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.