The Wanderings

Day 3 - A Visit to a Canadian War Hero

Day 3

     What a trooper am I?  I jumped out of bed at 7am and marched down to the train station to disembark on the next leg of my journey.  It was bright and early and I was already up-and-attem.  Pride surged through my body.  I thought it was pride.  Turned out to be pain.  However, at such an early hour, it is difficult to tell the difference between the two.  My destination was a small town situated in northern France called Cambrai. 

     Cambrai is where I went to visit the grave of my great-grandfather.  He was buried there after falling in combat in 1918.   This was my first and only predetermined item on my “Tour Europe” itinerary.  Check out this sequence.  I took a series of trains that took me from Brussels to Ghent to Lille, France and then finally rolled onto Cambrai.  Departing the train, I found myself standing in the middle of the square of a quaint little town.  From the Gare du Cambrai, four or five streets branched off in seemingly every direction.  Thankfully, I was armed with a couple of rough photocopied maps of the area and guided by a strong sense of ambition.  Prior to leaving Canada, I printed the maps from the Commonwealth Graves Commission website.  This organization was created to maintain the numerous cemeteries that dot the landscape in France, Belgium, the Netherlands and wherever Commonwealth soldiers laid down their lives for King and Country.  My objective was to use their information to help me locate the St Olle British Memorial Cemetery. 

     The written directions on the map indicated that upon arriving at the main train terminal, I should walk 4 miles to the northwest.  Problem.  To start, the map was nowhere near to scale, it identified no cross streets the map did not have a North arrow and to top it off I did not own a compass.  Needless to say, I needed a bit more detail in order to find the place.  Looking for assistance, I approached a few locals walking past and kindly asked them to point me in the right direction. Immediately, I realized that I may have a problem.  My French was long in hibernation and these town’s folks did not speak English.  Every time I opened my mouth to explain my plight, they returned perplexed looks of confusion.  Thus, standing there with map in hand, I look out at three babbling Frenchmen spewing back in-articulations while doing this jiggy thing with their arms.  In retrospect, I realise that they were actually trying to help me.  They better have…it was my great-grandfather who helped free their grand parents from tyranny back in time. 

     I zigzagged my way along a long stretch of rural roads pointing in every direction for what seemed like eternity.  Meanwhile, the oppressive French sun baked down upon me.  It was sweltering hot, my pack dug into my back and streams of sweat dribbled down my face.  Thankfully, being an experienced world traveller, I decided that since I was only planning on staying in France for a few hours I did not need to bring along any French currency…forgetting, of course that food and water may actually cost money.  My original intention was to visit one of their conveniently placed ATMs and grab some franks in the event I was hungry and wanted to buy myself a frank.  However….I quickly learned that Cambrai was not yet civilized.  Sure, it may have been a charming, peaceful little town but a little bit of its’ charm was tarnished by not having any bank machines.  No bank machines?  Where was I?  Cambrai or Kenya?  It was like travelling in the third world.   So parched and hungry, I trudged along.  Dizzy and disoriented, I took a few more wrong turns and with only the help of a free ride on one of their local buses, I was suddenly dropped off beside a sign that advertised; St. Olle British War Cemetery. 

     The trip had taken me about 2 hours.  I walked almost seven kilometres.  My back screamed for a break.  Beat and forlorn, I viewed the signpost hammered into the ground at the side of the highway.  It referred me to an obscure cobblestone path.  Upon reflection, that signpost was actually pointing me to my personal plot of land.  It signified the spot where blood, my great-grandfather’s blood once soaked into the soil.