Wulveringem. Belgium. Looking towards the canal from the farmhouse where the incident of 31/5/40 took place.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Dunkerque.I'd always thought that 'Cash Converters' was a Sydney - Melbourne thing, and couldn't resist snapping this one in the main street of Dunkerque. While I was doing so, the owner snuck up behind me, and (perhaps suspecting a competitor) asked why I was photographing his store. I explained as above, and then he got quite matey, and wanted to show me around.
Paris. Near Blanche Métro Station.
Paris. Cimetiere du Pére La Chaise.
YPRES-BRUSSELS. 28th-29th August
Thursday 28th August I lie in late, then do some supermarket shopping, and there is a hiccup at the checkout because I haven't 'priced' my fruit. They have a machine at the fruit & veg, with pictures of all the items, and a description, such as 'Granny Smith Apples'. You put your apple, say, on the scale, press on the picture, and out shoots a sticker with the price. The checkout lady was intrigued that I was unfamiliar with this process, and I think was wondering what planet I had just landed from. So I explained that 'in my country' we have it done for us at the checkout. 'Ah, but here we are too lazy!' Another unfamiliar thing I have come across was a bread machine, open 24/7, with about a dozen different types of fresh loaves to choose from, once you've put your money in. One thing I really liked was in a supermarket in Dunkerque, where instead of the hand baskets that they usually have for endangering your lower back, they have a similarly-sized basket with castors and a pull-out handle, which you drag around like one of those suitcases on wheels. The basket has a flat back, but the rest is semi-circular, and they can be stacked inside each other, the same as the normal baskets.
In the afternoon I get the train to Poperinge, which in the First World War was a sort of R & R
place well behind the front lines. Had a look at the Talbot House, an 'Everyman's Club' started by a civilian cleric in 1915, as a place where soldiers could relax and feel at home. It is now a museum. A rather grim relic of the times is the town hall courtyard and adjacent town cells, where deserters who had been sentenced to death were held before execution. Apparently the executions were usually deferred until just before a 'big push', as 'an example to others'. A 'soundscape' in one of the cells recreates the procedure in the last minutes of the life of one of these unfortunates, a 17 year old boy. It is believed that about 15 British soldiers were executed like this in Poperinge, and 350 altogether in Belgium and France, plus 700 French. Apparently many of them were 'shell shock' victims - what they might call post-traumatic stress syndrome today. Interestingly, on orders of the Australian government, no members of the all-volunteer A.I.F. were court-marshalled and executed, but apparently several cases are on record where Australians were tried for 'desertion in the face of the enemy', by a 'kangaroo court' of their own comrades, and then executed.
Before getting the train back, had a couple of bowls of soup in a bar sort of place. There was only one other customer, a man probably having a beer after work, plus the girl behind the bar. There were a couple of magazines on an adjacent table, and I picked one up to read while eating, which looked a bit like the local equivalent of 'Who Weekly', and liberally sprinkled with bikinis. After a couple of minutes I look up, and both of them are looking at me intently, with amused expressions. I immediately look round behind me, thinking someone's just come in the door, but there's no-one there. After that they look anywhere except at me. Must be a local taboo against old guys looking at inappropriate reading material.
Back at the hotel, I go to do some laundry at the local 'Wassoir'. I am initially puzzled because there isn't a washing powder dispensing machine, and eventually find some in the soft drinks etc machine, numbers E4 and E5, sandwiched between the Mars bars and the Lays crisps. Early to bed tonight, as I am going to Brussels tomorrow, an unscheduled detour, for which I have no Lonely Planet notes or map, and there is no internet available in Ieper for making a hotel booking.
On Friday 29th, have the presence of mind to drop by the tourist centre and pick up a free map of Brussels, on which they mark for me the central station and nearby tourist centre in Brussels.
A two hour train ride, and arrive at Brussels Central Station, at a pokey little underground tunnel, grottier than any Paris Metro station, but am soon on my way to the Grand Markt and the tourist office. At the latter they have a dedicated desk just for people looking for accommodation, and an efficient-looking girl helps me; "60 Euros Monsieur?" ($100). 'Non - pres bon marché s'il vous plait' (no - cheaper). "Mais, n'est pas central" ' 'Rien, rien' (doesn't matter).
"49 Euros Monsieur?" 'Non - pres bon marché'. In one of his books, Bill Bryson describes how, when any large outlay of capital was suggested, his father's face would immediately take on the look of a fugitive who hears the hounds baying in the woods, and I feel somewhat similarly when discussing lodgings for the night. Finally her computer finds 36 Euro "But no breakfast!" 'Rien, rien - merci Mam'selle'. So by 2.30pm I am showered and leaving my hotel, which is about 15 minutes walk from the very centre of town.
In the afternoon I get the train to Poperinge, which in the First World War was a sort of R & R
place well behind the front lines. Had a look at the Talbot House, an 'Everyman's Club' started by a civilian cleric in 1915, as a place where soldiers could relax and feel at home. It is now a museum. A rather grim relic of the times is the town hall courtyard and adjacent town cells, where deserters who had been sentenced to death were held before execution. Apparently the executions were usually deferred until just before a 'big push', as 'an example to others'. A 'soundscape' in one of the cells recreates the procedure in the last minutes of the life of one of these unfortunates, a 17 year old boy. It is believed that about 15 British soldiers were executed like this in Poperinge, and 350 altogether in Belgium and France, plus 700 French. Apparently many of them were 'shell shock' victims - what they might call post-traumatic stress syndrome today. Interestingly, on orders of the Australian government, no members of the all-volunteer A.I.F. were court-marshalled and executed, but apparently several cases are on record where Australians were tried for 'desertion in the face of the enemy', by a 'kangaroo court' of their own comrades, and then executed.
Before getting the train back, had a couple of bowls of soup in a bar sort of place. There was only one other customer, a man probably having a beer after work, plus the girl behind the bar. There were a couple of magazines on an adjacent table, and I picked one up to read while eating, which looked a bit like the local equivalent of 'Who Weekly', and liberally sprinkled with bikinis. After a couple of minutes I look up, and both of them are looking at me intently, with amused expressions. I immediately look round behind me, thinking someone's just come in the door, but there's no-one there. After that they look anywhere except at me. Must be a local taboo against old guys looking at inappropriate reading material.
Back at the hotel, I go to do some laundry at the local 'Wassoir'. I am initially puzzled because there isn't a washing powder dispensing machine, and eventually find some in the soft drinks etc machine, numbers E4 and E5, sandwiched between the Mars bars and the Lays crisps. Early to bed tonight, as I am going to Brussels tomorrow, an unscheduled detour, for which I have no Lonely Planet notes or map, and there is no internet available in Ieper for making a hotel booking.
On Friday 29th, have the presence of mind to drop by the tourist centre and pick up a free map of Brussels, on which they mark for me the central station and nearby tourist centre in Brussels.
A two hour train ride, and arrive at Brussels Central Station, at a pokey little underground tunnel, grottier than any Paris Metro station, but am soon on my way to the Grand Markt and the tourist office. At the latter they have a dedicated desk just for people looking for accommodation, and an efficient-looking girl helps me; "60 Euros Monsieur?" ($100). 'Non - pres bon marché s'il vous plait' (no - cheaper). "Mais, n'est pas central" ' 'Rien, rien' (doesn't matter).
"49 Euros Monsieur?" 'Non - pres bon marché'. In one of his books, Bill Bryson describes how, when any large outlay of capital was suggested, his father's face would immediately take on the look of a fugitive who hears the hounds baying in the woods, and I feel somewhat similarly when discussing lodgings for the night. Finally her computer finds 36 Euro "But no breakfast!" 'Rien, rien - merci Mam'selle'. So by 2.30pm I am showered and leaving my hotel, which is about 15 minutes walk from the very centre of town.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
DUNKERQUE-YPRES. 21st-27th August
Arriving in Dunkerque, I make my way to the Tourist Centre, only to discover that if you want to stay at the youth hostel (11 Euros) you need an international hosteller's card, which I didn't bother to get before I left, as my memory of my last big trip (through SE Asia) was of never being asked for it. I settle for 'Le Select Hotel' near La Garé, (38 Euros), but the person there tells the Tourist Centre lady 'not before 5pm, when there will be someone here who speaks English'. Feeling dog-tired, I retrace my steps to the station, find the hotel, and as it's only a quarter to four, I, (with the aid of my recently-acquired French phrase book), write out in French, introducing myself and asking if they can give me the key to the room. I walk into the reception, and present my piece of paper, which is dismissed contemptuously, but I am given the key to room 12 nevertheless, and a remote control. (At the hotel in Paris, they had a really nifty system with a smart card which only works on your room, and is programmed so that it will only open the door for the number of days that you've paid for - and I thought that the remote must be for some similarly cunning way of opening the door of the room). 'For me?' "For you!" and he glumly pats me on the shoulder and sends me on my way.
Once in my room I realise that the remote is for an enormous TV, which I don't switch on the whole time I'm there, as I didn't really come to Europe to watch TV. After bathing I go to the local 'Monoprix' supermarket to stock up, and after drinking about a gallon of milk and orange juice, I crash into bed, and sleep the clock round.
Next morning I meet she who speaks English - the vivacious Madame Annie. We have a long chat, and I explain that I'm following up the trail of my brother, and she promises that she will talk to people in Dunkerque 'who will know'. In the morning, (Friday 22nd) I visit the British Memorial attached to the Dunkerque cemetery. As well as many graves from both World Wars, there are a number of large stone blocks which contain the names of all the British servicemen who died in the Dunkerque area during the evacuation period in 1940, and have no known grave. There are a number of columns of names on each block, each column about 50 names long, and my brother's name was in column 133 - which makes for a lot of names. A book at the cemetery gives details from regimental records for each name, all of which I already knew, except the date of his death, which was given as 27th May to 2nd June 1940. In the afternoon I visited the Museum Brittanique, which has some 300 metres of photos, artifacts etc. about the evacuation period, which was quite enlightening.
