I have been to the Somme twice before - both a passing-through and without a very close look.
The Somme is a department and a river. The countryside is
rural and very easy on the eye without being spectacular – gently rolling hills
with crests of dense copses while wooded valleys hide lazy rivers and small
lakes. There are small huddles of farms every few miles along quiet
roads but very little in the way cafes or shops between the bigger towns – Pas de Cafe you might say. (Pays de Calais is the neighbouring department).
Spring and Autumn are a good
times to visit as the caravans have gone leaving the scenic back roads empty. The very pleasant cycling country obviously belies the
events of a century ago – well, not quite. We found that late September maybe a particularly good time to visit for another reason – depending on what you might want to
find in them thar rolling hills.
After some intermediate-level research I am still unable to
establish whether the Battle of the Somme refers to the river or department.
The Battle of the Somme is not one battle but the collective name for several
that began with the Battle of Albert, itself a collection of actions, at 7.30am
on 1st July 1916. Albert it a few miles north of the Somme on the
Ancre, on the banks of which many battles ensued. The huge Lutyens memorial in
Thiepval overlooks the Ancre valley and remembers all those missing in the various battles of
the Somme.
My interest was in the Battle of Albert as my grandfather
was in the Royal Warwickshires. His battalion, in the
end, had the dubious distinction of being the first ‘over the top’ at zero hour
on 1st July. I’d found a map
of the battalion’s intended plan of attack on that day among his possessions and
so I decided to cycle to the fields over which he would have run on that clear,
sunny morning.
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| Dieppe Ferry Terminal - last source of caffeine for three hours |
Newhaven to Dieppe
This is an effort. The overnight ferry leaves Newhaven at 11pm or, occasionally, 00.30am and arrives four hours later. After the usual routine of settling down with a couple of hard earned Grolshs, this mere snippet of the space-time continuum allows for about an hour’s kip before ultra cool, 50’s New York jazz oozes out over the Tannoy an hour before arrival. At this time of year the sun reluctantly gets out of bed at about 7.45am, leaving three hours of night-riding.
Off peak train from London Victoria booked in advance £5.00 each. Ferry £28.00 at DFDS.
To Albert
The Avenue Verte was busy with several groups of well-lit cyclists setting off from the cyclepath's start in the car park at Arques-La-Bataille, a few miles inland from Dieppe along the D1. It was very cold and I would advise glovage and tightage and even some tootsies coverage too keep out the very damp chill. Not used to night riding in the pitch black, my flashing, Christmas cracker city-street lights that I packed were not up to the job. N had it covered with a humongous beam snitched from a North Sea lightship, probably, that you could see from the moon, probably. As we trundled through another sleepy, unstirred village a burst of trucks breached the silence as France began to wake.
After an hour or so we left the Avenue Verte and took to the hills at Mesnieres-en-Bray. A lengthy incline was partly camouflaged by the dark and we reached the top in no time, ignorance-is-bliss style. Over the plateau, eerie car lights drifted silently across the blackness ahead of us until a hint of grey heralded dawn near Lucy. This is a magical time – blankets of mists lying over valleys through which a church might poke its spire; a weak orange wash over the lush green plays with perspective. Magical except that there was still no change in the numb-nuts département.
After a brief coffee stop in Vieux Rouen sur Bresle, we crossed from Seine Maritime into Somme over the river of the same name at Saint Savuer. The going had been hilly ups and downs from the Avenue Verte but now the creases in the topography smoothed out to gentle hills. There were plenty of very quiet backroads that dissected broad fields of maize and beet or those that had been freshly turned.
various pleasantries en route...
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| more freshly turned fields |
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| dix-neuf up, dix-neuf down |
Avoiding Amiens cost ten miles. But for its huge cathedral and ‘old’ quarter it is not a pleasant city. We entered the mid-afternoon graveyard shift where the energy saps, the eyelids get heavy and the miles just seem stretch and expand as if we were in some strange out of body experience. The scenery also seems to take the afternoon off too as it becomes washed out and duller. Thoughts wander. ‘Did I leave the gas on?’ But, as we neared Albert, the familiar white-trimmed, dark green signage of the British and Commonwealth War Grave Commission appeared. The cemeteries of WW1 popped randomly and more frequently the closer we got to the town.
Once in Albert, after 98 miles, N disrupted the routine that I had honed over several decades, probably, of control-freak pedantry; a routine hewn out of the tough rides over hill and down dale, Alp, bendy bit and such; after arriving in desolate bleakness with no more than a thimble full of liquid and a half-eaten Tracker bar; of bathing in water the colour of kerosene; of performing my toilette over a roughly dug hole. Yes, N disrupted the routine wrought from the tough rides of yesteryear: he suggested a pint. After huffing and puffing about trying to put up a tent when intoxicated, I was confronted by a rather nice Affligem and sat at a table in a rather pleasant afternoon sun to enjoy it.
After resuming the routine – including the usual pasta con coction – we enjoyed, if that was the word, the inns of Albert and more Affligem. Many British tour groups settle overnight in Albert during their battlefield tours.
