This heatwave is hardcore, leaving only a small window of a opportunity before it starts becoming unbearable at around 10.00. Last night’s campsite was definitely the worst so far and I was glad to get away by 06.30. This time I am sticking only to the main D roads, which have little to no traffic on them, certainly nothing compared to London. So that’s France Velo Tourisme scrapped, nice idea but not for hardened cycle tourists.
As I rode away, knackered from the lack of sleep the night before, I sent a video message to my friend Helen with whom I had walked some of the Camino de Santiago a couple of years ago. The early morning sunrise always remind me of that trek and I knew she would appreciate it too.
My plan now was to hoof it down to Besançon ASAP and meet up with other cyclists; in the five days or so thus far, I had not seen let alone met one other cycle tourist. Using Google Maps, I headed down a road that started to follow a canal. Conscious of how that would most likely turn into an unpaved track, I retreated and headed straight for Arras. I was aware that I would be cycling through the battlefields of World War I, and indeed had already cycled through Dunkirk, Ypres and the Menin Gate on a previous trip. Still nothing prepares you for the emotional gut punch as increasing numbers of war graves appear en route, some big and some small but all of them immaculately manicured and impeccably maintained.
The further I cycled on towards the town of Béthune, the more I absorbed the surrounding landscape and I began to imagine the horror it had witnessed during those dark years of World War I, the senseless loss of life, including soldiers some as young as 14 or 15 years of age. It was hard to equate the tranquil surroundings in which I found myself with the violent nightmare blackness of that war, in which mud and corpses became indistinguishable, merging to form a foul infested slurry of inhumanity. The drill like hammering of machine gun fire, the explosive crack of mud caked howitzers and field guns dispatching their explosive shells across a countryside denuded of any living thing. The conveyor belt mechanical grinding of the tanks' drivetrains and the pistol-whipping crack as gas shells sliced through the air, clouds of smoke, heavy with the suffocating, metallic, earthy smell of war. I began to see the shadowy forms of solders emerging from the middle distance, not unpleasant, not scary but present.
A short distance south of the village of Souchez I came across a large and beautifully laid out cemetery with the rather odd sounding name of Cabaret Rouge which took its name from a small, red-bricked, red-tiled house of the same name which existed at the time. I got off my bike and entered via the imposing gateway and started walking amongst the graves with their neatly arranged headstones radiating out from a central point, consisting of a raised block of stone with the inscription ‘Their Name Liveth for Evermore’. Skylarks darted overhead and it was so quiet, I could hear the sound of blackbirds with their musical tchup tchup in the trees surrounding the cemetery.
Over 7600 bodies are buried here, more than half of which were unknown. The headstones of these inscribed ‘A Soldier of the Great War’ and in smaller lettering along the bottom, ‘Known unto God’. I found that terrifically moving and sat there for quite some time reflecting on the atrocity of it all. There was a large contingent of Canadian Troops buried here and remains from one of the graves has been removed and placed at the foot of the National War Memorial in Ottawa.
Time was pressing on and the sun was getting stronger by the minute. I decided to stay at a municipal campsite by the village of Plouvain and arrived there around midday. A marked change from last night with large pitches delineated by significant established hedges. I picked a shady spot, laid my flysheet out to dry which only took minutes, blew up my mattress, lay down and had the most powerful of power naps for half an hour. I was exhausted beyond belief.
The campsite felt comfortable with a great manager / owner and a great atmosphere and for the first time in on this trip, I felt at home as soon as I arrived. Once the sun started dying down, I shot off to a local supermarket and bought ingredients for dinner which ended up being some combo of tuna, rice, couscous, tomatoes, onions, pasta, noodles and a bunch of fruit. I bought a Hello Kitty cool bag, but sadly could not find any cool beers to put in it, but the bag looks neat and just what every strapping 6’6” guy needs.
After dinner I went for a spin on the bike around the lakes which surrounded the campsite. Unfortunately the super hot weather and combination of water meant for industrial quantities of mosquitos which no amount of repellent would deter.
On the way home I noticed a group of young Germans who had taken the spot next to mine and I stopped off for a beer and a blackened barbecued sausage with them. Friends from Uni, they were travelling around France and were having a ball. I wonder if I will get to meet any English holidaymakers?
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