In the evening, I sit in an internet shop till late, getting back to the hotel about 10.30. The door into reception is shuttered, and when I try my key in the side door, it won't fit. So I go back to the shuttered main door, and as it doesn't look as if it's locked down, I yank it up. The 3 or 4 steps between the shutter and the locked glass door into reception are crammed with potted geraniums, which are normally on the windowsills outside during the day, and I can't see anyone sitting in the TV room beyond. Reasoning that they must have gone to bed, and because interest in the proceedings is being expressed by a couple of the assorted low-lifes that hang around big railway stations the world over late at night, I step in amongst the geraniums and start hammering on the glass doors. Suddenly the man who gave me my key on the first day (whom I have already secretly nicknamed Basil) pops up from a couch in the TV room, and bounces over and pulls open the glass door. There follows this rather one-sided altercation, me trying to explain that I couldn't get in the side door and he angrily (and about two inches from my face) castigating this buffoon who (sacre bleu) has tried to knock his door down and is standing in the middle of his precious geraniums! He is so angry that for a moment I imagine that he isn't going to allow me in, but then he strides to the side door and opens it, pointing with Basilesque gestures at the bell at the side of the door. I don't say much after that, as I'm doing my best to stop from bursting out laughing.
Next morning Madame Annie, unasked, gives me a key for the side door, and we have a bit of a giggle about the previous night's incident, of which she has been appraised.
I need to explain here that I have a letter which my father received in 1940 from my late brother's commanding officer, advising that the last known of him was that he and 2 others were going to Venchim in Belgium, to assist some troops whose truck had broken down. Unfortunately the letter was in longhand, and the 2nd, 5th, 6th and 7th letters of the word Venchim were ambiguous. However with the help of the resources at the map library at Melbourne Uni I was able to narrow it down to one possibility : Vinkem, (modern-day spelling), which is only a few kilometres from Dunkerque as the crow flies.
Madame Annie is full of misgivings regarding my proposed trip today to Vinkem. France and Belgium have an open border, but in this little part of it at any rate, they might just as well be on separate planets as far as interaction between the two is concerned. She advises getting the bus (if I have to) to Adinkerke, and then get the train to Veuvre (Furnes in French), and then perhaps a bus to Vinkem. I get as far as Furnes, where the man in the ticket office at the railway station says that I will have to go back to Adinkerke to get a bus to Vinkem; also that it would be better to get the bus back to Adinkerke, not the train.
Anyway, for whatever reason, I rashly decide to walk to Vinkem, which only appears to be about 6 or 7 kms away on my map. Then I find one of those 'you are here' type maps on a board in the main street, and work out how to get there from the centre of Furnes. A Scotsman on a push-bike stops and asks if I need help, and he explains how it will be easier for a stranger to follow the canal round and then turn left onto the motorway to get to Vinkem. As he says that he has lived in Belgium 28 years I assume that he is sane, but after following this lunatic's instructions I end up going the wrong way down the motorway, so that I am going away from my destination. I walk several discouraging kilometres along the motorway looking for an an exit, as you can't get off due to deep ditches on each side. When I do get off I ask a lady about Vinkem, and she gives me the glad news that I'm now 15 kilometres away from it. She also gives me directions for a short cut back to Furnes ("as it is forbidden to walk along the motorway!"). Giving it best for today, I set off along the road, which is actually part of the Westhoek cycle trail network, and meet several cyclists, albeit only on day trips. Then I came upon what we used to call a roadhouse, one of those rambling restaurant / bistro sort of places, right out in the middle of nowhere, the sort of place that people drive out from town to have lunch in the country. The only customer, I had a couple of helpings of a delicious fresh veggie soup, with almost oven-fresh bread. Watched the Olympics on a giant screen, a Kenyan girl won the 400 metres.
Arriving quite quickly back in Furnes, I get the bus, but it doesn't go to Adinkerke, only to La Panne (at the seaside), from where one gets a tram to Adinkerke (just to add to the confusion the station that they call Adikerke in Dunkerque is actually the La Panne station). I decide to have a look at the beach at La Panne for half an hour, and then when I get back to the tram stop, I unintentionally get on the tram going in the wrong direction. Madame Annie has enthused about the tram ride that goes along the coast for about 20 kilometres to Ostend, and now I do it, all on my 1-30 euro bus ticket. Along that coast there are scores of high-rise apartment buildings, probably 8 or 10 stories, all with balconies, a la Surfers Paradise. It is interesting to see in the Belgian seaside resorts the great number of late middle-aged and elderly people obviously having a holiday at the beach. Finally do get the tram back to Adinkerke, and from there to the hotel. Madame Annie asks how it went, and I collapse on the counter saying 'Disasteur!'
I suspect that very little will run in Belgium the next day (Sunday), and have planned a counter-offensive for Monday, planning to sleep and do little for a day. I have elicited from a serjeant-majorish lady in the tramway information booth at La Panne that the way to get to Vinkem
is by the Bel Bus, which you have to book by phone at least 2 hours beforehand. The phone is dead, so Madame Annie will ring for me in the morning. I sleep late, tidy up my gear a bit and decide to do my laundry again. I had broached this subject with Madame Annie, but she had been a bit vague regarding the location of any lavoirs. So I asked at the tourist centre and got directed to one some way off. Not finding it, and after asking 4 different people, and going in 4 different directions, I realised that it must have gone out of business. Finally two elderly ladies directed me to another one near the beach, where I performed like a professional, and didn't need to ask assistance once. This was at Malo Les Bains, where the auberge jeunesse (youth hostel) is, and while the clothes were whizzing round I thought I'd ask about accommodation at the youth hostel, just for the hell of it. It is in a fantastic location, (50 metres from the beach) and obviously family-friendly and very popular. I ask the lady if she has 'un place pour moi?'. 'Monsieur avez reservation?' 'Non' (Look of consternation and narrowing of eyes). 'Mais Monsieur avez carte?' 'Non'. (Rolling of eyes and shrugging of shoulders). 'Sorry Monsieur, I cannot 'elp you, sorry'. So that was the end of what could have been a beautiful friendship.
I had planned to try a reasonably priced spaghetti bolognaise in the main square, but when I got there they were closing up. So I walked around a bit, but everything seemed closed (Sunday night). Near the hotel there was a place, but when I came close I realised that it probably served drinks only. Basil was there, and he seemed a lot jollier now that he had a glass in his hand.
He insisted on introducing me to all the drinkers standing and sitting outside the bar as 'from Australie' - something that always seems to go down well, especially in Belgium.
Not being able to stand the thought of getting matey with Baz, I made my excuses and walked round the block back to the hotel, where plan Z ,(a late-night burgher caravan next to the hotel), is always available. I stood in line and then occurred one of those incidents that leaves you thinking 'what the hell was that all about?' I hadn't yet ordered, and there was a petite, peroxided and quite attractive lady standing next to me, leather-jacketed and certainly past her first youth. We exchanged greetings, as people do here, especially if you're waiting together somewhere. Then she smiled again and I smiled back, and then she smiled again, so I looked around at the guy with her, who was side on to us, a tall, muscular guy, also leather-jacketed. To plagiarise Bill Bryson, 'we're all descended from the apes, but in this guy's case it was a very gradual slope'. Simian brows and too-close-together eyes looked down at me with steely gaze. He was the spitten image of a character in a French gangster movie that I saw a couple of years ago on SBS. Just then the lady in the caravan asked me what I wanted. I had bought mineral water there a couple of times before, and ordered the panini that I wanted in French, but because your accent is always hard for them, I had to repeat it. Picking up that I was 'anglais', petite-peroxided looked daggers at me, and asked a couple of sharp questions in French. Thinking about it afterwards, I should have said 'Je ne comprends pas Francaise' or some such nonsense. But I kept smiling and nodding my head, and each time I did this in reply to what she was saying, she got angrier. I turned and looked at Apeman, expecting that he might shrug his shoulders in a 'my crazy woman' gesture, but he retained his neanderthal gaze and was nodding his head in agreement with her. By now she was almost beside herself, but fortuitously at that moment their order was ready, and they soon left on a Vespa-type motor scooter. That left the Caravan lady and two teenage girls still waiting for their order, all of whom seemed to be in shock. Another of life's little mysteries...
The next morning, Monday, Madame Annie greets me with the news that the Bel Bus is ordered for 9am at Adinkerke, to pick me up again at 5.30 from Vinkem. All goes well, and by 9.30 I've been deposited in the centre of Wulveringem, a slightly bigger version of Vinkem, contiguous and to the west of it. Anyway, I just want to get the flavour of the countryside, so I walk back to the main road about 3 kms, and then walk back to Vinkem, keeping an eye out for any small collections of graves. Back in Vinkem, which is probably 40 or 50 houses at most, I take a look at the Churchyard, and then spy a restaurant with lots of tables out on the grass, like in the Dandenongs. I wasn't hungry or thirsty, and I certainly don't like the French coffee, but something made me walk in and order a coffee - they were still setting up the tables for lunch.
And now a Fairy Godmother appears. The lady who brought me the coffee seemed to know English, and I asked her if she knew of any British graves from the 1940 period. She said to give her a few minutes, and she'd find out. Then she came back, from asking a lady, Christana, who happened to be at the church next door. Apparently there were graves, but next door in the churchyard in Wulveringem. Thanking her, I set off, and searching this second churchyard found 15 British graves in a row, all from between 30th May 1940 and 2nd June 1940, nine of them on
31st May 1940. Durham Light Infantry x 6, Northumberland Fusiliers x 6, and 3 'Known Unto God', all these last three on 31st May. Could the 3 unknown graves be that of my brother (who was in the RASC) and the Royal Engineers that he went with? There's no certainty that they ever got as far as Venchim, but I think to myself that this is as close as I'm ever going to get.
