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.

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.