Sunday the 23rd was another fine sunny day, and we piled back into the French tractor for another nice drive thought the countryside... Unsurprisingly we were off to another British country pub, this one in a village in the vicinity of High Wycombe, for a gathering of my lovely's mother's family and the largest gathering of my future in-laws so far. There were several special events to celebrate including recent arrival, a recent wedding, and of course a certain engagement.
It was great to see everyone and finally meet a couple more relatives who we had not been able to catch up with last time around. As always everyone was lovely and I feel very much like a member of the family already, albeit a slightly larger, less stylish, funny-talking one. A very nice lunch of roast and English ale was followed, naturally, by a walk in the outdoors... our large gaggle followed the path down out of the village with various dogs in tow (very doggy people these) and popped through a gap in a hedge and headed off across the open fields. In other parts of the world this would probably get you shot at by enraged farmers, but in the UK this is classed as recreation. It was a nice spot for a ramble though, and we watched as several gliders rode the thermals across the rolling green countryside, sharing the sky with numerous Red Kites, a stunning British bird of prey recently bred back from near extinction.
The day was over really all too quickly, it would have been nice to spend an evening or more catching up with everyone properly as they are a smart, funny and interesting bunch, and all characters. We will have to organize something longer next trip. Fortunately won't be too long until we can see some of them again.
Once back in Croydon we were hard pressed to decide on what to do for dinner... as much as the delights of local Croydon cuisine were inviting (actually there are some nice places in Croydon despite what some might say) we couldn't make our minds up re what we felt like. Eventually not being able to think of anything else I decided we should eat at Byrons at least once more while we could, and a quick check found one about 20 min away in a nearby suburb. It was getting fairly late, but we would make it.
After a considerable time winding through the residential streets of south London we got somewhere near where we were supposed to be, except that the interwebs pointed us to a very closed shopping mall. Confusion abounded between driver and navigator as we went into the deserted carparking building then back out, and spent a bit of time driving around the rather annoying one way system of central Bromley hunting for our dinner. Eventually we parked down the road and started walking around the pedestrian mall before turning back and trying the shopping complex... sure enough though all the lights were dimmed and shops closed the automatic doors opened, and in a very post-apocalyptic zombie movie moment we wandered through the dead complex and out the other side. There in a park area out the back we found several restaurants on a terrace including our Byrons. We got there just in time for the girl who appeared to be sweeping up to tell us they were closing in 30 minutes. More than a tad frustrated at this point we decided we didn't want to have to have to scoff our dinner and elected to look elsewhere.
There was still life in the place next door, the interestingly named and decorated 'Giraffe World Kitchen' which claimed to serve "international foods" and had a menu featuring a bit of all sorts from all round the planet. Apparently the founders travel the world and find things they like and add them to the menu. Or so the marketing tells us. I was somewhat skeptical, but we hoped at least we would find something to suit both of us. As it turned out, unsurprisingly, it was pretty terrible. And not just because the Eastern European, English language challenged waiter brought me the wrong meal, which I could not be bothered sending back, realizing that the right one was probably going to be awful anyway. I suspect few if any of the cooks had ever been to any of the places they were cooking food from, or possibly even had authentic versions of what they were cooking. Having worked so hard for our Byrons it was a highly unsatisfactory result. We decided to cut our losses and head home without dessert.
The next day was Monday, and we packed up our bits and dropped the rental car off and headed in to Mayfair, as already covered previously...
Sunday, April 30, 2017
Friday, April 28, 2017
Posts coming thick and fast folks
...hope you are keeping up. And photos soon! Eventually!
Speaking of Scroobius and sticking with a UK theme, today on the headphones is Ghostpoet who reminds me a little of Roots Manuva, which is a good thing. And he did some stuff with Massive Attack so he can only be awesome. And shortly some Burial because when in Rome... (Act Like The Vandals...) (Sorry, so many Obscure References they are writing themselves, I just can't help myself).
Where was we me li'il lovelies? So by now in recapping it's Saturday last, not too far back, and we are in Croydon. I am most proud of myself for leaving the flat (which, I am sure I mentioned, is the 2 bedroom place of dad-in-law to be that he used to live in when working sometimes in London) and walking to the train station without being even a little bit murdered, and catching a train waaaay across the big town to Earls Court. My companion meanwhile headed off to catch up with a friend recently moved to London. I was lonesome, but most happy to be attending the London Antique Arms Fair, held in the luxurious (erm...) facilities of the Ibis hotel.
The conference room of the hotel was packed with vendors from all over the country meaning a fantastic array of weaponry and some armour and other bits to look at... Unfortunately being packed with dealers obviously all the prices were fairly premium and there were not exactly a lot of bargains to be had. If there is one thing I have learned lately it is that dealers in antique and vintage stuff at the moment are riding a massive wave of profits from the recent surge in popularity of "old stuff" in general from many eras, and boy will they happily help any schmuck rid themselves of money. As I overheard one dealer saying to someone in conversation while I was in his shop "Oh don't ever listen to the bullish!t dealers spin to customers about being collectors and enthusiasts themselves, that is utter rubbish, dealers are only in it for one thing... their sole aim is not to generously help you, a fellow enthusiast, find a dream item at a bargain price, it is to tell you what you want to hear and take your money".
Among the items on sale were some very nice pieces but few I would call truely amazing... I would imagine any true gems go quickly to rich collectors and spend little time with dealers. One chap did have a nine barrel volley rifle that was the subject of much attention as they are pretty rare. He was asking £37,000 for it. I didn't bother to talk to the specialist Japanese sword dealers as those are of course worth moonbeams now. There were plenty of other bits for upwards of £10,000. Many lovely pairs of cased pistols in the £10k - £20k range... But again, these were not show stopping sets only average ones. I was certainly born rather a bit too late to be interested in this sort of thing, values across the board have soared in recent years. Guys who have been collecting since the 80s and 90s are now getting very rich off parting with their investment.
My personal items of envy from the show (ok I wanted most of the stuff at the show, but there are a couple of bits I certainly want in particular) were considerably cheaper than those mentioned above but dearer than I need to be considering. Funnily both were from the impressive stocks of West Street Antiques who we visited in Dorking. And as already alluded to, if you want that sort of stuff you need to find it in places like auctions, not pay obscene markups to dealers. The West Street guy was nice enough and good to chat to, but they trade off their name as a very well known and established dealer... If rich folks want to buy from them for peace of mind etc then good on them, but I am not paying them double what something is worth for that privilege. The hard part of course is finding that stuff before the dealers do.
I wandered back to the train and was again most proud of myself for managing to get THREE trains and tubes across town to Angel... Albeit with detailed instructions from my helper. Angel is, by the way, an area, not a person or indeed celestial being. Once reunited with my lovely we looked at more stalls and antique shops and vintage stuff. There was some good stuff, a lot of rubbish. Basically people will try to sell you any bit of stuff older than about ten years now and try to claim it is a classic vintage something somehow. We ended up looking for late lunch and finding Byrons which is a burger chain of unknown origins but their food was super good... Current special a Korean theme with Kimcheese burger and loaded fries and spicy Korean chicken wings etc... Washed down with a Salted Caramel and Bourbon shake... Great stuff.
From here we headed to Bond St where there was a half-hearted attempt by my lovely to find some shoes in aforementioned big stores for a special event...we eventually gave up and wandered Soho, visiting the pub George Orwell used to drink at, The Dog and Duck, and finding an amazing butchery selling ultra-high end cured meats including little cardboard cones of cubed offcuts. In this age of idiotic food trends and PCness it was heart warming to see a mother treating her kid to a cone of cubed meat. We got some too, it was awesome. Being Saturday, and I think World Record Day or something, the area was heaving with trendy people and there was a street party underway a couple of blocks over, so we found a quiet Vietnamese restaurant with a spare table for tea, and it was good. From there, various rail lines back to Croydon. Job done.
Speaking of Scroobius and sticking with a UK theme, today on the headphones is Ghostpoet who reminds me a little of Roots Manuva, which is a good thing. And he did some stuff with Massive Attack so he can only be awesome. And shortly some Burial because when in Rome... (Act Like The Vandals...) (Sorry, so many Obscure References they are writing themselves, I just can't help myself).
Where was we me li'il lovelies? So by now in recapping it's Saturday last, not too far back, and we are in Croydon. I am most proud of myself for leaving the flat (which, I am sure I mentioned, is the 2 bedroom place of dad-in-law to be that he used to live in when working sometimes in London) and walking to the train station without being even a little bit murdered, and catching a train waaaay across the big town to Earls Court. My companion meanwhile headed off to catch up with a friend recently moved to London. I was lonesome, but most happy to be attending the London Antique Arms Fair, held in the luxurious (erm...) facilities of the Ibis hotel.
The conference room of the hotel was packed with vendors from all over the country meaning a fantastic array of weaponry and some armour and other bits to look at... Unfortunately being packed with dealers obviously all the prices were fairly premium and there were not exactly a lot of bargains to be had. If there is one thing I have learned lately it is that dealers in antique and vintage stuff at the moment are riding a massive wave of profits from the recent surge in popularity of "old stuff" in general from many eras, and boy will they happily help any schmuck rid themselves of money. As I overheard one dealer saying to someone in conversation while I was in his shop "Oh don't ever listen to the bullish!t dealers spin to customers about being collectors and enthusiasts themselves, that is utter rubbish, dealers are only in it for one thing... their sole aim is not to generously help you, a fellow enthusiast, find a dream item at a bargain price, it is to tell you what you want to hear and take your money".