So I sat on the ground by the graves for half hour or so, nearly demolishing the low hedge that I'm leaning against.
I look around in Wulveringem for something to eat, but there isn't much choice, as it's not a lot bigger than Vinkem, and decide to walk back to the place where I had the coffee. After a spot of lunch, Veerle (the lady who helped me) asked how it went, and I tell her and mention that I'd love to know what happened here on the 31st May. She goes and has a consultation with Mark, her husband (he does the cooking, and she runs the restaurant, with help from a couple of boys)
then she and I get in her car, to go and see her friend Christana, who has no English. Christana says to go and talk with an 87 year old man who has lived in Vinkem all his life, was the schoolmaster for decades, and has an interest in local history. He tells me (through Veerle, who is the only English speaker I meet all day) that the British soldiers were camped at a farm on the other side of the canal that runs at the back of Vinkem, and that the canal formed the outer perimeter of the defensive line around Dunkirk at that point; I suppose they weren't expecting any trouble, and were all in the farmhouse having a meal. The Germans came, threw some farm gates across the canal to form a bridge, and surprised the soldiers in the farmhouse.That was on a Friday, and when all those soldiers got killed. He directs us to where the farmhouse is, as family members who lived there then are still alive. Unfortunately the old people are not at home, but it was fantastic to find out all this, as it could be related to my brother. We drop in on another old guy on the way back, who was 16 years old in 1940. He fills in a few gaps, such as that all the people in the village hid on the farm of his wife's parents, which was out in the sticks, as over 100 German artillery shells landed on the village. That the German officer had to threaten to shoot his troops to get them to cross the canal and attack; that the British soldiers held out around Vinkem for 3 days, etc.
Anyway it was a fantastic experience to visit this area, which is something I've thought about doing for a long while. I couldn't thank Veerle enough for giving up her time, but she just said that if she was in my place she'd hope that someone would help her too.
I get back to the bus stop in Wulveringem nearly an hour early, and snag the Bel Bus on its outward journey, and so get an extra 45 minutes of trip around the Belgian countryside, as far as Poperinge, and then eventually back to Adinkerke, and back to the hotel.
Next day I leave for Ieper (Ypres). Madame Annie has been doing some ringing around while I was at Vinkem, and gives me some contact details for the president of the Museum Brittanique, who is on holidays at the moment, and the British Consul in Dunkerque, both of whom she says will be able to help me.
I have an address for a 28Euro cheapie in Ieper, but couldn't get through on the phone to them from Dunkerque. Remembering Terri's dictum that one should never arrive in a strange town without your accommodation booked, I try again at the station at Adinkerke, and fix everything in about 30 seconds (fortunately Mefrouw Letitia speaks very good English). I'm (so far) continually impressed by the Belgian railway system, which I like to use because (Mon - Fri) Seniors over the age of (??) -(sorry 'bout that, you know who), can travel anywhere in Belgium for 4Euro return. When I asked for a ticket to Ieper, I got a print out in a few seconds listing the times of arrival and departure for each of the 3 changes of train that I needed to make; all I needed to do was check which platform each time.
B & B Zonneweelde is scrupulously clean AND includes continental brekkie. Sharing toilet and bath, which is not too onerous, as it only has 4 rooms. Lonely Planet covers Ieper in adequate detail, and once showered, I race off to check out bike hire at a camping ground on the other side of town, and tee one up for the morning. On the way back I stop at the Menin Gate. Until WW1
this was a cutting through the city walls, through which the soldiers passed on their way along the Menin Road to the Front. After the war the massive stone 'gate' was built as a monument. It has 54,896 names inscribed on it of Commonwealth soldiers from WW1 with no known grave. Every night since 11th November 1928, buglers of the Ieper volunteer fire brigade have sounded the Last Post here at 8pm (with the exception of WW2). It was quite moving to hear, as far as was possible with a few hundred other tourists and our associated camera flashes.
I have breakfast at 7.30, and pick up my bike before 9am. It has unusual upright handlebars with the brake levers under your hands at all times, and (for all you film buffs and persons of advanced years), immediately reminded me of Doctor Winkle's bicycle in the movie 'The Third Man' (stop laughing Derek). It has an excellent gear change mechanism, manipulated with the tips of the right thumb and index finger. And despite its weight, you can really move on it, because of narrow tyres. I am attracted by a one day car tour that you can do around the battlefields, which if you add up the distances, seems quite feasible by bike. First to Essex Farm Cemetery. This was a casualty dressing station some way behind the lines, and its concrete bunkers are still there. This is where the Canadian medical officer John McCrae wrote the poem 'In Flanders Fields' on the death of a friend at the height of the second battle of Ypres, 3rd May 1915. From there to a little-visited small cemetery in the middle of a cornfield (Dragoon Camp),
and on to Cement House Cemetery in Langemark.
From Langemark I was finally able to post the completed 'E-Fraud Questionnaire' back to Darren at ANZ. Yesterday I was able to buy a stamp and get an airmail sticker at the (being renovated) Post Office in Ieper, but they didn't sell envelopes. I bludged one from Letitia this morning, and now I'm finally able to post it. At Langemark is the big German war cemetery for this area, sombre and understated. Then I lose the track on the way to the Canadian war memorial at St Julien, and spend what now seems an amusing ten minutes asking directions from an old couple in a farmyard. They seemed to have trouble communicating with each other in Flemish, let alone with me. After the tall Canadian Monument 'the brooding soldier', I spend the next 3 hours trying to find Tyne Cot Cemetery, the biggest Commonwealth cemetery in the world. But there are no shortage of smaller cemeteries along the way, and I visit Bridge House Cemetery, Buffs Road Cemetery (mostly Hampshire and Sussex), and Passchendaele. Finally reach Tyne Cot about 5pm, after asking directions a couple of times - the second time was at a ladies' hairdressers, and the salon owner left a lady at what looked like a critical part of the process for about 10 minutes while she drew me a quite extensive map. Tyne Cot memorial contains a further 34,984 names of soldiers with no known grave - ones that they couldn't fit on to the Menin Gate in Ypres. The sheer size of this cemetery is softened by hundreds of red rose bushes growing amongst the graves, I give the miss to a couple of museums on my list, as they will be closed by now, and zoom back to Ieper, arriving at 7pm, and the young bicycle bloke is suitably impressed when I tell him I was in Tyne Cot at 5pm.
In Flanders fields, the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That marks our place ; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch, be yours to hold it high.
If you break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Once in my room I realise that the remote is for an enormous TV, which I don't switch on the whole time I'm there, as I didn't really come to Europe to watch TV. After bathing I go to the local 'Monoprix' supermarket to stock up, and after drinking about a gallon of milk and orange juice, I crash into bed, and sleep the clock round.
Next morning I meet she who speaks English - the vivacious Madame Annie. We have a long chat, and I explain that I'm following up the trail of my brother, and she promises that she will talk to people in Dunkerque 'who will know'. In the morning, (Friday 22nd) I visit the British Memorial attached to the Dunkerque cemetery. As well as many graves from both World Wars, there are a number of large stone blocks which contain the names of all the British servicemen who died in the Dunkerque area during the evacuation period in 1940, and have no known grave. There are a number of columns of names on each block, each column about 50 names long, and my brother's name was in column 133 - which makes for a lot of names. A book at the cemetery gives details from regimental records for each name, all of which I already knew, except the date of his death, which was given as 27th May to 2nd June 1940. In the afternoon I visited the Museum Brittanique, which has some 300 metres of photos, artifacts etc. about the evacuation period, which was quite enlightening.
In the evening, I sit in an internet shop till late, getting back to the hotel about 10.30. The door into reception is shuttered, and when I try my key in the side door, it won't fit. So I go back to the shuttered main door, and as it doesn't look as if it's locked down, I yank it up. The 3 or 4 steps between the shutter and the locked glass door into reception are crammed with potted geraniums, which are normally on the windowsills outside during the day, and I can't see anyone sitting in the TV room beyond. Reasoning that they must have gone to bed, and because interest in the proceedings is being expressed by a couple of the assorted low-lifes that hang around big railway stations the world over late at night, I step in amongst the geraniums and start hammering on the glass doors. Suddenly the man who gave me my key on the first day (whom I have already secretly nicknamed Basil) pops up from a couch in the TV room, and bounces over and pulls open the glass door. There follows this rather one-sided altercation, me trying to explain that I couldn't get in the side door and he angrily (and about two inches from my face) castigating this buffoon who (sacre bleu) has tried to knock his door down and is standing in the middle of his precious geraniums! He is so angry that for a moment I imagine that he isn't going to allow me in, but then he strides to the side door and opens it, pointing with Basilesque gestures at the bell at the side of the door. I don't say much after that, as I'm doing my best to stop from bursting out laughing.
Next morning Madame Annie, unasked, gives me a key for the side door, and we have a bit of a giggle about the previous night's incident, of which she has been appraised.
I need to explain here that I have a letter which my father received in 1940 from my late brother's commanding officer, advising that the last known of him was that he and 2 others were going to Venchim in Belgium, to assist some troops whose truck had broken down. Unfortunately the letter was in longhand, and the 2nd, 5th, 6th and 7th letters of the word Venchim were ambiguous. However with the help of the resources at the map library at Melbourne Uni I was able to narrow it down to one possibility : Vinkem, (modern-day spelling), which is only a few kilometres from Dunkerque as the crow flies.
