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.
 |
| looking over to Serre Road No. 2 Cemetery |
 |
| 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.
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