Among the items on sale were some very nice pieces but few I would call truely amazing... I would imagine any true gems go quickly to rich collectors and spend little time with dealers. One chap did have a nine barrel volley rifle that was the subject of much attention as they are pretty rare. He was asking £37,000 for it. I didn't bother to talk to the specialist Japanese sword dealers as those are of course worth moonbeams now. There were plenty of other bits for upwards of £10,000. Many lovely pairs of cased pistols in the £10k - £20k range... But again, these were not show stopping sets only average ones. I was certainly born rather a bit too late to be interested in this sort of thing, values across the board have soared in recent years. Guys who have been collecting since the 80s and 90s are now getting very rich off parting with their investment.
My personal items of envy from the show (ok I wanted most of the stuff at the show, but there are a couple of bits I certainly want in particular) were considerably cheaper than those mentioned above but dearer than I need to be considering. Funnily both were from the impressive stocks of West Street Antiques who we visited in Dorking. And as already alluded to, if you want that sort of stuff you need to find it in places like auctions, not pay obscene markups to dealers. The West Street guy was nice enough and good to chat to, but they trade off their name as a very well known and established dealer... If rich folks want to buy from them for peace of mind etc then good on them, but I am not paying them double what something is worth for that privilege. The hard part of course is finding that stuff before the dealers do.
I wandered back to the train and was again most proud of myself for managing to get THREE trains and tubes across town to Angel... Albeit with detailed instructions from my helper. Angel is, by the way, an area, not a person or indeed celestial being. Once reunited with my lovely we looked at more stalls and antique shops and vintage stuff. There was some good stuff, a lot of rubbish. Basically people will try to sell you any bit of stuff older than about ten years now and try to claim it is a classic vintage something somehow. We ended up looking for late lunch and finding Byrons which is a burger chain of unknown origins but their food was super good... Current special a Korean theme with Kimcheese burger and loaded fries and spicy Korean chicken wings etc... Washed down with a Salted Caramel and Bourbon shake... Great stuff.
From here we headed to Bond St where there was a half-hearted attempt by my lovely to find some shoes in aforementioned big stores for a special event...we eventually gave up and wandered Soho, visiting the pub George Orwell used to drink at, The Dog and Duck, and finding an amazing butchery selling ultra-high end cured meats including little cardboard cones of cubed offcuts. In this age of idiotic food trends and PCness it was heart warming to see a mother treating her kid to a cone of cubed meat. We got some too, it was awesome. Being Saturday, and I think World Record Day or something, the area was heaving with trendy people and there was a street party underway a couple of blocks over, so we found a quiet Vietnamese restaurant with a spare table for tea, and it was good. From there, various rail lines back to Croydon. Job done.
Yes that does say £25 per 100gm
How is Scroobius Pip
... Not on the list? Good grief I have been listening to him since 2006 or something
Actually has a bunch of the Obscure Musical Reference list dropped off at some point? It looks shorter than it should be for some reason....
Actually has a bunch of the Obscure Musical Reference list dropped off at some point? It looks shorter than it should be for some reason....
So back to the recap
Easter weekend was Cornwall and the lovely town of Falmouth which I mostly covered off last trip. A nice spot with some of the best weather in this part of the world. Quite a long way from most places but then that is part of the charm. Seaside and sunshine. What's not to like.
There is an ad for Icelandic yoghurt on TV. As you do. Also the subject of much conversation, shows called 'Peter Kay's Car Share' and 'Line of Duty' which are big things here currently. And baking shows of course. I see by funny conincidence that Mark Lanegan has a new album out tomorrow or next day, very well reviewed. Currently have a strong hankering for some Tom Waits who is eternally genius. And Tricky, I have not listened to Tricky in ages. I have not heard any good music since being here, haven't found a good radio station in our travels. I am not sure why I still occasionally click on YouTube links that they seem to think are somehow relevant to the music I like... I just wasted most of the time I was going to use to write stuff trawling through bad music. The Internet was and sometimes still is a great way for new artists to get their music out there, but by goodness you have to wade through a load of rubbish to find it. I got so caught up I forgot who I was going to Obscure Reference. So try some Flying Lotus, he is well talented. Personally I ended up listening to Minor Threat but that is not going to appeal to everyone out there. And I find Straight Edge people unbearably self important, elitist and ironically conformist, just like the people they claim to hate... Funny that.
If none of that made sense to you then ignore it and read on.
As mentioned we headed north on Tuesday the 18th and found some ancestors and nosed around house and church yard. Should really have thought to get in touch in advance and see if we could better look around the place but didn't know when or if we would get there. Church was unlocked so that was good, had a look inside.
Drove around looking at places the forebears would have kicked around and farmed and possibly visited. We ended up in the village of Rock, which is not something you get to say often... I thought the name would have an intriguing story behind it. It didn't really. 'Rock' is apparently derived from 'Oak' so I expect at some stage there was a tree of significance in the area. English: does not always make sense. In Rock we stayed with family, spending a lovely evening with grandparents-in-law and dinner at another very old pub. Next day via more family visiting we returned to Chichester... The day after that to Croydon via Dorking, while there we ate lunch in a cafe that was once the house of one of the original passengers on the Mayflower... He was a shoe salesman and apparently fairly well respected part of the community, and he moved out and took his wife and two kids over to America with the founding fathers, for business rather than religious reasons... Bit of a go-getter he was... Off to make his fortune etc. They all died fairly quickly thereafter, except his young daughter who grew up to be the ancestor of many famous US offspring. So happy ending for some of them I suppose.
Once in Croydon Thursday evening we quickly decided not to be in Croydon any more and jumped a train into town and revisited one of the rather good pubs in Borough Market for a couple of Guinness and cider, enjoying good people-watching in the busy after work drinking crowd before a rather nice seafood feed at one of the surrounding restaurants. As much as all my new family-in-law are exceedingly lovely and kind to us it was nice to have an evening together to catch up given it was now a fair while since I left home.
We hit the Tower of London Friday to avoid weekend crowds and while busy, it was not too bad given it was also school holidays. Another impressive and ancient place with the oldest bits also nearing 1000 years old. I was most jealous of their collection of shiny stuff including not one or two but forty heavy cavalry swords casually on display in a wall rack along with, obviously, many other things both expected and not... Like a 400 year old set of samurai armour good as the day it was made, which was presented to the King of the time by the Japanese ruler.
The Crown Jewels were of course every bit as impressive as you would expect. We ended with a tour by a Beefeater, the traditional Tower guards, all of whom are retired military personnel who must have at least 22years of exemplary service before possibly being lucky enough to be allowed to live and work in the Tower complex. Our guide clearly missed his calling as a comedian/actor when he went to the armed forces because his whole tour was extremely well delivered with many interesting anecdotes and had the large crowd laughing from beginning to end... Although from the overheard comments of the various Americans they were obviously somewhat taken aback by his blunt and sarcasm-heavy delivery. Which of course made it even better.
The Tower took a full afternoon even with a "short" 30 min queue for the Jewels (apparently 3-4 hours is not unheard of on a busy day), these things are worth doing properly. Looking for a handy place for a feed we found a popular Greek restaurant on the banks of the Thames, where we ordered a range of Greek specialties which were all delicious, and a bottle of a popular Greek wine which proved a good lesson on why to stick to Greek food and get your wine from elsewhere. Hilariously (?) we also found ourselves seated at a prime table directly in front of a Greek duo playing traditional tunes on guitar and mandolin (?) with a drum machine accompanying, meaning we had to yell almost our entire dinner conversation and effectively eliminating what little hearing I had remaining in my left ear. The staff clapped and whooped and dragged groups of women up to dance in circles to the tune from Lock Stock (Zorba?).. They were all very enthusiastic and the old man played his ornately inlaid mandolin with great skill, which was cool to watch, although would have been better to hear from about 50m further away. But the food was good enough to make it tolerable. We retired by tube and train to Croydon and sleep
There is an ad for Icelandic yoghurt on TV. As you do. Also the subject of much conversation, shows called 'Peter Kay's Car Share' and 'Line of Duty' which are big things here currently. And baking shows of course. I see by funny conincidence that Mark Lanegan has a new album out tomorrow or next day, very well reviewed. Currently have a strong hankering for some Tom Waits who is eternally genius. And Tricky, I have not listened to Tricky in ages. I have not heard any good music since being here, haven't found a good radio station in our travels. I am not sure why I still occasionally click on YouTube links that they seem to think are somehow relevant to the music I like... I just wasted most of the time I was going to use to write stuff trawling through bad music. The Internet was and sometimes still is a great way for new artists to get their music out there, but by goodness you have to wade through a load of rubbish to find it. I got so caught up I forgot who I was going to Obscure Reference. So try some Flying Lotus, he is well talented. Personally I ended up listening to Minor Threat but that is not going to appeal to everyone out there. And I find Straight Edge people unbearably self important, elitist and ironically conformist, just like the people they claim to hate... Funny that.
If none of that made sense to you then ignore it and read on.
As mentioned we headed north on Tuesday the 18th and found some ancestors and nosed around house and church yard. Should really have thought to get in touch in advance and see if we could better look around the place but didn't know when or if we would get there. Church was unlocked so that was good, had a look inside.
Drove around looking at places the forebears would have kicked around and farmed and possibly visited. We ended up in the village of Rock, which is not something you get to say often... I thought the name would have an intriguing story behind it. It didn't really. 'Rock' is apparently derived from 'Oak' so I expect at some stage there was a tree of significance in the area. English: does not always make sense. In Rock we stayed with family, spending a lovely evening with grandparents-in-law and dinner at another very old pub. Next day via more family visiting we returned to Chichester... The day after that to Croydon via Dorking, while there we ate lunch in a cafe that was once the house of one of the original passengers on the Mayflower... He was a shoe salesman and apparently fairly well respected part of the community, and he moved out and took his wife and two kids over to America with the founding fathers, for business rather than religious reasons... Bit of a go-getter he was... Off to make his fortune etc. They all died fairly quickly thereafter, except his young daughter who grew up to be the ancestor of many famous US offspring. So happy ending for some of them I suppose.
Dorking. Why not.
Once in Croydon Thursday evening we quickly decided not to be in Croydon any more and jumped a train into town and revisited one of the rather good pubs in Borough Market for a couple of Guinness and cider, enjoying good people-watching in the busy after work drinking crowd before a rather nice seafood feed at one of the surrounding restaurants. As much as all my new family-in-law are exceedingly lovely and kind to us it was nice to have an evening together to catch up given it was now a fair while since I left home.
We hit the Tower of London Friday to avoid weekend crowds and while busy, it was not too bad given it was also school holidays. Another impressive and ancient place with the oldest bits also nearing 1000 years old. I was most jealous of their collection of shiny stuff including not one or two but forty heavy cavalry swords casually on display in a wall rack along with, obviously, many other things both expected and not... Like a 400 year old set of samurai armour good as the day it was made, which was presented to the King of the time by the Japanese ruler.
Armour and swords and armour and swords and...
The Crown Jewels were of course every bit as impressive as you would expect. We ended with a tour by a Beefeater, the traditional Tower guards, all of whom are retired military personnel who must have at least 22years of exemplary service before possibly being lucky enough to be allowed to live and work in the Tower complex. Our guide clearly missed his calling as a comedian/actor when he went to the armed forces because his whole tour was extremely well delivered with many interesting anecdotes and had the large crowd laughing from beginning to end... Although from the overheard comments of the various Americans they were obviously somewhat taken aback by his blunt and sarcasm-heavy delivery. Which of course made it even better.
Much other old stuff also
The Tower took a full afternoon even with a "short" 30 min queue for the Jewels (apparently 3-4 hours is not unheard of on a busy day), these things are worth doing properly. Looking for a handy place for a feed we found a popular Greek restaurant on the banks of the Thames, where we ordered a range of Greek specialties which were all delicious, and a bottle of a popular Greek wine which proved a good lesson on why to stick to Greek food and get your wine from elsewhere. Hilariously (?) we also found ourselves seated at a prime table directly in front of a Greek duo playing traditional tunes on guitar and mandolin (?) with a drum machine accompanying, meaning we had to yell almost our entire dinner conversation and effectively eliminating what little hearing I had remaining in my left ear. The staff clapped and whooped and dragged groups of women up to dance in circles to the tune from Lock Stock (Zorba?).. They were all very enthusiastic and the old man played his ornately inlaid mandolin with great skill, which was cool to watch, although would have been better to hear from about 50m further away. But the food was good enough to make it tolerable. We retired by tube and train to Croydon and sleep
Wednesday, April 26, 2017
ANZAC Day London Part Deux... That's two. Yes, there is another one, below this one.
Mid morning we caught the tube one hop to Westminster and the houses of power. There was a ceremony described as a short wreath laying and open public remembrance at St Pauls which we elected to forgo due to timings. We found strong coffee and made our way to Whitehall where they were closing the entire main street to all traffic. Full credit to London, they don't do it by halves. Detector dogs and armed Police were prominent. We had tickets to the ceremony and wreath laying at the Cenotaph but timings were tight and we decided to watch from the barriers for a while. The queue to get in grew to the length of the street.
Timings were fairly tight to get the large crowd to Westminster Abbey and through security after the ceremony here, so having already done one wreath laying we decided to head there early.
Timings were fairly tight to get the large crowd to Westminster Abbey and through security after the ceremony here, so having already done one wreath laying we decided to head there early.
Security at Westminster was tighter again. Bag searches, metal detectors. Invite only (note anyone can apply online for pleb admission and if you are lucky you might be invited to attend) and showing passports. Many cops. We debated seating as the place was at that point mostly empty and picked a spot in the middle somewhere, unsure of where everything happened. For reference if anyone wants to go, most of it happens up the fancy end where only dignitaries and royals and important church folk go. If you get a seat where you can see up the aisle you might see some of it. But it's all on speakers and all the flash people walk up the middle to get to and from, so you see them, and the wreath laying on the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, etc. Little known fact, every Royal bride who marries in Westminster Abbey, which is all the important ones, pauses as she arrives to lay her wedding bouquet on his tomb, which is in the floor at the main entrance, and all who enter must walk around. Kate was the last to do it, meaning a future Queen of England once again bequeathed her matrimonial flowers to the unknown lad lying there eternally at rest. Nice touch that. Well done you.
The ceremony was proper, undoubtedly one of the best of any ceremony I have been to for anything anywhere, and I have been to some. They closed the whole Abbey for most of the day, one of London's most pivotal tourist attractions and icons. We saw many a disgruntled tourist whining to security outside the cordon. Good job. Well done you. Being inside a 1000 year old church for a major and very special ceremony complete with The Duke of York, the Lord Mayor of London etc was really quite a thing. The huge pipe organ boomed. Fanfare Trumpters in red coat and bearskin played from high up in the soaring ceiling. You know when a military unit has a name like The Coldstream Guards that they probably didn't have it soft back in the day. The choir sang. Without a word of a lie the first time the choir started a brilliant shaft of sunlight came down through the huge stained glass window behind us and illuminated the crowd. I guess after my low key and largely solitary time in France and Belgium this was a welcome piece of fittingly dramatic and large-scale massed commemoration.
There was some of the usual talk of unity and peace and reconciliation of all the participants which was fine, a flag bearer carried the Turkish flag in with the others. But there was also a lot of talk of the ties that bind the Commonwealth and the Allied forces and of common faith and history and the need for a future where likeminded countries stand up for their own, not just some hazy ideal of everyone holding hands and tolerance and letting people do what they want. This was even, and most eloquently, from the Dean of the Cathedral, aka Boss Church Guy, who said in uncertain times remembering such things was most important. It was good. The Turkish Ambassador read the famous quote attributed to Ataturk when he said that the mothers of boys who died at Gallipoli need cry no more, for now they were also sons of Turkey, which I always find very moving. Children read prayers, there were Bible readings, hymns were sung. Proper.
Not sure what more to tell you, if you hadn't noticed I was pretty positive about the whole thing. After I shook the Dean's hand on the way out and thanked him for the proceedings we had a beer for all the boys at The Westminster Arms, a little pub of note just over the way, a place of historic politicking and intrigue.
We grabbed some lunch back in Mayfair while picking up baggage and then gapped it via tube & train back to Croydon, where we shivved some people for dissing us and checked in with our posse.
No, we packed up and escaped London via the kind taxi services of future Dad in Law, back to Chichester for yummy tea and some couch time. We were very sleepy. So ended ANZAC 2017 and many thanks to all the Aussies and Kiwis and Brits who made it possible, and indeed closed down a major bit of central London for it. Well done you. Proper.
We grabbed some lunch back in Mayfair while picking up baggage and then gapped it via tube & train back to Croydon, where we shivved some people for dissing us and checked in with our posse.
No, we packed up and escaped London via the kind taxi services of future Dad in Law, back to Chichester for yummy tea and some couch time. We were very sleepy. So ended ANZAC 2017 and many thanks to all the Aussies and Kiwis and Brits who made it possible, and indeed closed down a major bit of central London for it. Well done you. Proper.
More catching up details and filling in later, but first...
... Given the extent and scope of my history investigatings in my travels so far, it felt only fitting to attend a ceremony on the way through, and we timed our stay in London to fit with the ANZAC Day commemorations for NZ and Australian servicemen and women.... Which was today. Messing with the chronology again. Back in London here. More on the recent past to come in the future.
My tour guide/travel companion/life companion/lovely better third arranged for us a hotel in the central city, a cheap one I was reliably informed, as tubing and training at 4am was apparently too much to consider.
Spoiler alert - I don't think it was cheap, and tubing apprently wasn't too much to consider for some thousands of other people. But more on that later. Monday 24th we dropped the rental Pug back to the rental car people at a depot near Croydon, the chap seemed impressed we had put close to 1000 miles on it in 9 or so days... which is not that much really when you think about it. Tramming back to the train station we made our way into the Mayfair/Oxford St area... Yes, I know... And there did some shopping, or attempted shopping, at some department stores. Buying female gloves in Spring is apparently just impossible. Especially in sizes like mine. Haaaa... Jokes. Once that was done we dropped bag off at 'cheap hotel'... How a hotel made up of only eight fully equipped apartments can afford to employ two full time front desk staff I am not sure but... I guess cheap labour from Europe, etc. They could only afford very old furniture.
From there we wandered...
I can confirm there are more Rolls Royces in those square blocks than you will find anywhere else in the known world. Apart from at a dealership. Which was also in those square blocks. We sat at a lovely and rather fancy (funnily) pub on a corner opposite James Purdy And Sons Ltd and amused ourselves watching various professional drivers trying to navigate the narrow lanes in new and huge and customised Rollers mixed among and vs large building contractor trucks and the local poor in massive new Mercedes and Range Rovers.
We looked down our noses at the aspirational middle classes in their new Bentleys. Some of which they drove themselves. A shame. Sad the way they struggle.
For those who will ask, no I did not go in to Purdey, maybe another time when I am more suitably dressed for it. For those who don't know, Purdey make guns. They have been making guns a while. Not a lot, but they seem good at the ones they do. They don't really have many in stock, you have to go in for a fitting, or several. Then they make you one. Specifically hand tailored. Some are upwards of £150,000. And that's just the new ones. If you like you can also order a new Range Rover custom fitted by Purdey to carry your guns. You get the gist.
I soon tired of more clothes searching and high priced over crowded department stores that think they are restaurants and night clubs. I did succeed in demonstrating to Dearest why suits pose a problem for me, in any price range. Literally nothing fitted in all the stores we went to, cheap or posh. Only a couple of jackets even fitted over my shoulders. Pretentious and overly groomed fitting assistants one after another rolled their eyes and walked away with "No we don't stock those sizes". One suggested I stop exercising altogether until something fits. Helpful. To cheer myself I headed to Grays Antique Centre nearby and found a mind blowing selection of amazing things that I could afford none of, but wanted many of. Not the boring stuff obviously, mostly the military stuff and a few nice booze-holding vessels. And silverware. The endless jewellery stores greatly impressed my companion when she turned up, still gloveless, and chilly and also sick of the crowds, being a non-shopper too. But with a new bag. And some other stuff. She was glad to find no ring anywhere like hers. So was I, lest it turn out cheaper than her one. I walked from there empty handed also. Probably a good thing.
For dinner we found a Byrons, in need of a "cheap" simple feed... Spoiler alert, I will at some point be singing the praises of Byrons Burgers and their Korean Kimcheese burger and their hard shakes. We went three times in London. But only ate there twice. Long story. And drive. But then you realise a burger dinner that costs £45 is not actually a cheap meal. It's not even a cheap pair of shoes. We stopped for a beer at The Shepherd's on the chilly walk home, as it didn't have a dress code like some of the local pubs (no, really, in this part of London, the pubs have dress codes). And we didn't expect the doormen at the many, many nameless signless Private Members Clubs (the old rich kind, not the nude lady kind) we passed to let us in. I really didn't need a beer with a belly stuffed with burger, but it seemed the thing to do.
Sleep was short lived, a shame as I needed some for a change. We layered up. Rain was predicted. It was not warm. Miss had on three pairs to tights and pants. Six layers on top. Not happy. But we got outside at around 0430hrs to clear skies and were most grateful. We wandered over to the NZ And Australia memorial area and the words "I don't really think the crowd will be huge, how many people can the be?" from my companion the previous day rang in our ears. It was packed. A lot of the queue didn't make it into the fenced enclosure due to security checks. Not something you would ever complain about. Unless you area simple minded cretin. We stood up the back, which was fine.
The ceremony was nice, I will say... the Duke of York turned up. An Australian senator blathered on in not really great English (serious, I have no idea where the guy was from) mostly about Australians. It was well attended, unfortunately there were a lot of Brits who seemed to find the whole thing a bit of a curiosity. Good on them for coming though I suppose. But a lot of Antipodeans also came which was good. There were a couple of nice readings written by WW1 soldiers, mention of the centenary of Passchendaele this year. The Coldstream Guards band played some fine tunes. On the whole I guess it was nice to see a lot of people and some time honoured tradition but it felt a bit.. I dunno.. Just different I guess. There didn't seem to be the feeling to it you get at some commemoration ceremonies. Maybe it was just me. The fact half the crowd couldn't see much probably didn't help. Moral of story: turn up earlier.
We retired to the hotel at six, sadly unable to find beer or rum coffee as is the required tradition. It well cold. About zero or thereabouts. It took a fair while to warm up. End of part one.
My tour guide/travel companion/life companion/lovely better third arranged for us a hotel in the central city, a cheap one I was reliably informed, as tubing and training at 4am was apparently too much to consider.
Spoiler alert - I don't think it was cheap, and tubing apprently wasn't too much to consider for some thousands of other people. But more on that later. Monday 24th we dropped the rental Pug back to the rental car people at a depot near Croydon, the chap seemed impressed we had put close to 1000 miles on it in 9 or so days... which is not that much really when you think about it. Tramming back to the train station we made our way into the Mayfair/Oxford St area... Yes, I know... And there did some shopping, or attempted shopping, at some department stores. Buying female gloves in Spring is apparently just impossible. Especially in sizes like mine. Haaaa... Jokes. Once that was done we dropped bag off at 'cheap hotel'... How a hotel made up of only eight fully equipped apartments can afford to employ two full time front desk staff I am not sure but... I guess cheap labour from Europe, etc. They could only afford very old furniture.
From there we wandered...
Paid our respects at Bomber Command Memorial in our travels
I can confirm there are more Rolls Royces in those square blocks than you will find anywhere else in the known world. Apart from at a dealership. Which was also in those square blocks. We sat at a lovely and rather fancy (funnily) pub on a corner opposite James Purdy And Sons Ltd and amused ourselves watching various professional drivers trying to navigate the narrow lanes in new and huge and customised Rollers mixed among and vs large building contractor trucks and the local poor in massive new Mercedes and Range Rovers.
Genius
We looked down our noses at the aspirational middle classes in their new Bentleys. Some of which they drove themselves. A shame. Sad the way they struggle.
Purdey: Also handily stock all your essential falconry accessories
For those who will ask, no I did not go in to Purdey, maybe another time when I am more suitably dressed for it. For those who don't know, Purdey make guns. They have been making guns a while. Not a lot, but they seem good at the ones they do. They don't really have many in stock, you have to go in for a fitting, or several. Then they make you one. Specifically hand tailored. Some are upwards of £150,000. And that's just the new ones. If you like you can also order a new Range Rover custom fitted by Purdey to carry your guns. You get the gist.
I soon tired of more clothes searching and high priced over crowded department stores that think they are restaurants and night clubs. I did succeed in demonstrating to Dearest why suits pose a problem for me, in any price range. Literally nothing fitted in all the stores we went to, cheap or posh. Only a couple of jackets even fitted over my shoulders. Pretentious and overly groomed fitting assistants one after another rolled their eyes and walked away with "No we don't stock those sizes". One suggested I stop exercising altogether until something fits. Helpful. To cheer myself I headed to Grays Antique Centre nearby and found a mind blowing selection of amazing things that I could afford none of, but wanted many of. Not the boring stuff obviously, mostly the military stuff and a few nice booze-holding vessels. And silverware. The endless jewellery stores greatly impressed my companion when she turned up, still gloveless, and chilly and also sick of the crowds, being a non-shopper too. But with a new bag. And some other stuff. She was glad to find no ring anywhere like hers. So was I, lest it turn out cheaper than her one. I walked from there empty handed also. Probably a good thing.
For dinner we found a Byrons, in need of a "cheap" simple feed... Spoiler alert, I will at some point be singing the praises of Byrons Burgers and their Korean Kimcheese burger and their hard shakes. We went three times in London. But only ate there twice. Long story. And drive. But then you realise a burger dinner that costs £45 is not actually a cheap meal. It's not even a cheap pair of shoes. We stopped for a beer at The Shepherd's on the chilly walk home, as it didn't have a dress code like some of the local pubs (no, really, in this part of London, the pubs have dress codes). And we didn't expect the doormen at the many, many nameless signless Private Members Clubs (the old rich kind, not the nude lady kind) we passed to let us in. I really didn't need a beer with a belly stuffed with burger, but it seemed the thing to do.
Sleep was short lived, a shame as I needed some for a change. We layered up. Rain was predicted. It was not warm. Miss had on three pairs to tights and pants. Six layers on top. Not happy. But we got outside at around 0430hrs to clear skies and were most grateful. We wandered over to the NZ And Australia memorial area and the words "I don't really think the crowd will be huge, how many people can the be?" from my companion the previous day rang in our ears. It was packed. A lot of the queue didn't make it into the fenced enclosure due to security checks. Not something you would ever complain about. Unless you area simple minded cretin. We stood up the back, which was fine.
The ceremony was nice, I will say... the Duke of York turned up. An Australian senator blathered on in not really great English (serious, I have no idea where the guy was from) mostly about Australians. It was well attended, unfortunately there were a lot of Brits who seemed to find the whole thing a bit of a curiosity. Good on them for coming though I suppose. But a lot of Antipodeans also came which was good. There were a couple of nice readings written by WW1 soldiers, mention of the centenary of Passchendaele this year. The Coldstream Guards band played some fine tunes. On the whole I guess it was nice to see a lot of people and some time honoured tradition but it felt a bit.. I dunno.. Just different I guess. There didn't seem to be the feeling to it you get at some commemoration ceremonies. Maybe it was just me. The fact half the crowd couldn't see much probably didn't help. Moral of story: turn up earlier.
We retired to the hotel at six, sadly unable to find beer or rum coffee as is the required tradition. It well cold. About zero or thereabouts. It took a fair while to warm up. End of part one.
Tuesday, April 25, 2017
I'm back... Online that is. Quick recap...
still in the land of Blighty though and stopping in for a quick update with you folk but running low on battery. Old episode of X Files on the telly, great stuff. Since arrival from Frogland have been busy busy, getting around and about, catching up with folks... Much to update on. A quick synopsis, more details to follow:
Chichester is lovely, very nice little spot. Great church. Old. Just down the road from Goodwood no less, drove past there a couple of times. Spend a nice day in Arundel and had a good look around the castle there. Nice castle. Castle people have nice stuff. Also had a good catch up with the U.K. family, including super cute new nephew.
My glamorous travel companion and I picked up a rental vehicle from Portsmouth, this time a black diesel thing as is the fashion here. A Peugot 2008 I believe, in manual. Also a wretched, terrible excuse for a motor vehicle, even with only 1000 miles on the clock. Prices similarly extortionate to Europe, especially with the full insurance cover, which we have learned is painful but sometimes worth it. Having signed away more of our few remaining dollars we headed off to the Deep South again. Being Cornwall.
It was by now the Saturday of Easter Weekend and the weather was nice, despite forecasts, but the traffic was not. We got there in the end, via a variety of winding a-roads (what they call two-way roads here), about four hundred roundabouts (what they have here instead of intersections, and indeed, often for no apparent reason at all), a variety of motorways, and some more super satnav diversions down dead end roads and to blocked on ramps. Once there we met with adorable nephew and uk family again and spent a few nice days undertaking such wildly popular uk activities as walking around outdoors. Which was nice, as after a couple of fairly full on weeks, I realised this was the first time I had actually stopped for a relax. I was even tasked with bbq duties for a gathering of Cornwallians.
Leaving Cornwall we headed north (via the delightfully named and lovely old town of Dorking, and its many great old-stuff shops) for some more family business of a different kind and finally on the second attempt located the family home of one branch of my ancestry, having been thwarted the last time around by a road closure way out in the English countryside... Only to realise that the dead-end we turned back at last time was only in fact about 30m around a corner from the house itself. Near the house we also located a small church, and in that yard a variety of family graves including that of my great great great grandparents... Quite a thing really. The house itself was occupied, but nobody was home when I knocked. Fair to say the place has probably seen better days, but was nonetheless a large and lovely old building.
That night we were most pleasantly hosted by my future grandparents-in-law in their lovely two-hundred-something year old farm cottage. Everything here is older than everything anywhere else. The pub down the road where we had tea was older again, held up by wonky misshapen beams. I realised with some concern that I am in fact getting used to this flat British traditional ale malarkey... It's not all bad... Although it still needs to be in the fridge. At least blessed Guinness is everywhere.
On the road the next day via a visit to other lovely future grandmother-in-law we clocked up a bunch more miles heading down to south London and set up for a few days at future father in laws currently unoccupied flat in Croydon, where we had to first kill a few local drug dealers to stake our claim on the patch. Actually it's not as bad as everyone here seems to make out, and is, importantly, close to the train to London central. We then went full tourist and did the Tower of London which took the best part of a day and involved an excessive number of photos of armour and swords. There was also a bit of shopping, a lot of pubs, the Borough Markets which are becoming a favourite spot of mine, and quite a lot of looking at antiques, including the London Antique Arms Fair, which was both awesome and depressing...
So that's almost up to where we are at, and more on many of those things in better detail with more complaining and pointing out of things that annoy me will follow. Also I think I got some things in the wrong order. We will fix that later. Battery is on the way out and I have to get up soon. As always, to be continued.
Chichester is lovely, very nice little spot. Great church. Old. Just down the road from Goodwood no less, drove past there a couple of times. Spend a nice day in Arundel and had a good look around the castle there. Nice castle. Castle people have nice stuff. Also had a good catch up with the U.K. family, including super cute new nephew.
My glamorous travel companion and I picked up a rental vehicle from Portsmouth, this time a black diesel thing as is the fashion here. A Peugot 2008 I believe, in manual. Also a wretched, terrible excuse for a motor vehicle, even with only 1000 miles on the clock. Prices similarly extortionate to Europe, especially with the full insurance cover, which we have learned is painful but sometimes worth it. Having signed away more of our few remaining dollars we headed off to the Deep South again. Being Cornwall.
It was by now the Saturday of Easter Weekend and the weather was nice, despite forecasts, but the traffic was not. We got there in the end, via a variety of winding a-roads (what they call two-way roads here), about four hundred roundabouts (what they have here instead of intersections, and indeed, often for no apparent reason at all), a variety of motorways, and some more super satnav diversions down dead end roads and to blocked on ramps. Once there we met with adorable nephew and uk family again and spent a few nice days undertaking such wildly popular uk activities as walking around outdoors. Which was nice, as after a couple of fairly full on weeks, I realised this was the first time I had actually stopped for a relax. I was even tasked with bbq duties for a gathering of Cornwallians.
Leaving Cornwall we headed north (via the delightfully named and lovely old town of Dorking, and its many great old-stuff shops) for some more family business of a different kind and finally on the second attempt located the family home of one branch of my ancestry, having been thwarted the last time around by a road closure way out in the English countryside... Only to realise that the dead-end we turned back at last time was only in fact about 30m around a corner from the house itself. Near the house we also located a small church, and in that yard a variety of family graves including that of my great great great grandparents... Quite a thing really. The house itself was occupied, but nobody was home when I knocked. Fair to say the place has probably seen better days, but was nonetheless a large and lovely old building.
That night we were most pleasantly hosted by my future grandparents-in-law in their lovely two-hundred-something year old farm cottage. Everything here is older than everything anywhere else. The pub down the road where we had tea was older again, held up by wonky misshapen beams. I realised with some concern that I am in fact getting used to this flat British traditional ale malarkey... It's not all bad... Although it still needs to be in the fridge. At least blessed Guinness is everywhere.
On the road the next day via a visit to other lovely future grandmother-in-law we clocked up a bunch more miles heading down to south London and set up for a few days at future father in laws currently unoccupied flat in Croydon, where we had to first kill a few local drug dealers to stake our claim on the patch. Actually it's not as bad as everyone here seems to make out, and is, importantly, close to the train to London central. We then went full tourist and did the Tower of London which took the best part of a day and involved an excessive number of photos of armour and swords. There was also a bit of shopping, a lot of pubs, the Borough Markets which are becoming a favourite spot of mine, and quite a lot of looking at antiques, including the London Antique Arms Fair, which was both awesome and depressing...
So that's almost up to where we are at, and more on many of those things in better detail with more complaining and pointing out of things that annoy me will follow. Also I think I got some things in the wrong order. We will fix that later. Battery is on the way out and I have to get up soon. As always, to be continued.
Thursday, April 20, 2017
You don't make friends with words and no pictures
I realise this. I blame Steve Jobs entirely. Pictures will have to come a bit later. Bear with me, I have plenty. I just have to get them on here. Also still no email, text if you like, or just comment here.
Black Moth Super Rainbow... Is a band believe it or not. One of the guys in it also makes music under the name Tobacco. Not to everyone's taste but some of you will like it.
clipping. is also a band, they too are good. The lead vocalist is a talented chap called Daveed Diggs who was actually on 60 Minutes recently, he is also a Grammy and Tony Award winner for his role in the hugely successful musical 'Hamilton'. Diverse.
Should probably sleep now. Off the grid for a couple o days again tomorrow, doing stuff in't UK. More soon.
Black Moth Super Rainbow... Is a band believe it or not. One of the guys in it also makes music under the name Tobacco. Not to everyone's taste but some of you will like it.
clipping. is also a band, they too are good. The lead vocalist is a talented chap called Daveed Diggs who was actually on 60 Minutes recently, he is also a Grammy and Tony Award winner for his role in the hugely successful musical 'Hamilton'. Diverse.
Should probably sleep now. Off the grid for a couple o days again tomorrow, doing stuff in't UK. More soon.
One last day of historical antics in Europe
And thankfully Monday saw the number of people in Ypres mercifully reduced. I made my way around the few final sites I intended to get to - Messines Ridge, Armentieres and, hidden a long walk into another forest, Plugstreet - mindful that there is a lot more that I could do but deciding to save it for another time, when I can do it properly.
After nine days of non stop history-ing and some quite significant moments I was, it is fair to say, in need of a bit of a break. I even decided to forgo the Flanders Fields museum in the middle of Ypres, conscious that there were still crowds of Canadians everywhere. Knowing that there will be many things I want to come back to, this initial foray was only ever intended to be as an introduction and getting the lay of the land.
I did, in the mid afternoon, decide to call it a day on the WW1 front and retire for a dash of culture, with the crowds thinned I made my way back to the lovely Ypres town square and got myself a nice outdoor table at a pub/restaurant ('The Trumpet' I believe) and had a couple more large lagers, and picked a nice Flemish Stew from the menu (well experienced in local culture you see)... The waitress then of course informed me that their kitchen did not reopen until 5pm. This despite the fact that the place was still thronging with tourists everywhere, and that the neighbouring restaurants who were serving food were full almost to capacity inside and out, while the ones who were not had almost no customers. Europe... Naturally I moved next door, sat down, ordered a Flemish Stew and a beer, and had them within a few minutes. And I will happily say the stew was very good. But with chips. Again. Always with the flipping chips.
The morning of the 11th saw me rise with, unsurprisingly, no clear plan of attack but a good-enough idea of what I needed to do and how I was going to do it. Maybe. Sort of. Which is always the best way to travel. I turned my wagon westward and kicked its futuristically asthmatic powerplant up to full noise, aiming for a coastal town called De Panne, for no other reason but that it seemed to be a place to go. The drive was pretty quick and easy, I got there and found a nice enough looking seaside town full of as-yet empty summer apartments and the usual beachside attractions. From there I headed down the coast to Dunkirk, just because you obviously should call at Dunkirk if you are near there, and followed my nose to the famous beaches where the mass Allied evacuation took place. Standing on the beaches of Dunkirk is another one of those personal travel milestones for me. It was good.
Dunkirk seemed nice, and obviously like much of the region had a massive amount of history on offer for exploring, with signs and billboards up for various WW2 attractions. I coincidentally parked near one of these attractions, advertised as having significant importance with many major exhibits. Naturally some Canadians were arriving to see it. Naturally, it was closed.
For those mentioning my lack of Obscure Music References I apologise and will work to make up for it. Currently playing on my B&Ws is a very good band called Castanets who have been around for a long time making good tunes with little fanfare. Their track 'You Are The Blood' was covered/sampled by both Buck 65 and Sufjan Stevens on a charity compilation album with awesome results, highly recommend listening in that order... Castanets version then Buck 65 then Sufjan.
From Dunkirk it was further off down the coast to Calais, most recently famous for The Jungle immigrant camp, now a bare site with high fences. I was glad I wasn't heading the other way on the motorway as a broken truck in one lane had caused a tail-back of about 3km. I did my lap of the town to find the train station and then wound my way out of the centre to the gas station rental car drop-off point and unloaded my kit. I took a final look at the grubby Toyota and with a complete absence of affection turned and left it behind. I can usually find some quirky redeeming feature, or at least some kind of flawed charm, to any car. But if that is the future you can keep it.
With my pack on my back and my camera bag on my front I headed off toward town again. It was warm and I got a bit of a sweat up in the 1.8 or something km. From what the internet had told me... yes, that old chestnut... there would be shuttle buses running to the port from the train. I passed the bus stop on the way but found nothing there indicating ferry shuttles. The train station up the road, past an extremely impressive hotel with clock tower, was fairly dead apart from a bunch of French police vans (ever-present these days) and a few dodgy looking taxi drivers.