Madame Annie is full of misgivings regarding my proposed trip today to Vinkem. France and Belgium have an open border, but in this little part of it at any rate, they might just as well be on separate planets as far as interaction between the two is concerned. She advises getting the bus (if I have to) to Adinkerke, and then get the train to Veuvre (Furnes in French), and then perhaps a bus to Vinkem. I get as far as Furnes, where the man in the ticket office at the railway station says that I will have to go back to Adinkerke to get a bus to Vinkem; also that it would be better to get the bus back to Adinkerke, not the train.
Anyway, for whatever reason, I rashly decide to walk to Vinkem, which only appears to be about 6 or 7 kms away on my map. Then I find one of those 'you are here' type maps on a board in the main street, and work out how to get there from the centre of Furnes. A Scotsman on a push-bike stops and asks if I need help, and he explains how it will be easier for a stranger to follow the canal round and then turn left onto the motorway to get to Vinkem. As he says that he has lived in Belgium 28 years I assume that he is sane, but after following this lunatic's instructions I end up going the wrong way down the motorway, so that I am going away from my destination. I walk several discouraging kilometres along the motorway looking for an an exit, as you can't get off due to deep ditches on each side. When I do get off I ask a lady about Vinkem, and she gives me the glad news that I'm now 15 kilometres away from it. She also gives me directions for a short cut back to Furnes ("as it is forbidden to walk along the motorway!"). Giving it best for today, I set off along the road, which is actually part of the Westhoek cycle trail network, and meet several cyclists, albeit only on day trips. Then I came upon what we used to call a roadhouse, one of those rambling restaurant / bistro sort of places, right out in the middle of nowhere, the sort of place that people drive out from town to have lunch in the country. The only customer, I had a couple of helpings of a delicious fresh veggie soup, with almost oven-fresh bread. Watched the Olympics on a giant screen, a Kenyan girl won the 400 metres.
Arriving quite quickly back in Furnes, I get the bus, but it doesn't go to Adinkerke, only to La Panne (at the seaside), from where one gets a tram to Adinkerke (just to add to the confusion the station that they call Adikerke in Dunkerque is actually the La Panne station). I decide to have a look at the beach at La Panne for half an hour, and then when I get back to the tram stop, I unintentionally get on the tram going in the wrong direction. Madame Annie has enthused about the tram ride that goes along the coast for about 20 kilometres to Ostend, and now I do it, all on my 1-30 euro bus ticket. Along that coast there are scores of high-rise apartment buildings, probably 8 or 10 stories, all with balconies, a la Surfers Paradise. It is interesting to see in the Belgian seaside resorts the great number of late middle-aged and elderly people obviously having a holiday at the beach. Finally do get the tram back to Adinkerke, and from there to the hotel. Madame Annie asks how it went, and I collapse on the counter saying 'Disasteur!'
I suspect that very little will run in Belgium the next day (Sunday), and have planned a counter-offensive for Monday, planning to sleep and do little for a day. I have elicited from a serjeant-majorish lady in the tramway information booth at La Panne that the way to get to Vinkem
is by the Bel Bus, which you have to book by phone at least 2 hours beforehand. The phone is dead, so Madame Annie will ring for me in the morning. I sleep late, tidy up my gear a bit and decide to do my laundry again. I had broached this subject with Madame Annie, but she had been a bit vague regarding the location of any lavoirs. So I asked at the tourist centre and got directed to one some way off. Not finding it, and after asking 4 different people, and going in 4 different directions, I realised that it must have gone out of business. Finally two elderly ladies directed me to another one near the beach, where I performed like a professional, and didn't need to ask assistance once. This was at Malo Les Bains, where the auberge jeunesse (youth hostel) is, and while the clothes were whizzing round I thought I'd ask about accommodation at the youth hostel, just for the hell of it. It is in a fantastic location, (50 metres from the beach) and obviously family-friendly and very popular. I ask the lady if she has 'un place pour moi?'. 'Monsieur avez reservation?' 'Non' (Look of consternation and narrowing of eyes). 'Mais Monsieur avez carte?' 'Non'. (Rolling of eyes and shrugging of shoulders). 'Sorry Monsieur, I cannot 'elp you, sorry'. So that was the end of what could have been a beautiful friendship.
I had planned to try a reasonably priced spaghetti bolognaise in the main square, but when I got there they were closing up. So I walked around a bit, but everything seemed closed (Sunday night). Near the hotel there was a place, but when I came close I realised that it probably served drinks only. Basil was there, and he seemed a lot jollier now that he had a glass in his hand.
He insisted on introducing me to all the drinkers standing and sitting outside the bar as 'from Australie' - something that always seems to go down well, especially in Belgium.
Not being able to stand the thought of getting matey with Baz, I made my excuses and walked round the block back to the hotel, where plan Z ,(a late-night burgher caravan next to the hotel), is always available. I stood in line and then occurred one of those incidents that leaves you thinking 'what the hell was that all about?' I hadn't yet ordered, and there was a petite, peroxided and quite attractive lady standing next to me, leather-jacketed and certainly past her first youth. We exchanged greetings, as people do here, especially if you're waiting together somewhere. Then she smiled again and I smiled back, and then she smiled again, so I looked around at the guy with her, who was side on to us, a tall, muscular guy, also leather-jacketed. To plagiarise Bill Bryson, 'we're all descended from the apes, but in this guy's case it was a very gradual slope'. Simian brows and too-close-together eyes looked down at me with steely gaze. He was the spitten image of a character in a French gangster movie that I saw a couple of years ago on SBS. Just then the lady in the caravan asked me what I wanted. I had bought mineral water there a couple of times before, and ordered the panini that I wanted in French, but because your accent is always hard for them, I had to repeat it. Picking up that I was 'anglais', petite-peroxided looked daggers at me, and asked a couple of sharp questions in French. Thinking about it afterwards, I should have said 'Je ne comprends pas Francaise' or some such nonsense. But I kept smiling and nodding my head, and each time I did this in reply to what she was saying, she got angrier. I turned and looked at Apeman, expecting that he might shrug his shoulders in a 'my crazy woman' gesture, but he retained his neanderthal gaze and was nodding his head in agreement with her. By now she was almost beside herself, but fortuitously at that moment their order was ready, and they soon left on a Vespa-type motor scooter. That left the Caravan lady and two teenage girls still waiting for their order, all of whom seemed to be in shock. Another of life's little mysteries...
The next morning, Monday, Madame Annie greets me with the news that the Bel Bus is ordered for 9am at Adinkerke, to pick me up again at 5.30 from Vinkem. All goes well, and by 9.30 I've been deposited in the centre of Wulveringem, a slightly bigger version of Vinkem, contiguous and to the west of it. Anyway, I just want to get the flavour of the countryside, so I walk back to the main road about 3 kms, and then walk back to Vinkem, keeping an eye out for any small collections of graves. Back in Vinkem, which is probably 40 or 50 houses at most, I take a look at the Churchyard, and then spy a restaurant with lots of tables out on the grass, like in the Dandenongs. I wasn't hungry or thirsty, and I certainly don't like the French coffee, but something made me walk in and order a coffee - they were still setting up the tables for lunch.
And now a Fairy Godmother appears. The lady who brought me the coffee seemed to know English, and I asked her if she knew of any British graves from the 1940 period. She said to give her a few minutes, and she'd find out. Then she came back, from asking a lady, Christana, who happened to be at the church next door. Apparently there were graves, but next door in the churchyard in Wulveringem. Thanking her, I set off, and searching this second churchyard found 15 British graves in a row, all from between 30th May 1940 and 2nd June 1940, nine of them on
31st May 1940. Durham Light Infantry x 6, Northumberland Fusiliers x 6, and 3 'Known Unto God', all these last three on 31st May. Could the 3 unknown graves be that of my brother (who was in the RASC) and the Royal Engineers that he went with? There's no certainty that they ever got as far as Venchim, but I think to myself that this is as close as I'm ever going to get.
So I sat on the ground by the graves for half hour or so, nearly demolishing the low hedge that I'm leaning against.
I look around in Wulveringem for something to eat, but there isn't much choice, as it's not a lot bigger than Vinkem, and decide to walk back to the place where I had the coffee. After a spot of lunch, Veerle (the lady who helped me) asked how it went, and I tell her and mention that I'd love to know what happened here on the 31st May. She goes and has a consultation with Mark, her husband (he does the cooking, and she runs the restaurant, with help from a couple of boys)
then she and I get in her car, to go and see her friend Christana, who has no English. Christana says to go and talk with an 87 year old man who has lived in Vinkem all his life, was the schoolmaster for decades, and has an interest in local history. He tells me (through Veerle, who is the only English speaker I meet all day) that the British soldiers were camped at a farm on the other side of the canal that runs at the back of Vinkem, and that the canal formed the outer perimeter of the defensive line around Dunkirk at that point; I suppose they weren't expecting any trouble, and were all in the farmhouse having a meal. The Germans came, threw some farm gates across the canal to form a bridge, and surprised the soldiers in the farmhouse.That was on a Friday, and when all those soldiers got killed. He directs us to where the farmhouse is, as family members who lived there then are still alive. Unfortunately the old people are not at home, but it was fantastic to find out all this, as it could be related to my brother. We drop in on another old guy on the way back, who was 16 years old in 1940. He fills in a few gaps, such as that all the people in the village hid on the farm of his wife's parents, which was out in the sticks, as over 100 German artillery shells landed on the village. That the German officer had to threaten to shoot his troops to get them to cross the canal and attack; that the British soldiers held out around Vinkem for 3 days, etc.
Anyway it was a fantastic experience to visit this area, which is something I've thought about doing for a long while. I couldn't thank Veerle enough for giving up her time, but she just said that if she was in my place she'd hope that someone would help her too.
