Day One

Firstly let me start with a simple observation. With previous blogs I have written upon my return to the UK I have asked various recipients of the blog if they read my little tales. More than half, shuffled their feet, looked around them and then mumbled something along the lines of, “Err – I’ve not really had time”. This I understand. My writing might well not be to everybody’s taste and I have to accept my stories really might not be that interesting.

Something else I have learned along the way, however, is that for me the blogs are a far better reminder of the holidays I have had than any photos can ever be, with one or two rare exceptions.

So, from this blog forward these will be written for me. I will use them to relive some of the experiences I have had, some of those holiday moments. If you have read thus far then maybe, just maybe, you are interested enough to see where these go. If so then I hope you enjoy.

Here goes, then, for the first day.

Shall I let you in on our little secret? Keep it to yourselves, though, ok? When we cross the channel we invariably get our car onboard and then immediately make our way to Le Brasserie, the posh restaurant on P&O ferries. There we quietly enjoy a somewhat expensive cooked breakfast in calm, quiet surroundings whilst the majority of passengers either line up for a self-service brekkie or to raid the duty free shop.

This trip when we got to the restaurant there was a queue waiting to be seated. A rather large queue. After about fifteen minutes we were shown to a table in what was by now a very crowded and noisy restaurant. Now here a pattern developed because after another fifteen minutes somebody came to take out order. And fifteen minutes later some toast was deposited on our table. Toast that seemed to have seen a grill some fifteen minutes earlier at best.

And after yet another fifteen our breakfast arrived. And if you do the maths you will realise we didn’t have too long to sit and – I’m tempted to say enjoy it but that would be like saying you enjoy getting sand in your eyes – so let’s settle for eating the lukewarm fare. In fact we had – ooh! let me guess – about – err – fifteen minutes!

Remember – please don’t let on about our wonderful restaurant or everybody will want to do it.

Possibly.

A French market - all I need to keep me happy. This one in Arras

Acting upon Tania’s suggestion our first port of call in France was Arras. Never been there before but it really is a beautiful little town with two adjacent squares. There were markets in both and I am a sucker for French markets, especially the food ones. Always make me wish I could buy a few ingredients and then go off to cook them. Of course, I would need somewhere to do that – and I seem to be short of places to live in France. And I would need to know how to cook – currently a work in progress.

Young Tania said I really ought to go up the belfry of the town church so I did. One lift and forty-three steps to get to the top.

The dreaded belfry!

Now, here is a thing for you. When I got to the top and walked out on to the parapet I came over all queer. Felt very uneasy. To borrow someone else’s phrase, if I wasn't disconcerted I wasn’t very concerted either!

It’s happened to me before but with no logic to it. Some days I can stand at great heights and without any fear or worry admire the views. Other days – and this was one of them – being up there scares the crap out of me.

I’ll give you a really odd one. The day I took Tania up the Shard! At the first observation level, which is higher than anything else in London, I was really enjoying looking as far into the distance as I could – marvelling that I could clearly see Croydon just halfway towards the horizon – and then equally happily looking directly down on the trains coming in and out of London as though it was the world’s largest train set.

And then we went to the upper observation deck just a couple of stories higher – and, man, did I not like that! For a start it was open to the air in places so felt outside. If you haven’t already been when you do go you will understand the ridiculousness of that statement. And for another, there were places where there were no handrails by the window, so you could stand and lean on the glass. Yea – like I was going to do that!

Now my brain told me there was no way they would build this thing with windows that could fall hundreds of feet to the ground below and equally no way they would let the public in a place where there was any grave risk to them. Well – one half of my brain told me that. The other half was screaming at me – “You really don’t want to be up here, buddy!” And do you know what?? That half knew what it was talking about . . .

There is fear in those eyes - believe me

And so it was with the belfry, or beffroi as the French have it. Persuaded Tania to come back down to the ground as soon as dignity would let me.

Arras redeemed itself by having a very typical - and absolutely delightful - patisserie. So good that Tania couldn't resist taking a photo of their shop window. And neither of us could resist just the one pastry each. 

Eeny meeny miney mo - catch a Clarkson by its toe!! Err - that one for me - or - shall I have that one - or  . . .

One final thought about the lovely town of Arras. Anything to do with it is know as Artois - I guess as in Stella Artois. Who knew?? Certainly not me.

(Since writing that I have checked and can confirm Stella Artois is a Belgian beer and nothing to do with Arras at all. However, in the 1700s a man called Sebastien Artois became the master brewer at the brewery in Leuven, Belgium and it soon took his name. If I could I would love to check his family history - any bets they came from Arras at some point??)

From there we went to Thiepval so that Tania could see a war memorial she had heard about from a friend. It’s probably quite well known but have to confess I’d never heard of it. Designed by the man who also designed the Cenotaph in Whitehall the photos of this memorial do not do it justice, especially its size.

Thiepval memorial

The lower part of the memorial – the white panels – have ever square inch covered with names of British and South African soldiers who were killed on battlefields close by in World War One – I refuse to call it The Great War, a misnomer if ever there was one. But these aren’t all the soldiers slaughtered on or around those trenches, they are just the ones who were denied the opportunity of a proper burial, the ones whose whereabouts is unknown.

That is over seventy thousand men whose family never got a body to bury, never knew where their father, brother, son ended their short lives. A Wembley Stadium full.

Inconnu - unkown

Seems such a sad waste.

We stayed that night at a hotel picked at random as we passed in a town called Sezanne. For just over thirty pounds we got ourselves a hotel room which had a double bed, satellite television and an en suite that had everything we needed – except water, as poor Tania found out after she’d had a little tinkle and tried to flush away the evidence! She tried the shower and the wash basin to see if maybe it was just the toilet that was lacking the essential fluid. Not so. There was no water at all.

Poor young lad who booked us in told us it was his first day at work. As if booking foreigners in wasn’t a tough enough deal for him he now had to deal with our crisis.

It got sorted in the end and we consoled ourselves with the thought that we had got the hotel crises out of the way for this trip.

Well – we had until the next night when we found ourselves in a hotel in Autun which had an en suite with everything we wanted.

Except toilet paper!

Oh! And we got locked out when the proprietor went to bed. Fortunately kind man in hotel next door showed us how to get in . . .

It can only get better – no?