Chasing the sunset

I battled the traffic back out and left Rouen riding on the awesome typhoon of power that erupted from under the hood of the Toyota. Which wasn't actually a thing that happened. But I did get the little silver wheezer onto the motorway and wind it up to the speed limit - and if there is one thing I can say that I do like about France, it is a 130kph speed limit. But then the French didn't exactly invent driving fast so I won't give them any credit for that either. Nor will I give them credit for putting toll points on main routes which every vehicle has to stop at... Yes, that's a good way to keep things flowing.

However doing 130-odd clicks (give or take say the usual 10% or thereabouts margin of error) you do cover a decent amount of ground reasonably quickly, and in fairly good time I was back up to the Somme region. Having made reasonable time in the end after expecting the whole day to be written off by travel and activities in Rouen, I decided to forgo immediately finding a place to stay the night (excellent travel choices) and try to beat the sunset out to a spot on the battlefields where I wanted to return for more photographing. Retracing some of the path of the bus in previous days I belted my way through the French countryside back to the area of Longeuval and High Wood and got there as dusk decended on the cemetery.

 After the rush and bustle of trains and daytime in the city and the drive back, the stillness of the French countryside gave me more pause for thought and reflection. The sunset over the wooded horizon was the reddest I have ever seen, and it glowed in the sky for a long time after. Eventually a 3/4 moon rose so bright and clear that it cast dark shadows, and I could still see the colours in some of the flowers among the headstones.

The area around the Somme had been described to me previously as a place where the sheer scale of the terrible events that came to pass there still pervades the landscape itself, where the tragedy of its history hangs so heavy that you can feel it, as if the very soul of the place has been scarred irrevocably. Certainly there is an emptiness to it that you quickly notice, the endless and open crop fields devoid of any livestock, making them seem vast and almost devoid of life. I am not one for talking of ghosts and cheap hysterical spiritualism, I do not claim any connections to any sort of "other realm". But I do believe that you would have to be of pretty narrow mind to claim that there is not more out there than we know or understand. I have been to some places. And some places are not like others.

High Wood on the horizon

By the time I left there it was getting late and I realised my chances of finding a place to stay anywhere nearby in rural France were slim to none. I entertained myself by navigating the narrow country lanes finding a few more villages and spots of interest that I had noted in my research. I eventually found myself back in the vicinity of the NZ Memorial, and the peace and solitude of the monument's location seemed as good a spot as any to stop and get a bit of sleep. I settled down in the Hotel de Toyota to get some rest.

I woke at one stage around 4am and got out to have a stretch. It was cold, well cold. I walked a lap of the monument's grassy surround, shoulders hunched and hands wedged in pockets. I was grateful not to be there with a layer of snow and ice on everything. The moon was still clear and bright. Nothing stirred. Across the field High Wood sat silent, like a black animal hunched on the skyline. I got back in the car to get my head down again

At dawn a thick layer of chilling mist covered the courtyside and reduced visibility to near nothing. It was the magic hour, as the night starts to recede, before the sun rises, when the majority of military attacks take place. Soldiers, prepared under the cover of the night, would smoke last cigarettes or pipes in trenches and wait, nervous and excited, in anticipation of the order to go forward, with emotions ranging from terror to enthusiasm... Most, they have said themselves, just hoping to show themselves to be brave and stand alongside their friends when the moment came. On the other side, sentries would be stood-to after sheltering in bunkers through a long and punishing artillery barrage, straining to see signs of movement as their eyes slowly adjusted. Behind them all, machine gun crews on both sides would set up their weapons and drag forward crate upon crate of ammunition - tens, hundreds of thousands of rounds.

I wandered through the cloud for some time, blind beyond a few dozen metres, until the shadow of High Wood eventually emerged dark ahead of me. Twisted limbs poked up out of the grey. The mist moved among the trees. It was an eerie scene.

I took a few photographs and retreated toward the car, into the brightening sun. Eventually the silhouette of the NZ obelisk appeared through the mist and guided me back. I stood and soaked up the growing warmth and started to make a plan for the day.