I get back to the bus stop in Wulveringem nearly an hour early, and snag the Bel Bus on its outward journey, and so get an extra 45 minutes of trip around the Belgian countryside, as far as Poperinge, and then eventually back to Adinkerke, and back to the hotel.
Next day I leave for Ieper (Ypres). Madame Annie has been doing some ringing around while I was at Vinkem, and gives me some contact details for the president of the Museum Brittanique, who is on holidays at the moment, and the British Consul in Dunkerque, both of whom she says will be able to help me.
I have an address for a 28Euro cheapie in Ieper, but couldn't get through on the phone to them from Dunkerque. Remembering Terri's dictum that one should never arrive in a strange town without your accommodation booked, I try again at the station at Adinkerke, and fix everything in about 30 seconds (fortunately Mefrouw Letitia speaks very good English). I'm (so far) continually impressed by the Belgian railway system, which I like to use because (Mon - Fri) Seniors over the age of (??) -(sorry 'bout that, you know who), can travel anywhere in Belgium for 4Euro return. When I asked for a ticket to Ieper, I got a print out in a few seconds listing the times of arrival and departure for each of the 3 changes of train that I needed to make; all I needed to do was check which platform each time.
B & B Zonneweelde is scrupulously clean AND includes continental brekkie. Sharing toilet and bath, which is not too onerous, as it only has 4 rooms. Lonely Planet covers Ieper in adequate detail, and once showered, I race off to check out bike hire at a camping ground on the other side of town, and tee one up for the morning. On the way back I stop at the Menin Gate. Until WW1
this was a cutting through the city walls, through which the soldiers passed on their way along the Menin Road to the Front. After the war the massive stone 'gate' was built as a monument. It has 54,896 names inscribed on it of Commonwealth soldiers from WW1 with no known grave. Every night since 11th November 1928, buglers of the Ieper volunteer fire brigade have sounded the Last Post here at 8pm (with the exception of WW2). It was quite moving to hear, as far as was possible with a few hundred other tourists and our associated camera flashes.
I have breakfast at 7.30, and pick up my bike before 9am. It has unusual upright handlebars with the brake levers under your hands at all times, and (for all you film buffs and persons of advanced years), immediately reminded me of Doctor Winkle's bicycle in the movie 'The Third Man' (stop laughing Derek). It has an excellent gear change mechanism, manipulated with the tips of the right thumb and index finger. And despite its weight, you can really move on it, because of narrow tyres. I am attracted by a one day car tour that you can do around the battlefields, which if you add up the distances, seems quite feasible by bike. First to Essex Farm Cemetery. This was a casualty dressing station some way behind the lines, and its concrete bunkers are still there. This is where the Canadian medical officer John McCrae wrote the poem 'In Flanders Fields' on the death of a friend at the height of the second battle of Ypres, 3rd May 1915. From there to a little-visited small cemetery in the middle of a cornfield (Dragoon Camp),
and on to Cement House Cemetery in Langemark.
From Langemark I was finally able to post the completed 'E-Fraud Questionnaire' back to Darren at ANZ. Yesterday I was able to buy a stamp and get an airmail sticker at the (being renovated) Post Office in Ieper, but they didn't sell envelopes. I bludged one from Letitia this morning, and now I'm finally able to post it. At Langemark is the big German war cemetery for this area, sombre and understated. Then I lose the track on the way to the Canadian war memorial at St Julien, and spend what now seems an amusing ten minutes asking directions from an old couple in a farmyard. They seemed to have trouble communicating with each other in Flemish, let alone with me. After the tall Canadian Monument 'the brooding soldier', I spend the next 3 hours trying to find Tyne Cot Cemetery, the biggest Commonwealth cemetery in the world. But there are no shortage of smaller cemeteries along the way, and I visit Bridge House Cemetery, Buffs Road Cemetery (mostly Hampshire and Sussex), and Passchendaele. Finally reach Tyne Cot about 5pm, after asking directions a couple of times - the second time was at a ladies' hairdressers, and the salon owner left a lady at what looked like a critical part of the process for about 10 minutes while she drew me a quite extensive map. Tyne Cot memorial contains a further 34,984 names of soldiers with no known grave - ones that they couldn't fit on to the Menin Gate in Ypres. The sheer size of this cemetery is softened by hundreds of red rose bushes growing amongst the graves, I give the miss to a couple of museums on my list, as they will be closed by now, and zoom back to Ieper, arriving at 7pm, and the young bicycle bloke is suitably impressed when I tell him I was in Tyne Cot at 5pm.
In Flanders fields, the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That marks our place ; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch, be yours to hold it high.
If you break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Friday, August 29, 2008
ARRAS-DUNKERQUE. 20th-21st August.
I was finally able to get into the blog via the web address (the one that mere mortals use) which I wasn't able to before, and realised that several days of Paris were missing. They still existed as two drafts, but were not in the blog (because Dumbo forgot to sign out), but I managed to rectify that a few days later. Thank you Michele and Sue for your encouraging comments. Thanks also to 'Anonymous' of Fleetwood Crescent, South Frankston - I might have known that my first negative comment would come from you.
Anyway, there I was, south of Arras, shelterless, in the middle of a foreign land. It was a lovely summer evening, with about 3 hours of daylight left, so I thought 'bugger it, I'll camp in the bush' and started hoofing it out of town. After about a kilometre of this along the Baupaume road, I thought 'hang about- you want to head north (into Belgium), and at present you're walking south(back in the direction of Paris)', so I turned around, went back through Arras, and got onto the motorway north, going to Lille. My main objective was to find somewhere to get my head down, so I kept walking, occasionally extending a digit in a vain attempt to get a lift. This is on a six lane motorway, somewhat analogous to trying to hitch on the Monash.
The evening finally starts drawing in, and I follow a track away from the motorway, as it's obvious the traffic will be roaring past 24/7. I walk for about half an hour through fields of crops etc, and no soon do I get out of sight of the last farmhouse than another appears, or a barn where some sort of agricultural production is closing down for the night. Finally I'm in open country, and spy what I'm looking for - a nice wood on the brow of the next hill. Approaching it in the gathering dusk, I find that the 'wood' is in fact enclosed by a low stone wall, and is in fact a cemetery for German soldiers killed in the surrounding area in the First World War. It's on a slope, with 'steps' cut back into the slope about 80 metres deep by say 150 metres wide, with hundreds of simple graves on each slope, sheltered by trees planted amongst the graves and on both sides of the cemetery. I climb up about five of these steps, and find a nice wooded area at the back. The whole place has such a deep feeling of peace and tranquility about it that I immediately begin to feel sleepy. Conscious however, that sleeping here could be construed as desecrating hallowed ground, I do a recce to make sure I don't have any immediate neighbours, apart from the couple of thousand sleepers nearby. What I do find is that there is a railway line deep in a cutting at the back of my bedroom, but it looks very quiet and disused.
I'm not equipped for camping on this trip, but carry a tent fly for emergencies, and have a mossie net (for the India part of the trip). It didn't look like rain, so I didn't make any attempt to erect the fly into the semblance of a tent, but lay down with the fly completely over me, and the mossie net as a hip pad, and nodded off. It was lucky that I knew about the railway line, or I might have died of fright, because about 10 o'clock there was this almighty roar, sounding like the clappers of Hades, and what must have been an enormously long goods train whooshed through the cutting. This pattern was repeated several times up until about midnight, but with much shorter and quieter trains, and I quite got used to the company.
Then I slept till the first morning train at about 5 am, and was quietly dosing when Darren from the ANZ Bank E-Fraud section, rang me with the the glad tidings that the bank is going to reimburse me the $6000 that was embezzled out of my account. Every time I've rung the ANZ Bank, I've told whoever I'm speaking to that I'm in France (8 hours behind Melb), and every time they go on as if I'm in Australia. So once Darren has got his head round the time difference bit and apologised profusely for waking me early, I say 'Mate, you're not even going to get close to guessing where I am right now' (I couldn't really believe it myself).
(Just after I left Sister Michele was kind enough to download and send to me the '10 Oddest Travel Guides ever published' with the comment that number 9 was particularly apposite for me. However I didn't actually open her e-mail until I was in Dunkerque, after the night described above. Number 9 concerned one Lee Meriwether "one of the original college dropout backpackers, (who) figured out in 1886 how to travel across Europe on 50 cents a day" (why would that make her think of me, I wonder?) Apparently he did this by "couch-surfing and pile of hay surfing". Half-starving worked pretty well too. That I can relate to - I can't stomach a lot of the food here, and live predominantly on fruit and yoghurt from the supermarket, with the odd meal or chocolate bar thrown in. Everything you've heard about Belgian chocolate is TRUE. I'm doing so much walking here, but won't lose a point of cholesterol - sorry 'bout that Doc. Anyway, friend Meriwether made an "attempt in Italy to combine sightseeing with free lodging. Instead, he reports, 'I was lodged in jail, and the next day brought before an officer of justice, and charged with the heinous crime of sleeping in the dead city of Pompeii'.")
So I get on the move early, and walk along the motorway to Gavelle, the next settlement, in search of sustenance. But it's a Mount Macedon sort of place, geared to providing accommodation for well-heeled tourists visiting the nearby battle sights on the Somme, I would imagine - no sign of a café. But there is a bus stop, for buses going to Lille, and one is due soon at 9.30. This doesn't turn up, so I wait for the next one at 12.00, quite happy to doze in the sun, I'm buggered by walking so far with my pack - no sign of any inhabitants.