Albert got a pasting during WW1 - its crumbling church being an iconic image. That has been restored and its gold-plated dome glistens above the town square - which houses the subterranean Albert Museum – a poorer and less tecchy version of the equivalent in Ypres. It is full of all kinds of unusual bric-a-brac and the gruesome.
Serre Road
In the dank, misty morning we cycled up the Ancre river. We took a right to climb up to Thiepval where visited the huge Lutyens memorial to the Battle(s) of the Somme. Many of my grandfather’s regiment were listed as dead. An English tour bus from Halifax complete with brass band performed a ceremony by the memorial. There is also a small but good museum/shop at the entrance. The Ancre was a focal point of action at this time and its banks are littered with cemeteries.
In the dank, misty morning we cycled up the Ancre river. We took a right to climb up to Thiepval where visited the huge Lutyens memorial to the Battle(s) of the Somme. Many of my grandfather’s regiment were listed as dead. An English tour bus from Halifax complete with brass band performed a ceremony by the memorial. There is also a small but good museum/shop at the entrance. The Ancre was a focal point of action at this time and its banks are littered with cemeteries.
Rising up from Ancre valley, on a plateau opposite Thiepval, we took an unmarked road towards Serre. Once again we meandered through maize and beet and fields of freshly turned, clayey earth, the smell of damp soil floating on a light breeze. I was getting a little breathless with anticipation as we approached the battlefield over which my grandfather and his friends would have run. I was contemplating the contrast between the tranquillity of now with the horrors of then – a familiar and uncomfortable juxtaposition – when N, as if pointing out a nice looking cafe, said, ‘I think we just passed a bomb at the side of the road.’
I screeched to halt, if that is possible on a touring bike, turned and cycled back to find N standing by a rusting, mottled and very live shell, a foot high, propped up beside the field of freshly turned earth. Further back we saw another.
As I ran down to the second I passed another relic revealed by the plough – a human tibia or fibula - lying on clods of earth. Late September is the time to visit the Somme if you are prepared for what a ploughed field might reveal.
Yet further on we found another shell. These relics threw me a bit - especially the bone - and the fields suddenly took on a gruesome and evil aspect.
A mile or so on we arrived at what I figured to be the line of attack of my grandfather’s regiment. Their mission was to run nearly two miles to capture Serre and we were standing on that route.
We eventually continued to the Serre Rd to visit the numerous cemeteries – particularly Serre Rd No. 2 Cemetery where I located the graves of some of the fallen of the Royal Warwickshire battalions. These were the graves of men who may or may not have known my grandfather and may or may not have been scythed down by machine gun while he ran for his life a few yards away. An English tour bus was parked up, its passengers slowly walking the soft, lush grass between the rows of headstones as they looked for relatives.
We headed off towards Sailly au Bois to pick up the headwaters of the L’Authie. The 14 miles to Doullens took us through seemingly ancient rural communities – or perhaps communes. Rusty tractors retired to dilapidated outbuildings surrounding dung encrusted farmyards but, more importantly, there were no darn cafes. We’d not caught a whiff of roasted Columbian beans all morning, not even the narcotic aroma of freshly baked pain au chocolate in the 30 miles since the campsite. The cemeteries became fewer but not before we’d passed the Euston Road cemetery well behind the British frontline.
We discussed why the bodies of men had remained in France. There were the cemeteries at the scene of the action that killed the men; there were larger plots containing graves of men brought in from temporary set-ups; there were those that were set well back in apparent areas of safety. These could well have been near field hospitals. And, as we would see later, there were those on the coast near channel ports. Regardless of the whereabouts of these places the fact was that the bodies were not repatriated. Bad for moral or simply a logistical nightmare? It seems that prior to WW1 there was no tradition of bringing bodies back or even locating individual graves – previous wars abroad left the dead in mass pits – apart from higher ranks.
As I ran down to the second I passed another relic revealed by the plough – a human tibia or fibula - lying on clods of earth. Late September is the time to visit the Somme if you are prepared for what a ploughed field might reveal.
Yet further on we found another shell. These relics threw me a bit - especially the bone - and the fields suddenly took on a gruesome and evil aspect.
A mile or so on we arrived at what I figured to be the line of attack of my grandfather’s regiment. Their mission was to run nearly two miles to capture Serre and we were standing on that route.
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| looking over to Serre Road No. 2 Cemetery |
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| No. 2 |
We headed off towards Sailly au Bois to pick up the headwaters of the L’Authie. The 14 miles to Doullens took us through seemingly ancient rural communities – or perhaps communes. Rusty tractors retired to dilapidated outbuildings surrounding dung encrusted farmyards but, more importantly, there were no darn cafes. We’d not caught a whiff of roasted Columbian beans all morning, not even the narcotic aroma of freshly baked pain au chocolate in the 30 miles since the campsite. The cemeteries became fewer but not before we’d passed the Euston Road cemetery well behind the British frontline.