A backpacker-looking girl busked for nobody in the sunshine. I stopped and downed packs to dry out a bit. No shuttles came. There was nobody to really ask. I consulted a city map outside. There was nothing about passenger ferries, but the car ferry port was about 1.5km away. Conscious of time of day and how far I had to go, I memorised the route and set off again. Along the way I went through the cafe area and the promise of cold beer taunted me constantly. I marched on.
I saw more signs for the car ferry along the way. The closer I got to where the port facility was supposed to be the less pedestrian friendly it looked. The nagging feeling that perhaps the passenger terminal was nowhere near the vehicle kept popping up. Was it in a different area? Was it a whole different ferry?? Was I going to turn up to find you in fact had to buy tickets and catch a shuttle from in town somewhere? I passed the area where The Jungle had been, now ringed with high fences, beyond which there were more and higher fences, topped with generous coils of razor wire. Security pretty serious there now... It was hot. I sweated. I noted my boots were not great for walking, not that they were meant to be. I hoped I could find a person somewhere, maybe even find a taxi back to town if I needed to given the time was getting on. I worried slightly that I was going to wind all the way down the fenced lanes to find the footpath endeing and a security gate in my way. Eventually I found a steep ramp leading up to an overpass into the massive port that said 'Pedestrians'... Which was more promising than anything else I had seen. Although the whole place still seemed like I was walking into a forgotten backlot in a post apocalyptic industrial POW camp.
In the end there is a reason why trusting my gut is usually the right way to go, across. The walkway and down the ramp I found a very civilised foot-passenger check-in area where a nice lady sold me a ticket on a P&O ferry leaving shortly. After about 15 minutes the assembled foot passengers were loaded onto a bus and taken across to another building to clear customs, French departures and UK arrivals. They all seemed happy enough with us, and we were loaded back bus. We pulled up alongside the ferry ahead of a couple of coaches of ... Canadian school kids... And rushed to get up the winding ramp structure and onto the boat before them. The ferry was slightly more upmarket than the one on the way over. The bar was annoyingly closed, no so much because I wanted a drink but because I had learned on the previous trip that it is the best place to get away from the hoards of families and kids. Before long, once the coaches and cars on the vehicles decks had emptied out, the ferry was swamped with Canadians again. Such is life. I got a beer, sorry should say 'I got a terrible warm British ale' and some bad sandwiches from the food court and went out on the rear deck to watch France disappear. It was at touch sad to go, again, it did feel like leaving something behind. But a lot had been discovered. And I was travelling again, and making it up as I went, which is the best bit, so I was looking forward. Well, after I finished looking back, at France.
On the other side it took an age to disembark, I think due to an issue with the passenger bridge. eventually buses came onto the vehicle decks and transported us to the passenger terminal. Some more UK border folks eyed us up and picked a few people to talk to, mostly about cigarettes. I clearly looked non threatening. From there it was out the door and freedom. A couple of taxis waited to take people into Dover. I decided to walk. It was hot, I sweated, pubs taunted me. I resisted. I followed my nose to the train station and a nice chap sold me some train tickets to where I needed to go...four tickets for four trains no less. It was 4pm. Some yob in his 20's wearing a tracksuit argued with the station officials who said his ticket wasn't valid. He appeared to be on a substance of some sort. His incoherent, toothless, grubby little companion, old enough to be his dad, clutched a bottle of some sort of blue liquid. When my train finally came they got on and en route had a long discussion with the ticket man, because apparently the transit police were waiting for them at the other end. In the end he decided their ticket was ok. Apparently according to friend in tracksuit "Yeah dats wha I told them fellas but they jus likes to harass me like". Indeed.
I made my three connections and took all my four trains in four hours and thought I did pretty well. I was greeted by friendly faces at the other end at around 2030hrs. Job done. Thus ended Europe, now back for more of the U.K. Fear not though, I will have some more thoughts to share on France and Belgium before we are done with this one.
Messines village from the launching point of the Allied attack, NZ Memorial left of centre
The ruins of the church at Messines, as painted by Adolf Hitler, who was treated and stayed in the basement while a young soldier in WW1
Messines Church today. Creepy Hitler connections. No good coffee nearby though.
I did, in the mid afternoon, decide to call it a day on the WW1 front and retire for a dash of culture, with the crowds thinned I made my way back to the lovely Ypres town square and got myself a nice outdoor table at a pub/restaurant ('The Trumpet' I believe) and had a couple more large lagers, and picked a nice Flemish Stew from the menu (well experienced in local culture you see)... The waitress then of course informed me that their kitchen did not reopen until 5pm. This despite the fact that the place was still thronging with tourists everywhere, and that the neighbouring restaurants who were serving food were full almost to capacity inside and out, while the ones who were not had almost no customers. Europe... Naturally I moved next door, sat down, ordered a Flemish Stew and a beer, and had them within a few minutes. And I will happily say the stew was very good. But with chips. Again. Always with the flipping chips.
The morning of the 11th saw me rise with, unsurprisingly, no clear plan of attack but a good-enough idea of what I needed to do and how I was going to do it. Maybe. Sort of. Which is always the best way to travel. I turned my wagon westward and kicked its futuristically asthmatic powerplant up to full noise, aiming for a coastal town called De Panne, for no other reason but that it seemed to be a place to go. The drive was pretty quick and easy, I got there and found a nice enough looking seaside town full of as-yet empty summer apartments and the usual beachside attractions. From there I headed down the coast to Dunkirk, just because you obviously should call at Dunkirk if you are near there, and followed my nose to the famous beaches where the mass Allied evacuation took place. Standing on the beaches of Dunkirk is another one of those personal travel milestones for me. It was good.
Dunkirk seemed nice, and obviously like much of the region had a massive amount of history on offer for exploring, with signs and billboards up for various WW2 attractions. I coincidentally parked near one of these attractions, advertised as having significant importance with many major exhibits. Naturally some Canadians were arriving to see it. Naturally, it was closed.
For those mentioning my lack of Obscure Music References I apologise and will work to make up for it. Currently playing on my B&Ws is a very good band called Castanets who have been around for a long time making good tunes with little fanfare. Their track 'You Are The Blood' was covered/sampled by both Buck 65 and Sufjan Stevens on a charity compilation album with awesome results, highly recommend listening in that order... Castanets version then Buck 65 then Sufjan.
From Dunkirk it was further off down the coast to Calais, most recently famous for The Jungle immigrant camp, now a bare site with high fences. I was glad I wasn't heading the other way on the motorway as a broken truck in one lane had caused a tail-back of about 3km. I did my lap of the town to find the train station and then wound my way out of the centre to the gas station rental car drop-off point and unloaded my kit. I took a final look at the grubby Toyota and with a complete absence of affection turned and left it behind. I can usually find some quirky redeeming feature, or at least some kind of flawed charm, to any car. But if that is the future you can keep it.
With my pack on my back and my camera bag on my front I headed off toward town again. It was warm and I got a bit of a sweat up in the 1.8 or something km. From what the internet had told me... yes, that old chestnut... there would be shuttle buses running to the port from the train. I passed the bus stop on the way but found nothing there indicating ferry shuttles. The train station up the road, past an extremely impressive hotel with clock tower, was fairly dead apart from a bunch of French police vans (ever-present these days) and a few dodgy looking taxi drivers.
I saw more signs for the car ferry along the way. The closer I got to where the port facility was supposed to be the less pedestrian friendly it looked. The nagging feeling that perhaps the passenger terminal was nowhere near the vehicle kept popping up. Was it in a different area? Was it a whole different ferry?? Was I going to turn up to find you in fact had to buy tickets and catch a shuttle from in town somewhere? I passed the area where The Jungle had been, now ringed with high fences, beyond which there were more and higher fences, topped with generous coils of razor wire. Security pretty serious there now... It was hot. I sweated. I noted my boots were not great for walking, not that they were meant to be. I hoped I could find a person somewhere, maybe even find a taxi back to town if I needed to given the time was getting on. I worried slightly that I was going to wind all the way down the fenced lanes to find the footpath endeing and a security gate in my way. Eventually I found a steep ramp leading up to an overpass into the massive port that said 'Pedestrians'... Which was more promising than anything else I had seen. Although the whole place still seemed like I was walking into a forgotten backlot in a post apocalyptic industrial POW camp.
In the end there is a reason why trusting my gut is usually the right way to go, across. The walkway and down the ramp I found a very civilised foot-passenger check-in area where a nice lady sold me a ticket on a P&O ferry leaving shortly. After about 15 minutes the assembled foot passengers were loaded onto a bus and taken across to another building to clear customs, French departures and UK arrivals. They all seemed happy enough with us, and we were loaded back bus. We pulled up alongside the ferry ahead of a couple of coaches of ... Canadian school kids... And rushed to get up the winding ramp structure and onto the boat before them. The ferry was slightly more upmarket than the one on the way over. The bar was annoyingly closed, no so much because I wanted a drink but because I had learned on the previous trip that it is the best place to get away from the hoards of families and kids. Before long, once the coaches and cars on the vehicles decks had emptied out, the ferry was swamped with Canadians again. Such is life. I got a beer, sorry should say 'I got a terrible warm British ale' and some bad sandwiches from the food court and went out on the rear deck to watch France disappear. It was at touch sad to go, again, it did feel like leaving something behind. But a lot had been discovered. And I was travelling again, and making it up as I went, which is the best bit, so I was looking forward. Well, after I finished looking back, at France.
Finally a view of the famous cliffs. Through filthy windows.