When this second bus doesn't turn up either, I get serious and walk back up to the motorway, and snag a lift to Lille after about 5 minutes. My saviour is a crazy Algerian guy, driving to the market in Lille to stock up with fruit and veg for his business. Most of the cars and trucks on the road look very new, but his van would be older than my ancient LandCruiser, and just as creaky and noisy. Nevertheless he zooms up the road, overtaking all the trucks that had roared past in the previous 5 minutes, swerving and cutting in, and nudging me and gesticulating every time he passes a female driver exhibiting ample cleavage, saying 'veery nice', which two words exhausts about a quarter of his English vocabulary. He very kindly goes out of his way to drop me at the main train / bus station, where I discover that no French buses or trains go into Belgium, from Lille at any rate. I'd had some vague idea of travelling up north to the River Dyle, which is where the B.E.F. formed a defensive line after moving into Belgium after 10th May 1940.
However, a train was just due to leave for Dunkerque, which is actually close to where my brother was last known to be, and I was soon on it.
Anyway, there I was, south of Arras, shelterless, in the middle of a foreign land. It was a lovely summer evening, with about 3 hours of daylight left, so I thought 'bugger it, I'll camp in the bush' and started hoofing it out of town. After about a kilometre of this along the Baupaume road, I thought 'hang about- you want to head north (into Belgium), and at present you're walking south(back in the direction of Paris)', so I turned around, went back through Arras, and got onto the motorway north, going to Lille. My main objective was to find somewhere to get my head down, so I kept walking, occasionally extending a digit in a vain attempt to get a lift. This is on a six lane motorway, somewhat analogous to trying to hitch on the Monash.
The evening finally starts drawing in, and I follow a track away from the motorway, as it's obvious the traffic will be roaring past 24/7. I walk for about half an hour through fields of crops etc, and no soon do I get out of sight of the last farmhouse than another appears, or a barn where some sort of agricultural production is closing down for the night. Finally I'm in open country, and spy what I'm looking for - a nice wood on the brow of the next hill. Approaching it in the gathering dusk, I find that the 'wood' is in fact enclosed by a low stone wall, and is in fact a cemetery for German soldiers killed in the surrounding area in the First World War. It's on a slope, with 'steps' cut back into the slope about 80 metres deep by say 150 metres wide, with hundreds of simple graves on each slope, sheltered by trees planted amongst the graves and on both sides of the cemetery. I climb up about five of these steps, and find a nice wooded area at the back. The whole place has such a deep feeling of peace and tranquility about it that I immediately begin to feel sleepy. Conscious however, that sleeping here could be construed as desecrating hallowed ground, I do a recce to make sure I don't have any immediate neighbours, apart from the couple of thousand sleepers nearby. What I do find is that there is a railway line deep in a cutting at the back of my bedroom, but it looks very quiet and disused.
I'm not equipped for camping on this trip, but carry a tent fly for emergencies, and have a mossie net (for the India part of the trip). It didn't look like rain, so I didn't make any attempt to erect the fly into the semblance of a tent, but lay down with the fly completely over me, and the mossie net as a hip pad, and nodded off. It was lucky that I knew about the railway line, or I might have died of fright, because about 10 o'clock there was this almighty roar, sounding like the clappers of Hades, and what must have been an enormously long goods train whooshed through the cutting. This pattern was repeated several times up until about midnight, but with much shorter and quieter trains, and I quite got used to the company.
Then I slept till the first morning train at about 5 am, and was quietly dosing when Darren from the ANZ Bank E-Fraud section, rang me with the the glad tidings that the bank is going to reimburse me the $6000 that was embezzled out of my account. Every time I've rung the ANZ Bank, I've told whoever I'm speaking to that I'm in France (8 hours behind Melb), and every time they go on as if I'm in Australia. So once Darren has got his head round the time difference bit and apologised profusely for waking me early, I say 'Mate, you're not even going to get close to guessing where I am right now' (I couldn't really believe it myself).
(Just after I left Sister Michele was kind enough to download and send to me the '10 Oddest Travel Guides ever published' with the comment that number 9 was particularly apposite for me. However I didn't actually open her e-mail until I was in Dunkerque, after the night described above. Number 9 concerned one Lee Meriwether "one of the original college dropout backpackers, (who) figured out in 1886 how to travel across Europe on 50 cents a day" (why would that make her think of me, I wonder?) Apparently he did this by "couch-surfing and pile of hay surfing". Half-starving worked pretty well too. That I can relate to - I can't stomach a lot of the food here, and live predominantly on fruit and yoghurt from the supermarket, with the odd meal or chocolate bar thrown in. Everything you've heard about Belgian chocolate is TRUE. I'm doing so much walking here, but won't lose a point of cholesterol - sorry 'bout that Doc. Anyway, friend Meriwether made an "attempt in Italy to combine sightseeing with free lodging. Instead, he reports, 'I was lodged in jail, and the next day brought before an officer of justice, and charged with the heinous crime of sleeping in the dead city of Pompeii'.")
So I get on the move early, and walk along the motorway to Gavelle, the next settlement, in search of sustenance. But it's a Mount Macedon sort of place, geared to providing accommodation for well-heeled tourists visiting the nearby battle sights on the Somme, I would imagine - no sign of a café. But there is a bus stop, for buses going to Lille, and one is due soon at 9.30. This doesn't turn up, so I wait for the next one at 12.00, quite happy to doze in the sun, I'm buggered by walking so far with my pack - no sign of any inhabitants.
When this second bus doesn't turn up either, I get serious and walk back up to the motorway, and snag a lift to Lille after about 5 minutes. My saviour is a crazy Algerian guy, driving to the market in Lille to stock up with fruit and veg for his business. Most of the cars and trucks on the road look very new, but his van would be older than my ancient LandCruiser, and just as creaky and noisy. Nevertheless he zooms up the road, overtaking all the trucks that had roared past in the previous 5 minutes, swerving and cutting in, and nudging me and gesticulating every time he passes a female driver exhibiting ample cleavage, saying 'veery nice', which two words exhausts about a quarter of his English vocabulary. He very kindly goes out of his way to drop me at the main train / bus station, where I discover that no French buses or trains go into Belgium, from Lille at any rate. I'd had some vague idea of travelling up north to the River Dyle, which is where the B.E.F. formed a defensive line after moving into Belgium after 10th May 1940.
However, a train was just due to leave for Dunkerque, which is actually close to where my brother was last known to be, and I was soon on it.
Friday, August 22, 2008
PARIS-ARRAS. 19th-20th August.
Thanks Michele, Amy, Laraine and Terri for your encouraging comments. I'm afraid I still haven't worked out how to add the photos in French, and will have to wait till I find an internet shop man who speaks some English.
Tuesday 19th August - early to the internet shop. The guy at ANZ that I spoke with on Sunday e-mailed me some info, including a release form that I need to sign to authorise ANZ to give details of my bank accounts to the Gendarmerie. Unfortunately he didn't include a necessary stat. dec. form, or a fraud questionnaire. So I printed out a stat. dec. form from the Vic. Govt's Justice site, and then typed up my statement and photocopied it onto the stat. dec. Then I had to go right across to the other side of Paris to the Australian Consulate (literally in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower), to get it signed and stamped, which costs 12 Euros. Back at the internet shop the guy tried to fax the stat. dec. and the release form to ANZ for me, without success, so I thought I'd try at the Post Office at the Gare Nord when I'm leaving tomorrow.
Wednesday 20th August - By Métro to Gare Nord, only to discover that a POST OFFICE can't send faxes to anywhere outside France. So I photocopied the forms and sent the originals to ANZ by post. Enormous long queue to buy a ticket to Arras, and got one with just 5 minutes to spare. I didn't realise that the seats were allocated, and managed to sit in the wrong carriage. Then there wasn't enough room for my backpack on the luggage rack, so now I'm occupying two seats in the wrong carriage. The ticket collector didn't seem to notice, but started interrogating me about something else. I'd got a senior's discount on the ticket, and thought he was asking for proof (why?), but then he realised I couldn't speak French, and fortunately lost interest.
I'd thought to stay at the youth hostel in Arras, as it was only 8 Euros a night, though Lonely Planet said their reception was closed from 12 till 5. I got there with 20 minutes to spare, but a notice on the door said closed 11 till 5. Not to worry, I needed to find a laundrette to do some washing, which my trusty French phrasebook said was a 'lavoir'. This is a rather unfortunate word, as a sign in 15 inch letters outside the laundrette proclaimed it as a 'Lav'. Nevertheless I proceeded to wash my clothes there, having to ask assistance at every stage of the procedure from various assorted matrons.
As I was still toting my backpack, I didn't walk around too much in Arras, but cooled my heels for a couple of hours at a café looking onto the Grande Place (town square). The square is enormous and cobble-stoned, and the shops and buildings around it jut out over walkways supported on about 300 columns. It is a Flemish-style square, unique in France apparently, about 500 years old, and the only part of the town to escape unscathed from the bombing in 1940.
While here I wanted to follow a bit in the footsteps of my oldest brother, who was stationed in Arras with the B.E.F. in 1939/40, and was unfortunately later posted 'missing in action, believed killed' in Belgium. I never knew him, but sitting there it occurred to me that he must often have
sat looking out over this same square, having a beer perhaps, and it gave me a really eerie feeling, with shivers running up and down my spine.
Arriving back at the youth hostel, I now noticed another notice on the door, to the effect that it was closed for the holidays until 21st August - tomorrow! Plan B was a reasonably cheap hotel nearby, which I soon found out was permanently closed down. Any other hotels were upwards of 65 Euros (over a hundred bucks), and I had no intention of paying that for a few hours sleep. So to Plan C, a camping ground allegedly 10 minutes walk south of the town - which half an hour later turned out to be also closed for the holidays! Got to go, internet shop is closing......