We discussed why the bodies of men had remained in France. There were the cemeteries at the scene of the action that killed the men; there were larger plots containing graves of men brought in from temporary set-ups; there were those that were set well back in apparent areas of safety. These could well have been near field hospitals. And, as we would see later, there were those on the coast near channel ports. Regardless of the whereabouts of these places the fact was that the bodies were not repatriated. Bad for moral or simply a logistical nightmare? It seems that prior to WW1 there was no tradition of bringing bodies back or even locating individual graves – previous wars abroad left the dead in mass pits – apart from higher ranks.
The Authie valley is a poorer version of its neighbour the Canche valley that runs parallel a few miles north. More rusty farming villages scattered along the very quiet, dusty D119 and if you aren’t bothered about snacking and hot refreshing beverages in the Pas de Cafe, it is a very nice ride along the river. We finally found a cafe in Argoules and a bit further on we passed the massive Abbaye de Valloires that, dating from the 12th century, would be worth a visit if, unlike us, you had time. We were cracking on down the valley so as to get to Montreuil before sunset. The river turned westwards and we crossed the river on a particularly backish back road at Grand Preaux to head north to Montreuil sur Mer – a short but very cute ride over some mild hillage.
We had stayed at the La Fontiane des Clercs before and it had been empty. This time around, putting our feet down had saved us an embarrassment as the town and campsite was hosting several hundred participants in a 10k fun run the next day. The site was stuffed with adrenalin and pre-match nerves being subdued by plenty of booze. Our pitch, the last available, was adjacent to one particularly loud group of runners’ disco tent, it seemed. We ate in the town up on the hill before returning to the tents for a nightcap. Despite attempts to be discreet we were spotted by the smurf hat-wearing discovators next door and invited over for a Ricard and beer and, before we knew it, the owl hooted 1am to put an end to garbled blabbing about Chelsea and Giroud and tea as we had to get going at 8.30am O'clock sharp the following morning for the dash to the sea.
€14.20 for the camping.
A handy tip.
If you are in possession of one of those fancy Thermarest Neoair airbeds – the violently lime green jobby that, although very comfortable, tends to takes you on an overnight tour of the tent and shrieks with the your tiniest of movements – I have a top tip to silence it and keep it in its place and add some bonus luxury. Once inflated just insert the whole thing into a cotton sleeping-bag liner. They don’t weigh much or take up too much space – just make sure it the appropriate snuggishly-fitting size.
To Calais
Leaving the seemingly ineffectual Etaples behind, we trundled on to Boulogne to catch a train to Calais Ville and the quick fifteen-minute dash around to the ferry port.
Calais.
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| Drying time |
It may as well have tipped down overnight such was the dew. As we were headed home we didn’t have time to mop our flysheets inch by inch – a shake would have to do. We belted along the north bank of the Canche on the D939 to pick up the D940 to Boulogne. The latter had a good safe cycle path running adjacent, for most part, to what was a busy road. The scenery was not up to much but we did pass one final cemetery at Etaples. It is surprisingly enormous being well away from the front line. Etaples had been a focal point of preparation for the front - and the hospitals that supplied its 10,200 graves. The channel ports that had their demise with the advent of the tunnel must have originally evolved during the war with the construction of the infrastructure required for moving such a vast amount of troops and gear.
Etaples, home to a camp of 100,000 soldiers in WW1, has a sinister war history and more. The town is near the upmarket La Touquet but the ordinary soldiers were prevented from visiting this fancy dan resort as it was ring-fenced for the exclusive use of officers. Furthermore, there was a mutiny in 1917 that ended in a firing squad execution. It is also rumoured or speculated that Etaples has one further place in history. A description of Etaples by Lady Baden Powell, a volunteer nurse there during WW1, as "a dirty, loathsome, smelly little town", was well short of the horrific truth. Investigations since have suggested that the town and the vast troop camps and movements was the source of the global Spanish flu pandemic of late 1918 that killed between 50 and 100 million people worldwide - as of now the most lethal natural disaster in the history.
Etaples, home to a camp of 100,000 soldiers in WW1, has a sinister war history and more. The town is near the upmarket La Touquet but the ordinary soldiers were prevented from visiting this fancy dan resort as it was ring-fenced for the exclusive use of officers. Furthermore, there was a mutiny in 1917 that ended in a firing squad execution. It is also rumoured or speculated that Etaples has one further place in history. A description of Etaples by Lady Baden Powell, a volunteer nurse there during WW1, as "a dirty, loathsome, smelly little town", was well short of the horrific truth. Investigations since have suggested that the town and the vast troop camps and movements was the source of the global Spanish flu pandemic of late 1918 that killed between 50 and 100 million people worldwide - as of now the most lethal natural disaster in the history.
Leaving the seemingly ineffectual Etaples behind, we trundled on to Boulogne to catch a train to Calais Ville and the quick fifteen-minute dash around to the ferry port.
€8.90 each for the train.
Calais.
This is a pitiful place at the moment with many people from beyond the EU trying to get to the UK – and often risking their lives to do so. Calais is a bleak place at the best of times and this seemed to be the worst of times as several of the stateless were doing their laundry in the river beside the port complex.
And back on to the ferry loaded with the battlefield bus tours on their way home – and with many of the pilgrims taking reassuring photos of the, by now, welcoming sight of the White Cliffs of Dover.