On the other side it took an age to disembark, I think due to an issue with the passenger bridge. eventually buses came onto the vehicle decks and transported us to the passenger terminal. Some more UK border folks eyed us up and picked a few people to talk to, mostly about cigarettes. I clearly looked non threatening. From there it was out the door and freedom. A couple of taxis waited to take people into Dover. I decided to walk. It was hot, I sweated, pubs taunted me. I resisted. I followed my nose to the train station and a nice chap sold me some train tickets to where I needed to go...four tickets for four trains no less. It was 4pm. Some yob in his 20's wearing a tracksuit argued with the station officials who said his ticket wasn't valid. He appeared to be on a substance of some sort. His incoherent, toothless, grubby little companion, old enough to be his dad, clutched a bottle of some sort of blue liquid. When my train finally came they got on and en route had a long discussion with the ticket man, because apparently the transit police were waiting for them at the other end. In the end he decided their ticket was ok. Apparently according to friend in tracksuit "Yeah dats wha I told them fellas but they jus likes to harass me like". Indeed.
I made my three connections and took all my four trains in four hours and thought I did pretty well. I was greeted by friendly faces at the other end at around 2030hrs. Job done. Thus ended Europe, now back for more of the U.K. Fear not though, I will have some more thoughts to share on France and Belgium before we are done with this one.
Monday, April 17, 2017
Sometimes I even surprise myself
Re where I can sleep, and how well. It was by no means a warm or a comfortable night, but I woke up again at dawn and didn't feel too bad for it. I guess I have done a lot worse. Once again, all things considered, I was hardly going to complain.
I cracked on and made my way around some key points in the area I wanted to look at. Which again involved finding some random and seemingly unremarkable spots in the local farmland. As always there is nothing quite like being on the ground in those spots to see what they saw and understand how it all worked and why. Someone asked if I had thought about describing more around the places I visited and what actually happened there but I don't really want to turn this into a history lecture at this point, I can only really encourage people to pick up some of the recent and really good books that have come out for the WW1 centenary and actually take the time to learn a little, in memory of the amazing things these young boys did.
I ended up at the Passchendaele museum which was in a lovely little spot in a park, and worth the trip, as in fact was the Somme museum in Albert. At this one they have some nice exhibits as well as a very good reproduction of a British bunker and trench system that you can walk through.
The irony of reading about the valour of the Belgians in driving the Germans out of their country, with a little help from some friends, was not lost. I recall a story I have heard a couple of times of an Allied officer arriving at the front lines in Belgium and telling the Belgian officer in command that he was here to help him hold the line... The Belgian officer was indignant, and told him in no uncertain terms that he was a servant of the Belgian King and he had been tasked with defending Belgium, and he and his Valiant Belgian soldiers would protect their country without any help from some British interlopers... The British officer shrugged and went back and got his men set up in their sector next door and though little of the Belgian's arrogance. When he got up the next morning he went back to find the Belgian to coordinate their activity but found his bunker empty... In fact he couldn't even find a subordinate to ask where he was. Or anyone. He asked one of his own men on sentry duty where the Belgians had gone and was told the officer and his entire unit had packed up and disappeared overnight. They never saw them again, and were left to hold the line themselves. Obviously I am sure this does not reflect the behavior of all the Belgian troops though.
From the museum I went to the adjacent cafe where they told me the kitchen didn't open till noon (what the hell, Europe???) but did manage to make me a semi decent coffee, or two in fact, which were much needed and most enjoyed, sitting in the sun by a lake.
From there is was on to Polygon Wood and a variety of other Allied sites in the vicinity with a bunch more walking, photo taking, history reading, and a bit more kicking around in paddocks.
Finally by mid afternoon it was time to check into my hotel room and stop imitating a homeless person, so I headed back to Best Western where a room was now available and waiting for me... Ah the luxury... Shower and nap. On a bed even. The downside of course being that by sleeping in the car I was saving essentially €100 a night, which is not inconsiderable. But I did need that shower. Suitably refreshed I headed back into the heaving mass of people in the city.
With the sunny restaurants in the square packed out I managed to find a little bar just around a corner where I could get a couple of generous handles of some nondescript Belgian lager... Jupiler I think. I wandered the square a bit and got some photos, looked in some shops packed with uber tacky WW1 souvenirs... Poppies printed on every brand of merchandise you can think of, lots of things featuring Britah soldiers.
The guy at the hotel had suggested I get to Menin gate at least 45 minutes early to get a decent spot under the arch for a view of the nightly proceedings, but given the crowds I decided to make it earlier. I went and got some shots of the really super impressive monument, which is a massive archway spanning the main road where the bridge crosses over the ancient moat, engraved with the names of many thousands of British and Commonwealth troops who died in battle in the area. I got a good spot against the cordon ropes in the middle of the arch just as the crowds began to build.
On cue just before 8pm a voice told us to please pay due respect and not clap the performers as this was a memorial service not a show... Gah. Shortly thereafter a visiting Canadian pipe band cranked up and marched past through the arch, stopping at the town end. As always the wail of pipes stirred something very deep inside.. The sound as it echoed and reverbed under the archway was something superb.
With the pipers in place at one end, a lone piper played another tune, and then three Belgian buglers in dress uniform with swords marched into the other end of the arch, halted, and proceeded to play the Last Post, as they do every night to honour the liberators of their town. It was quite a thing. The cry of the bugles filled the giant arch with a bittersweet lament that seemed to suddenly almost drain the air from the lungs of the massed crowd, and before the sound faded there was many an undry eye. The emotion of the moment I think caught many people off guard. Once the buglers had done their thing they marched off and the pipers cranked back up and followed them. I turned to the Canadian chap who was wiping tears from his face and we shook hands and wished each other good travels.
Conscious of having to drive and already being a couple of beers down I went back to the car and proceeded to drive around fruitlessly looking for a place to get takeaways - also not a thing you can do easily in Belgium apparently. No McD's here folks. GPS lady told me there was, of all things, a Chinese takeaway on the outskirts. I figured hey, why not, Belgian Chinese. When I got there it wasn't even a Chinese restaurant. It wasn't even a restaurant. Reluctant to give up, realising I had only had two actual meals in three days supplemented by one sandwich and some Pringles, I drove back through town and found a pizza place on a side street. The Turkish bloke who ran the place talked about Gallipoli in broken English. I noted he gave the (probably eleven year old) kid before me a free bottle of wine for ordering three pizzas. I asked if they sold takeaway wine.. Initially he said no because he thought I was asking if I got a free bottle with my one pizza.. Eventually he understood and said "Yes, of course you can take! Is a restaurant!!!"... Bless you Belgium. I retired to my hotel victorious with pizza and red wine. It was good.
Belgian dawn: Chilly
I cracked on and made my way around some key points in the area I wanted to look at. Which again involved finding some random and seemingly unremarkable spots in the local farmland. As always there is nothing quite like being on the ground in those spots to see what they saw and understand how it all worked and why. Someone asked if I had thought about describing more around the places I visited and what actually happened there but I don't really want to turn this into a history lecture at this point, I can only really encourage people to pick up some of the recent and really good books that have come out for the WW1 centenary and actually take the time to learn a little, in memory of the amazing things these young boys did.
The Great War as its worst - the mire of Passchendaele
I ended up at the Passchendaele museum which was in a lovely little spot in a park, and worth the trip, as in fact was the Somme museum in Albert. At this one they have some nice exhibits as well as a very good reproduction of a British bunker and trench system that you can walk through.
Gas - one of the terrible legacies of the WW1 battlefield
German Krupp howitzer
The irony of reading about the valour of the Belgians in driving the Germans out of their country, with a little help from some friends, was not lost. I recall a story I have heard a couple of times of an Allied officer arriving at the front lines in Belgium and telling the Belgian officer in command that he was here to help him hold the line... The Belgian officer was indignant, and told him in no uncertain terms that he was a servant of the Belgian King and he had been tasked with defending Belgium, and he and his Valiant Belgian soldiers would protect their country without any help from some British interlopers... The British officer shrugged and went back and got his men set up in their sector next door and though little of the Belgian's arrogance. When he got up the next morning he went back to find the Belgian to coordinate their activity but found his bunker empty... In fact he couldn't even find a subordinate to ask where he was. Or anyone. He asked one of his own men on sentry duty where the Belgians had gone and was told the officer and his entire unit had packed up and disappeared overnight. They never saw them again, and were left to hold the line themselves. Obviously I am sure this does not reflect the behavior of all the Belgian troops though.
From the museum I went to the adjacent cafe where they told me the kitchen didn't open till noon (what the hell, Europe???) but did manage to make me a semi decent coffee, or two in fact, which were much needed and most enjoyed, sitting in the sun by a lake.
Polygon Wood - huge Australian obelisk and cemetery visible through trees
Ieper (Ypres) town square
Looking toward Menin Gate from the Square
The guy at the hotel had suggested I get to Menin gate at least 45 minutes early to get a decent spot under the arch for a view of the nightly proceedings, but given the crowds I decided to make it earlier. I went and got some shots of the really super impressive monument, which is a massive archway spanning the main road where the bridge crosses over the ancient moat, engraved with the names of many thousands of British and Commonwealth troops who died in battle in the area. I got a good spot against the cordon ropes in the middle of the arch just as the crowds began to build.
The Gate looking out from the inside the walls. Impressive.
Standing next to me was yet another Canadian guy in his 50s who I assumed was another of the thousands of coach tour customers, but who turned out like me to be travelling solo in a rental car finding things for himself. We had a good yarn as we waited, about history and travel and all manner of things. We stood shoulder to shoulder with an American guy and a couple of guys who were part of a camera crew to block all the usual latecomers to these events who try to push to the front. Before long it was well packed under the arch.On cue just before 8pm a voice told us to please pay due respect and not clap the performers as this was a memorial service not a show... Gah. Shortly thereafter a visiting Canadian pipe band cranked up and marched past through the arch, stopping at the town end. As always the wail of pipes stirred something very deep inside.. The sound as it echoed and reverbed under the archway was something superb.