Tuesday 19th August - early to the internet shop. The guy at ANZ that I spoke with on Sunday e-mailed me some info, including a release form that I need to sign to authorise ANZ to give details of my bank accounts to the Gendarmerie. Unfortunately he didn't include a necessary stat. dec. form, or a fraud questionnaire. So I printed out a stat. dec. form from the Vic. Govt's Justice site, and then typed up my statement and photocopied it onto the stat. dec. Then I had to go right across to the other side of Paris to the Australian Consulate (literally in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower), to get it signed and stamped, which costs 12 Euros. Back at the internet shop the guy tried to fax the stat. dec. and the release form to ANZ for me, without success, so I thought I'd try at the Post Office at the Gare Nord when I'm leaving tomorrow.
Wednesday 20th August - By Métro to Gare Nord, only to discover that a POST OFFICE can't send faxes to anywhere outside France. So I photocopied the forms and sent the originals to ANZ by post. Enormous long queue to buy a ticket to Arras, and got one with just 5 minutes to spare. I didn't realise that the seats were allocated, and managed to sit in the wrong carriage. Then there wasn't enough room for my backpack on the luggage rack, so now I'm occupying two seats in the wrong carriage. The ticket collector didn't seem to notice, but started interrogating me about something else. I'd got a senior's discount on the ticket, and thought he was asking for proof (why?), but then he realised I couldn't speak French, and fortunately lost interest.
I'd thought to stay at the youth hostel in Arras, as it was only 8 Euros a night, though Lonely Planet said their reception was closed from 12 till 5. I got there with 20 minutes to spare, but a notice on the door said closed 11 till 5. Not to worry, I needed to find a laundrette to do some washing, which my trusty French phrasebook said was a 'lavoir'. This is a rather unfortunate word, as a sign in 15 inch letters outside the laundrette proclaimed it as a 'Lav'. Nevertheless I proceeded to wash my clothes there, having to ask assistance at every stage of the procedure from various assorted matrons.
As I was still toting my backpack, I didn't walk around too much in Arras, but cooled my heels for a couple of hours at a café looking onto the Grande Place (town square). The square is enormous and cobble-stoned, and the shops and buildings around it jut out over walkways supported on about 300 columns. It is a Flemish-style square, unique in France apparently, about 500 years old, and the only part of the town to escape unscathed from the bombing in 1940.
While here I wanted to follow a bit in the footsteps of my oldest brother, who was stationed in Arras with the B.E.F. in 1939/40, and was unfortunately later posted 'missing in action, believed killed' in Belgium. I never knew him, but sitting there it occurred to me that he must often have
sat looking out over this same square, having a beer perhaps, and it gave me a really eerie feeling, with shivers running up and down my spine.
Arriving back at the youth hostel, I now noticed another notice on the door, to the effect that it was closed for the holidays until 21st August - tomorrow! Plan B was a reasonably cheap hotel nearby, which I soon found out was permanently closed down. Any other hotels were upwards of 65 Euros (over a hundred bucks), and I had no intention of paying that for a few hours sleep. So to Plan C, a camping ground allegedly 10 minutes walk south of the town - which half an hour later turned out to be also closed for the holidays! Got to go, internet shop is closing......
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
PARIS. 15th-18th August
Regretfully I'm not at the stage of being able to add pictures to the blog, as all the instructions on the computer are in French, and none of the staff at the internet shop speaks English. Hopefully I'll soon run into some computer whizz who speaks English (and French). Have taken lots of photos, though.
Friday morning set out to master the Métro. A violinist played for a few stations, and then vanished. Interesting multicultural mix of passengers. The tunnels are lit all the way along, and every single metre is covered in graffiti. A lot of the stations are quite grotty. Pluses are that there are heaps of trains, and they seem to always run on time; I'd say that the average time I've had to wait for a train is 2 minutes. And the arrival time of the first and second expected trains is given - like on the new bus stops in Stud Road.
I decided to first look at the Arc de Triomphe as it was on the same Métro line as the hotel. I'd had a few brushes with death the day before, as I'd crossed against a few 'Walk' lights, not realising they were there, because they're quite tiny, relative to ours. Plus I'd had bright sunlight in my eyes. Also, a goodly number of Parisians drive like Jason Bourne. I came up out of the Métro just across the (10 lane) road from the Arc. I noticed people walking (or sprinting) across the road, and followed suit, waiting for a nice break in the traffic. However I hadn't counted on vehicles appearing from behind me, and had to indulge in some pretty nifty footwork to avoid being decimated. Hemingway, writing about Paris in the twenties, said something to the effect that a man needs to experience Paris while still young. I don't know anything about that, but it would certainly be an advantage traffic-wise. Of course, on the way back I discovered that there is a pedestrian tunnel beneath the road.
The views from the top of the Arc were incredible. I think it doesn't matter how many movies or whatever you see about Paris, it doesn't prepare you for the impact of the city and it's architecture. Afterwards I (and about 10,000 other tourists) walked up the Champs Elysees.
I had some vague idea of going to look at the Eiffel Tower, but found myself in the Place de la Concorde, and then the Tuillieres Gardens. I Crossed the Seine to the Musee d'Orsay (pre to post Impressionist art and sculpture), and stayed there till chuck-out time. A walk along the Seine on a gorgeous summer evening brought me to Pont Neuf, from where I
handled changing trains on the Metro a couple of times to get to get to 'my' railway line.
Saturday 16th I was zonked from the exertions of the previous day, and didn't do much. Plus when I went to use internet banking I found it was blocked. I rang ANZ in Melbourne, and found out that some obscene person has made an illegal internet transfer of $3000 from my main ANZ account, and $3000 from my ANZ Debit Card account. Fortunately I have 5000 euros in an (unlinked) ANZ Travel Card account. Apparently the money was paid into a Commonwealth Bank account at La Trobe University in the name of Na Yan. If anybody visits La Trobe, could they please punch this person. In the afternoon I did some shopping near the hotel, in Belleville. Went to the markets, and to some colourful shopping streets.
Sunday 17th I started early, with a visit to the Cimetiere du Pére LaChaise, allegedly the most-visited cemetery in the world. Checked out Proust, Balzac, Moliere, Maria Callas, Isadora Duncan, Chopin, Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde. Got into a discussion with two American matrons as to what Oscar's last words were. Something like 'Thank God I'm dying - I couldn't stand another hour with this wallpaper'?
After another AUS$15 phone call to ANZ (it only costs 0.25 Euros a minute, but they keep you on hold for half an hour first), I set out for Monmartre. A funicular railway takes you up to Sacre-Coeur, and from the top of the church you can get more excellent views over Paris. Afterwards I walked through the streets of Monmartre looking for the studio where Picasso lived in his 'blue' period (pre-WW1), but couldn't find it. Had a Macca's and a couple of milk shakes near Pigalle Station, then walked to the Blanche Métro, and home.
Had originally planned 3 nights in Paris, which I extended to 6, and only 2 days left, so decided on a marathon on Monday. First to the Paris Opera, and I think the grandest chandeliers you're ever likely to see. Then to the Louvre. I did what you really need a few days for in a couple of hours. Caught up with Old Mona and Venus (me and that same 10,000 tourists). Then on to Notre Dame, which doesn't take long as there's only the one thing to look at, but if you're into stained glass it'll really rock you about.
Ever on, to the Luxembourg Gardens, for a stroll. Now this was a Monday evening, about 5-ish,
and the park was full of Parisians, just sitting around, talking or reading or plain relaxing. And that's something I really like a lot about this place, no matter where you go, even where I'm staying in Belleville, which is very much a working people's district, scads of people sitting around in coffee shops or in cafes or on park benches - relaxing!
Then I walked around some of the parts of the Sorbonne, eventually finding myself in the Jardin des Plantes (not a patch on Melbourne's, I'm afraid). From there a Métro to the Eiffel Tower, and (weakening now), a visit to the 1st level only - but that was high enough thanks. The very highest level was closed anyway.
Friday morning set out to master the Métro. A violinist played for a few stations, and then vanished. Interesting multicultural mix of passengers. The tunnels are lit all the way along, and every single metre is covered in graffiti. A lot of the stations are quite grotty. Pluses are that there are heaps of trains, and they seem to always run on time; I'd say that the average time I've had to wait for a train is 2 minutes. And the arrival time of the first and second expected trains is given - like on the new bus stops in Stud Road.
I decided to first look at the Arc de Triomphe as it was on the same Métro line as the hotel. I'd had a few brushes with death the day before, as I'd crossed against a few 'Walk' lights, not realising they were there, because they're quite tiny, relative to ours. Plus I'd had bright sunlight in my eyes. Also, a goodly number of Parisians drive like Jason Bourne. I came up out of the Métro just across the (10 lane) road from the Arc. I noticed people walking (or sprinting) across the road, and followed suit, waiting for a nice break in the traffic. However I hadn't counted on vehicles appearing from behind me, and had to indulge in some pretty nifty footwork to avoid being decimated. Hemingway, writing about Paris in the twenties, said something to the effect that a man needs to experience Paris while still young. I don't know anything about that, but it would certainly be an advantage traffic-wise. Of course, on the way back I discovered that there is a pedestrian tunnel beneath the road.
The views from the top of the Arc were incredible. I think it doesn't matter how many movies or whatever you see about Paris, it doesn't prepare you for the impact of the city and it's architecture. Afterwards I (and about 10,000 other tourists) walked up the Champs Elysees.
I had some vague idea of going to look at the Eiffel Tower, but found myself in the Place de la Concorde, and then the Tuillieres Gardens. I Crossed the Seine to the Musee d'Orsay (pre to post Impressionist art and sculpture), and stayed there till chuck-out time. A walk along the Seine on a gorgeous summer evening brought me to Pont Neuf, from where I
handled changing trains on the Metro a couple of times to get to get to 'my' railway line.
