Let’s see what I can find to tell you about the rest of our recent trip to Europe and South Africa.
In my last blog, we were about to head to The Somme and Villers Bretonneux.
We had been staying in an apartment on The Right Bank – the twelfth arrondissement for three days, enduring the uncommon (for Paris) heat wave. We had been to the train station the day before to make sure we knew something of the workings of the massive system. The trouble was, they only put the platform you need up on the giant screen a half an hour before the train departs. It can take a half an hour to get to your platform. But we made it.
After twenty minutes though, we had to change trains for the rest of our journey – four hours north. We were now at Gare du Nord – Paris’s main station.
This station is just vast. We had booked our seat on this train before we left Australia, and now had about forty minutes to find the platform we needed. It was simply overwhelming, and despite the two of us being pretty savvy people, we could not find our way to where we were supposed to be. Help and information were scarce. We’d find someone with a little English who would get us a little further along, but not all the way. Finally, we found our platform but had missed the train by a minute.
So to get to Villers Bretonneux where we had a B&B booked for three nights, we had to establish a new route which would involve another change of trains at a station about an hour from Villers.
To find the platform for this new trip was the next challenge. Again we managed to get help in spurts. Finally someone said ‘Your platform is over there.’
By now we had about two minutes to catch that train. There was no escalator or lift in sight and so Leigh grabbed my case (17 kgs) and with his 15 kgs of luggage in his other hand, said ‘Follow me,’ and strode at a pace for a flight of about 24 steps. With adrenalin induced super-human strength, he bounded down those steps with cases high enough not to touch the steps!
It was such a relief to be on that air-conditioned train – the two of us gradually winding down for the next four hours, as beautiful French countryside flashed by – at three hundred kilometers an hour.
After our next simple change of trains in the town of Amiens, we had only an hour of travel before we could enjoy a cold beer in the lovely accommodation we had booked. At four in the afternoon we arrived at the beautiful village of Villers Bretonneux. Out with the old faithful Google Maps to find we had a two kilometer walk to our B&B.
Our host Christophe greeted us warmly. We were hot and dry and so very ready for some cool comfort. The first thing our host said as he opened the door to our room was – ‘Sorry, no air-conditioning.’ I let out an audible groan. He went on to explain that the nights at that time of year were cool and if we opened all the windows when we went to bed, the place would stay cool for most of the next day. He was right.
Christophe lived in the house next door with his daughter, and was quick to tell us that he was growing a ‘food forest’ in the long lush yard behind our accommodation. ‘I can show you, when you’re ready,’ he said – slowly – apologizing and explaining that he was learning English from his daughter who was going to university. The next evening he gave us a guided tour – his joyful enthusiasm more than obvious. He had every fruit tree imaginable, bushes of berries, beds of vegetables, chooks right down the back but free-ranging through the day. There was a lovely energy of life and things growing in the environment we’d be enjoying for the next three days.
So on arrival, we realised we weren’t going to be able to just pop around the corner and buy our beers. It was a kilometer’s walk into town. So we rested. The heat and train stations had taken their toll. We were exhausted, and we slept.
When we woke, we opened a window and sure enough, a lovely cool breeze.
Restaurants were not prolific in the town. We found one that seemed the best – maybe a 15 minute walk.
As we walked, we got a feeling for the town. It was old, it was quiet – much quieter than my home town of Tanunda. Leigh had wanted to visit this town for decades. We both have a deep empathy for victims of war. This town, or the area – The Somme – was invaded by the German army during WW1. The allied forces, including our Anzacs, travelled there to resist and drive them back, which they accomplished, after a five month horrendous battle, and loss of thousands of young lives.
We visited the Franco-Australien museum in town and then the huge cemetery and memorial to those who fell – from where they televise world-wide their Anzac Day Service each year.
Christophe, our host, offered to drive us out to the memorial on our second day. He asked if we’d be okay to walk back. We would, we told him.
The morning was pleasantly cool but the day forecast to be hot again. We drove the four kilometers through rolling green and gold paddocks – some crops ready for harvest and some still ripening. The farmland spread as far as the eye could see.
At 9am we got out of Christophe’s car and walked uphill to the vast cemetery. We were the first ones there, apart from a girl on a ride-on mower keeping the site immaculate – a lonely solitary figure amongst the thousands of stones of remembrance.
As we walked along the rows we were silent and almost overwhelmingly saddened at the names and epitaphs of the young men who had fallen in the fields around there, and at the thought of how they had endured so much – the deaths of their mates and brothers, the cold, the wet, the mud, the hunger, the stench. We have both always had a deep empathy for the victims of war – all wars – not only for those who lose their lives, but their families and loved ones, and the survivors who will have emotional and psychological scars for their entire lives – as a result of the decisions and edicts of politicians and generals. We were there to pay our respects to all who suffer this way.
The French here still have a love and respect for Aussies, because of our dear boys who helped save their region from occupation in 1916.
We spent three hours in the amazing underground museum – The Sir John Monash Centre that was built in 2018.
We had lunch in the lovely restaurant within the Centre. Studying the menu again after we had ordered, I came across a novelty item – Toasted Cheese and Vegemite sandwich. I had packed a very small jar of vegemite to take with me on the trip and had inadvertently put it in my cabin luggage. Sadly it was confiscated before we left Australia. I was, by now, craving Vegemite on toast for breakfast. I went up to a lovely lady who was serving there and asked if she could make me a toasted vegemite sandwich to take away. I told her how my jar had been seized. She came out of the kitchen with two slices of buttered toast, wrapped in brown paper, and a small pot of vegemite which I had for breakfast in our room next morning. Toast and Vegemite had never tasted so good.
When we had finished at the Australian National Memorial, we emerged into the light of day. It was hot – about thirty five degrees – middle of the day. We looked at the road we were going to have to walk, back into town – no shade, four kilometers. Leigh said ‘Let’s see if we can hitch a ride.’ I wasn’t keen on that, but neither was I on the walking. Just then a little car came out from behind the museum. Leigh stepped out in front of it. The lady driver stopped (had to, or run us over!). Leigh asked if she was going back into town. She was, and offered us the lift we were hoping for. Her accent was French but she spoke English well. She had a male passenger in front, and a large, surly teenager taking up half the seat in the back. We hadn’t been in the car long when the male in front (her husband) turned and said ‘Which part of Australia are you from?’ We smiled at his quick pick up on our accents, and then realised that he was Aussie too. They all lived in Canberra. I apologised to the son who was not impressed with having to share his seat, shoulder to shoulder with two strangers. ‘That’s ok,’ he mumbled as he shifted and wriggled to get away from us.
We were thankful for the kindness of many people in France.
I have run out of time with so much more to tell, so will try to complete the story in my next blog – maybe in a couple of weeks. South Africa to talk about next.
Our trip was an amazing adventure, but it’s always good to come home. There is so much to love about Australia.
We’ve been back two weeks and on Sunday, our lovely little poets’ group gathered again at Barossa Deutsche winery. As the seven of us sat in comfy chairs around the fire, sipping a fruity Barossa Deutsche Shiraz, we read our poems and chewed the fat about what had given birth to each of the works. In this way, we are getting to know each other on quite a personal level. Lovely people, each one.
Until the South Africa leg, cheers for now,
Sue
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