dessert. To our right the table is taken by an Irish family who we chat with after eating and to our left a French couple and their three children are enjoying a “holiday” at the seaside away from Niort their adopted town since moving from Brittany.
Early evening is coming on as we drive back across the island. Back on site the wind is getting up and we pack up the awning, scooter and outside furniture. Then we head up to the wifi point to send messages to those who express an interest in booking VCD next summer. Bed beckons and we retire. I’m again first to succumb to sleep leaving Niki reading alongside me.
Monday 9 September 2013. Day 119.
Rain fell in the night and the wind blew. Overhead the sky is leaden and we agree that we have had the best of the weather here on the Ile de Re for a while. An early morning cuppa affords the opportunity to bring this travelog up to date and by nine Niki has porridge and coffee on the go. I have it in mind to head for Spain, Niki wants us to visit the huge sand dune, Le Dune Du Pilat at Arcachon. Allegedly the biggest sand dune outside of the Sahara.