Conscious of having to drive and already being a couple of beers down I went back to the car and proceeded to drive around fruitlessly looking for a place to get takeaways - also not a thing you can do easily in Belgium apparently. No McD's here folks. GPS lady told me there was, of all things, a Chinese takeaway on the outskirts. I figured hey, why not, Belgian Chinese. When I got there it wasn't even a Chinese restaurant. It wasn't even a restaurant. Reluctant to give up, realising I had only had two actual meals in three days supplemented by one sandwich and some Pringles, I drove back through town and found a pizza place on a side street. The Turkish bloke who ran the place talked about Gallipoli in broken English. I noted he gave the (probably eleven year old) kid before me a free bottle of wine for ordering three pizzas. I asked if they sold takeaway wine.. Initially he said no because he thought I was asking if I got a free bottle with my one pizza.. Eventually he understood and said "Yes, of course you can take! Is a restaurant!!!"... Bless you Belgium. I retired to my hotel victorious with pizza and red wine. It was good.
Saturday, April 15, 2017
Every French radio station is appalling
But I guess that is not unique to France. 99% of radio is appalling. I occasionally scanned through the stations, but I always ended up giving up and turning it off.
Saturday was warm and clear. I set the controls of the starship Aurus for the heart of the sun. Actually I did not... the gps lady, whose existence I had only discovered after leaving Rouen, couldn't navigate her way out of a paper bag, and took me on various tours of one way streets, dead end roads and roundabout exits which did not exist. And already once on the motorway the computerised anti-collision system had made the dashboard flash red and told me to "BRAKE IMMEDIATELY" despite the fact I was driving on a clear motorway with nothing ahead of me. For a minute I assumed the car must be suffering a catastrophic failure of some sort, but after several seconds nothing happened, so I kept going. I love the fact that the collision avoidance system thinks the best way to avert a crash is to try to give you a fright and distract your attention away from the road.
Mobile once again I found the area where I believe my great grandfather and Percy were finally wounded, and I spent some time in the morning walking those fields as the heavy mist gradually shifted off the farmland.
I searched the local villages hoping for a quaint little French cafe to serve me strong coffee and good breakfast, but such a thing doesn't seem to exist. Even the local tourist cafe in one of the popular areas was not even open. I ended up back near the Australian monument near Poziers so took the opportunity to have another kick around in the field we had found a bunch of stuff in on the tour, and it was here I pulled up the rifle I wrote about earlier. I never quite finished that due to iPod meltdown, but yes, it did actually happen, and yes I did think for a minute about trying to get it home... But then I thought "What am I really going to do with a rusty old relic?"... What I did do in the end was take it to the nearby German bunker, which is in a fenced enclosure, and jumped over the fence and put the rifle on top, where people could see it. I guess there it might get a few interested viewers before someone probably nicks it.
Having achieved all I really wanted to on this particular trip to the Somme and lacking a place to get
a decent feed, I set out on the big roads again. Driving away from the area really did feel like I was leaving something behind.
In time for much needed lunch I arrived in Le Quesnoy, a historic village to the north east, boasting impressive fortified walls and moats dating back to something like the year 1100.
The village was occupied by the Germans for almost the entire war until liberated by New Zealanders in their last great action, a week before the end of the conflict. Tasked with taking the seriously fortified village and unwilling to destroy its historic construction or harm trapped locals, the Kiwis stormed the place 12th century style, using stacked hay bales and ladders to clear the ramparts.
Lunch was a ham and cheese baguette. But, I must say, a nice one, with fancy ham and a bit of salad, fresh from a proper bakery. After a stroll around the place I decided to maintain my momentum and got back on the road. In need of a shower and perhaps a slightly more restful evening involving a few quiet beers in a pub and a decent meal and a hotel bed, I decided to head straight across the border to Ypres in Belgium and get myself set up.
Crossing over a border into another country via a main road without anything apart from a sign saying 'Belgium' and a change in speed limit was new to me. I did notice that Belgium did seem a tad more upmarket than northern France and a little more scenic.
Pulling into Ypres I noted yet another Commonwealth cemetary so got out to have a walk through and stretch my legs. While there I noted not one but several good sized tour buses roll past, and I began to suspect that what had been described as a sleepy and peaceful town may be slightly less sleepy than I thought. I realised the error of my assumptions on driving down through the famous and impressive Menin gate, into the town square, which heaved with an absolute mass of humanity... Tourists, tourists, tourists... Everywhere. I did my usual lap of the centre to get my bearings... The bars and a pubs were overflowing, the footpaths spilled people onto the roads... There was a fair with rides down by the river... Families walked everywhere. The car parks were all full. Yes, I had a problem.
I will cut a long story short re the next few hours of my life. Drove to Best Western on outskirts of town. Guy there advised me only one hotel in the area had rooms. Having already driven past it I knew it was a five star boutique outfit. I think not. Drove around multiple nearby towns. No luck. Headed to Passchendale, site of another really famous battle, following a tip from the GPS lady who told me there was a hotel there. It wasn't a hotel. I had a quick beer at a little pub. The locals couldn't help. Decided with dusk approaching to take the opportunity to visit the sizeable Tyne Cot cemetery nearby, built on the site of the German bunkers which defended the occupied town. Another amazing place.
Sunset passed and I headed out 25km to another larger town seeking some more b&b and hotels. Nothing.
It transpired I had arrived on a Belgian holiday weekend, with Ypres being a popular spot to go for such things, also coincidentally on the same weekend 22,000 Canadians had come over to the Western Front for WW1 commemorations of their own. Not good. Tired and resigned to the inevitable I pondered where to park up. Obviously only one place for it. I drove back to Passchendale, to Tyne Cot, to where the boys were. In the deserted car park I layered up my clothes as much as possible, put on my beanie and tilted the seat back.
Saturday was warm and clear. I set the controls of the starship Aurus for the heart of the sun. Actually I did not... the gps lady, whose existence I had only discovered after leaving Rouen, couldn't navigate her way out of a paper bag, and took me on various tours of one way streets, dead end roads and roundabout exits which did not exist. And already once on the motorway the computerised anti-collision system had made the dashboard flash red and told me to "BRAKE IMMEDIATELY" despite the fact I was driving on a clear motorway with nothing ahead of me. For a minute I assumed the car must be suffering a catastrophic failure of some sort, but after several seconds nothing happened, so I kept going. I love the fact that the collision avoidance system thinks the best way to avert a crash is to try to give you a fright and distract your attention away from the road.
Mobile once again I found the area where I believe my great grandfather and Percy were finally wounded, and I spent some time in the morning walking those fields as the heavy mist gradually shifted off the farmland.
Having achieved all I really wanted to on this particular trip to the Somme and lacking a place to get
a decent feed, I set out on the big roads again. Driving away from the area really did feel like I was leaving something behind.
In time for much needed lunch I arrived in Le Quesnoy, a historic village to the north east, boasting impressive fortified walls and moats dating back to something like the year 1100.
The village was occupied by the Germans for almost the entire war until liberated by New Zealanders in their last great action, a week before the end of the conflict. Tasked with taking the seriously fortified village and unwilling to destroy its historic construction or harm trapped locals, the Kiwis stormed the place 12th century style, using stacked hay bales and ladders to clear the ramparts.
Lunch was a ham and cheese baguette. But, I must say, a nice one, with fancy ham and a bit of salad, fresh from a proper bakery. After a stroll around the place I decided to maintain my momentum and got back on the road. In need of a shower and perhaps a slightly more restful evening involving a few quiet beers in a pub and a decent meal and a hotel bed, I decided to head straight across the border to Ypres in Belgium and get myself set up.
Crossing over a border into another country via a main road without anything apart from a sign saying 'Belgium' and a change in speed limit was new to me. I did notice that Belgium did seem a tad more upmarket than northern France and a little more scenic.
Prefer his to my hybrid
Pulling into Ypres I noted yet another Commonwealth cemetary so got out to have a walk through and stretch my legs. While there I noted not one but several good sized tour buses roll past, and I began to suspect that what had been described as a sleepy and peaceful town may be slightly less sleepy than I thought. I realised the error of my assumptions on driving down through the famous and impressive Menin gate, into the town square, which heaved with an absolute mass of humanity... Tourists, tourists, tourists... Everywhere. I did my usual lap of the centre to get my bearings... The bars and a pubs were overflowing, the footpaths spilled people onto the roads... There was a fair with rides down by the river... Families walked everywhere. The car parks were all full. Yes, I had a problem.
I will cut a long story short re the next few hours of my life. Drove to Best Western on outskirts of town. Guy there advised me only one hotel in the area had rooms. Having already driven past it I knew it was a five star boutique outfit. I think not. Drove around multiple nearby towns. No luck. Headed to Passchendale, site of another really famous battle, following a tip from the GPS lady who told me there was a hotel there. It wasn't a hotel. I had a quick beer at a little pub. The locals couldn't help. Decided with dusk approaching to take the opportunity to visit the sizeable Tyne Cot cemetery nearby, built on the site of the German bunkers which defended the occupied town. Another amazing place.
German bunkers still sit among the graves
Looking down over the ground the Allies advanced across, Passchendaele
Sunset passed and I headed out 25km to another larger town seeking some more b&b and hotels. Nothing.
It transpired I had arrived on a Belgian holiday weekend, with Ypres being a popular spot to go for such things, also coincidentally on the same weekend 22,000 Canadians had come over to the Western Front for WW1 commemorations of their own. Not good. Tired and resigned to the inevitable I pondered where to park up. Obviously only one place for it. I drove back to Passchendale, to Tyne Cot, to where the boys were. In the deserted car park I layered up my clothes as much as possible, put on my beanie and tilted the seat back.
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