Somehow still seems odd...

Being in France... Don't ask me why, I guess I always knew I would get here sometime, and yet it's not somewhere I ever really pictured being.

Obviously I recently crossed the great oceans and that trip was long, so very long, and painful, but then I think about why I am here and those who came before me and I remind myself just to shut up and not even think about complaining about my first-world 21st century whinges of airline food and rubbish seats that don't fit me. Or all of my technology issues and the fact my email doesn't know who I am and won't talk to me because I am not in the right part of the world.

To get here I have done planes and buses and a short ride on a big boat. To get here my forefathers had to take a long, long boat ride. Or two. And some trains. And also stopped off for a time at Gallipoli.

So I am on my tour, and tours are not something I have done before, or wanted to do, or expected to enjoy, and for the predictable reasons I am still not sold on them... but for the time I have and for the sake of learning as much as I can in that time, I decided to bite the bullet and spend half my time here on a tour bus. So far it has been ok, the folk on the bus are nice and the guide knows a great deal. I spent some enjoyable time over a beer with some of the group this evening listening to three of them share tales of their time in the RAF in the 70s and 80s. It should set me up well for future trips.

I would regale you with stories of the day, the queues for the ferry, and of the disdain of the French waitress when she learned I did not speak Froggish, but right now the clock says it is 1am and my body and brain really have no idea what the time is... Tomorrow is the first day proper of another very real pilgrimage for me and I go into it with fascination but also with a heavy heart. While the history is intriguing the reality of it is almost too much to take in. Standing on the railing of a ferry in Dover today and watching the White Cliffs recede into fog was something of a moment, thinking about the ones who have sailed away from 'Mother England' toward France over those same waters.

Note fun dirt spot on my camera sensor I only noticed later.

It is bizarre to think that even before we head out tomorrow to look at memorials and battle sites and monuments, this very hotel I am sitting in, in a motorway service centre next to a gas station and some sketchy chain cafes, is probably built on a spot where men fought and died... For this is a place where every square metre of the gently rolling landscape is probably one of those places.

Best I get some sleep I think. I assume by the time I wake up the French government will have drafted some kind of surrender letter and had it delivered to my room. My first order will be that they should learn to make beer. Addyoo!!