Saturday 16th I was zonked from the exertions of the previous day, and didn't do much. Plus when I went to use internet banking I found it was blocked. I rang ANZ in Melbourne, and found out that some obscene person has made an illegal internet transfer of $3000 from my main ANZ account, and $3000 from my ANZ Debit Card account. Fortunately I have 5000 euros in an (unlinked) ANZ Travel Card account. Apparently the money was paid into a Commonwealth Bank account at La Trobe University in the name of Na Yan. If anybody visits La Trobe, could they please punch this person. In the afternoon I did some shopping near the hotel, in Belleville. Went to the markets, and to some colourful shopping streets.
Sunday 17th I started early, with a visit to the Cimetiere du Pére LaChaise, allegedly the most-visited cemetery in the world. Checked out Proust, Balzac, Moliere, Maria Callas, Isadora Duncan, Chopin, Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde. Got into a discussion with two American matrons as to what Oscar's last words were. Something like 'Thank God I'm dying - I couldn't stand another hour with this wallpaper'?
After another AUS$15 phone call to ANZ (it only costs 0.25 Euros a minute, but they keep you on hold for half an hour first), I set out for Monmartre. A funicular railway takes you up to Sacre-Coeur, and from the top of the church you can get more excellent views over Paris. Afterwards I walked through the streets of Monmartre looking for the studio where Picasso lived in his 'blue' period (pre-WW1), but couldn't find it. Had a Macca's and a couple of milk shakes near Pigalle Station, then walked to the Blanche Métro, and home.
Had originally planned 3 nights in Paris, which I extended to 6, and only 2 days left, so decided on a marathon on Monday. First to the Paris Opera, and I think the grandest chandeliers you're ever likely to see. Then to the Louvre. I did what you really need a few days for in a couple of hours. Caught up with Old Mona and Venus (me and that same 10,000 tourists). Then on to Notre Dame, which doesn't take long as there's only the one thing to look at, but if you're into stained glass it'll really rock you about.
Ever on, to the Luxembourg Gardens, for a stroll. Now this was a Monday evening, about 5-ish,
and the park was full of Parisians, just sitting around, talking or reading or plain relaxing. And that's something I really like a lot about this place, no matter where you go, even where I'm staying in Belleville, which is very much a working people's district, scads of people sitting around in coffee shops or in cafes or on park benches - relaxing!
Then I walked around some of the parts of the Sorbonne, eventually finding myself in the Jardin des Plantes (not a patch on Melbourne's, I'm afraid). From there a Métro to the Eiffel Tower, and (weakening now), a visit to the 1st level only - but that was high enough thanks. The very highest level was closed anyway.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
MELBOURNE-PARIS. 13th-14th August.
Left Tullamarine 3.30pm Wednesday. It became dark about 4 hours later somewhere over Indonesia, and then didn't get light until about an hour after landing at Heathrow at 5am GMT, some 23 hours after take-off, which made for a long night. This was a unique experience, as I'd never been on such a long flight before. Heathrow was interesting, it took 18 minutes by shuttle bus to get from one of it's terminals to another. After a five hour wait we went through immigration etc. I had my toothpaste confiscated, and all toiletries etc. had to be put into clear bags so that they could see what was in them. You had to take your shoes off, and then the shoes and every single item in my day-pack were zapped "for traces of explosive".
By contrast, at Charles de Gaulle Airport our passports were cursorily checked and then we grabbed our bags off the carousel and away. Not wishing to shell out 25 euros for a ride to the hotel, I opted for a 3-90 Euro (3 metro tickets) ride on the bus. This was a good way to see the outer suburbs, and also observe the local populace, as the bus stopped about twenty times. The highlight was a truly bravura argument between the driver and a guy that he hadn't stopped for, who caught us up at the lights. This altercation went on for 8 or 10 minutes, the driver weaving in and out of the traffic all the time, while they fired off verbal ripostes at each other non-stop, without either of them ever repeating himself, as far as I could make out. An unusual thing I noticed was gangs of young women "windscreen washers" at busy intersections.
I got off at Gare de l'Est, and looked around for an ATM, as Lonely Planet had advised that there are always some at the main railway terminii. Then followed one of those "it only happens to me" episodes, exacerbated I suppose by sleep-deprivation and jet-lag. There were loads of ATM's (I thought), but my card wouldn't work in them. I was directed to the Post Office outside the station, where the English-speaking Postal Manager advised that sometimes this happens, and you have to keep trying until you find one that works. So I repeated the performance (and there were loads of these "ATM's" to try) with the same result. Giving up, I decided to try getting the Metro instead, and while I was waiting to cross at the lights I glanced back at the post office and saw 3 obvious ATM's (not Metro ticket vending machines) in the wall near the post office....
(Be quiet, Michele).
Now being more in funds, I bought a Metro ticket (at the ticket office), and started trying to find the way to the Metro station near the hotel (Colonel Fabian). This proved impossible, as nobody I asked had heard of such a station, including 3 policemen in an alcove that I approached, who seemed about to give the 3rd degree to some young guy. Plus, I didn't at that time realise that at a point touched by several Metro lines, (such as a large railway station) that you sometimes have to walk an epic distance through several tunnels until you get to the line that you need.
So I decided to walk to the hotel, using my skimpy Lonely Planet map. This would have been simple if any of the streets had been signposted, but no such luck. However, after walking twice as far as I needed, I found the hotel, where I have a pleasant room off a courtyard.
I later ventured along the Rue Belleville near the hotel, in search of food. On my way out of the hotel I rashly asked the man who had signed me in what his name was. His reaction indicated that this question was politically incorrect. Pulling himself up to his full height, he said "my name is Mister (whatever)". However, he does have odd flashes of humour - when I arrived at the hotel sweating profusely beneath my backpack, he asked me if I'd walked all the way from England. I told him no, it just felt like I had.
I celebrated my first night in what is argueably the world's gastronomic capital by searching out a Chinese cafe. The menu was in French only, and I guessed all the Chinese staff only spoke French, so I plumped for the only thing that sounded familiar, "Bouef Cari" along with "Riz Naturale", which turned out okay. Later I needed a top up of hot water for my "Tea Cina", and approaching the front counter, I dredged back five decades to my schoolboy French and asked the lady of the house for "eau chaud Madame, s'il vous plait", which seemed to go down well and produced another scalding hot tea. Later still I felt suitably smug when an English-looking couple walked in, demanded to see the menu, and then walked out when they realised both the menu and the staff only spoke French.
Not long after, I tottered into bed and slept the clock round.
By contrast, at Charles de Gaulle Airport our passports were cursorily checked and then we grabbed our bags off the carousel and away. Not wishing to shell out 25 euros for a ride to the hotel, I opted for a 3-90 Euro (3 metro tickets) ride on the bus. This was a good way to see the outer suburbs, and also observe the local populace, as the bus stopped about twenty times. The highlight was a truly bravura argument between the driver and a guy that he hadn't stopped for, who caught us up at the lights. This altercation went on for 8 or 10 minutes, the driver weaving in and out of the traffic all the time, while they fired off verbal ripostes at each other non-stop, without either of them ever repeating himself, as far as I could make out. An unusual thing I noticed was gangs of young women "windscreen washers" at busy intersections.
I got off at Gare de l'Est, and looked around for an ATM, as Lonely Planet had advised that there are always some at the main railway terminii. Then followed one of those "it only happens to me" episodes, exacerbated I suppose by sleep-deprivation and jet-lag. There were loads of ATM's (I thought), but my card wouldn't work in them. I was directed to the Post Office outside the station, where the English-speaking Postal Manager advised that sometimes this happens, and you have to keep trying until you find one that works. So I repeated the performance (and there were loads of these "ATM's" to try) with the same result. Giving up, I decided to try getting the Metro instead, and while I was waiting to cross at the lights I glanced back at the post office and saw 3 obvious ATM's (not Metro ticket vending machines) in the wall near the post office....
(Be quiet, Michele).
Now being more in funds, I bought a Metro ticket (at the ticket office), and started trying to find the way to the Metro station near the hotel (Colonel Fabian). This proved impossible, as nobody I asked had heard of such a station, including 3 policemen in an alcove that I approached, who seemed about to give the 3rd degree to some young guy. Plus, I didn't at that time realise that at a point touched by several Metro lines, (such as a large railway station) that you sometimes have to walk an epic distance through several tunnels until you get to the line that you need.
So I decided to walk to the hotel, using my skimpy Lonely Planet map. This would have been simple if any of the streets had been signposted, but no such luck. However, after walking twice as far as I needed, I found the hotel, where I have a pleasant room off a courtyard.
I later ventured along the Rue Belleville near the hotel, in search of food. On my way out of the hotel I rashly asked the man who had signed me in what his name was. His reaction indicated that this question was politically incorrect. Pulling himself up to his full height, he said "my name is Mister (whatever)". However, he does have odd flashes of humour - when I arrived at the hotel sweating profusely beneath my backpack, he asked me if I'd walked all the way from England. I told him no, it just felt like I had.
I celebrated my first night in what is argueably the world's gastronomic capital by searching out a Chinese cafe. The menu was in French only, and I guessed all the Chinese staff only spoke French, so I plumped for the only thing that sounded familiar, "Bouef Cari" along with "Riz Naturale", which turned out okay. Later I needed a top up of hot water for my "Tea Cina", and approaching the front counter, I dredged back five decades to my schoolboy French and asked the lady of the house for "eau chaud Madame, s'il vous plait", which seemed to go down well and produced another scalding hot tea. Later still I felt suitably smug when an English-looking couple walked in, demanded to see the menu, and then walked out when they realised both the menu and the staff only spoke French.
Not long after, I tottered into bed and slept the clock round.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
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