The Visit

I rarely do pilgrimages, but this visit had the feeling of one. 

Those who know me well, are aware that I'm not particularly patriotic. I get a bit lippy over the cricket on occasion and I will defend the existence of vegemite - but that is about it. So, I found it interesting to be challenged why I had to come to Normandy, and particularly to Villers Bretonneux. I am not the flag waving, Southern Cross tattoo sporting type you find here.  I'm normally asleep during Dawn Service on Anzac Day. I'll give the day a nod, but I don't do anything special. I also don't mind if others want to do stuff, but generally, I don't do more than give this a nod. Celebrating war is not in my DNA. 

I felt I needed to visit Villers Bretonneux, in Normandy, because of family connection. My grandfather's brother, Roy was here. Uncle Roy. Postmaster. Signal Man. Nice bloke. 

Uncle Roy was one of the most decorated non-combatant soldiers in World War One. You can read a bit more about him here. As we are staying in Amiens for the night, it was a given that we come here. 

Reindert and I met up, at last, after 12 years, at the car rental office of Charles de Gaulle Airport. It's like no time has passed at all - mind you we speak to each other every couple of weeks. It's so good to be in each other's company again. 

"So, where are we going. I've left the logistics to you." (BIG MISTAKE)

"Villers Bretonneux."

"Where?"

"A little town about 20 minutes from where we're staying in Amiens. I need to pay my gentle respects. "

"Okay." 

Reindert is good at going with the flow. So am I for that matter. Being later in the afternoon, we made the hour drive to this little town, getting there around five. After a few minor issues finding the place, firstly to the town cemetery, then the school, which was built from the funds raised by Victorian school kids, we found the Sir John Monash War Memorial on the road out of town. 

It's impressive. And sad. And ultimately tragic that so many people lost their lives here. 

Being after 5 p.m. we had the place to ourselves. The museum and the actual memorial were closed, but we could wander the site, looking at the graves, and the smaller monuments, pock marked with bullet holes. 

As an Australian, with a link to the site, I felt something. I'm not sure if it was a small amount of patriotism, or sadness for those lost, or how such a brutal battle could occur on such glorious, pristine farmland. Reading the tombstones of the Commonwealth soldiers, Australian, British and Canadian, you see things like, "Aged 19", or "Aged 25". All I can think is what a waste. That my uncle was keeping the lines of communication open by running over no-man's land. I can only wonder how. 

That we were there, on our own, without tourists, made it the more special. There was no "Aussie, Aussie, Aussie," cries. It was just my friend, a Dutch American, and me, a non-patriotic Australian, trying to get our heads around the pointlessness of war, on this perfect, cool, autumn afternoon. 

I'm glad I made it here, if only for half an hour to top my non-existent cap. (Reindert has his flat cap, so he did it for me.) There's no fanfare. No flag waving. But the respects have been paid. 

We're now in our AirBNB in the middle of the old town in Amiens, on the banks of the Somme River. 

Amiens, it seems, is closed on Monday Nights. The cathedral is closed to visitors on Tuesdays, but I'm going to see if I can charm my way in tomorrow morning, regardless. I don't need to climb the bell tower or see the vaults, but I would like a sticky beak inside. My French may be good enough to do this. 

And then it is off to Bayeux, for more War Museums and a long bit of embroidery, before heading to St Malo for the following two nights. 

The holiday is coming to an end.

Today's song: