We headed North to Falaise (another significant location in the Battle for Normandy; The Falaise Pocket), pit stopped (croissant, coffee, jam, baguette, orange juice) and then North East onto a road we had been recommended by a friend’s cycle trip 20 years earlier. The D511 if you’re interested, it was ludicrously arrow straight. Even with the bikes fully loaded we chain ganged at about 20mph the full route up to Saint-Pierre-sur-Dives (coffee, more pastries). With plenty of time until the return ferry, we sauntered the remainder of the journey. Recrossing Pegasus bridge (from the opposite direction) and then the last few miles up to the ferry port at Ouistreham.
At Ouistreham we stopped for a meal, a beer (“Oui une grande bière se il vous plaît!”) and to reflect on our little adventure. It had been a terrific few days, largely due to Lew’s diligent planning and hardened our resolve to undertake a similar trip the following year. I think Grandad would have been quietly impressed with our little cycle. I can imagine showing him the photos and the route we took and him ‘mm-hmm’ing in approval. Sadly it’s too late for that now, but it felt like an appropriate nod in his memory.
]]>Today we would follow the route our Grandad took when he landed on the 12th June 1944. Our alarm went off at 6, giving us time to pack the campsite back onto the bikes. We were on the road by 07:30 needing to backtrack up to the beach at Arromanches-les-Bains.
I can’t quite remember where we went when we were waiting for the invasion. Some of the time I think we were at St Georges Golf Course at Sandwich. As time got near we were all busy waterproofing the engines of all the vehicles, so that when we drove off the landing craft the engines wouldn’t stall if they got wet. We went on D+6 and the whole channel was full of landing craft. We landed at Arromanches and were able to drive straight off and the tanks had already laid a wire-mesh road.
Once again the low early morning light and rolling mist lent an eerie atmosphere to the scene. The remains of the Mulberry harbours still line the edge of the bay. We touched our wheels to the beach and set off along the route Grandad had penned 69 years earlier; inland to Ryes and then down to Villiers-le-Sec.
We camped in a small village, Villiers-le-Sec, in a farm orchard. I shared a tent with the Instructional Gunner. We all did a spell as duty officer at night, just manning the phone. Things were held up at Carpiquet Airport at Caen. Caen itself was very damaged. We acquired a French liaison officer from Caen and later on a Dutch liaison officer who had worked at the Phillips factory in Eindhoven.
We found an orchard in Villiers-le-Sec. We’ll never know if it was the orchard Grandad stayed in but… close enough. We nabbed a few photos and cycled southwards. The roads in Normandy were a pleasure to cycle on. Potholes and angry buses were a distant memory from furious commutes a million miles away. That said, the gently rolling landscape was deceptively tiring. With the bikes loaded up with tent, kitchen sink and hairdryer, the longer upward stretches became a slog. I began to wane on the stretch from Tilly-sur-Seulles to Villiers-Bocage, but thankfully my comrades did too, so we pulled in to re-tank (coffee, orange juice, pastries).
We went quite a way south to Flers and then turned east so that we were going right round Caen.
So we faithfully did the same. Montgomery had hoped Caen would be captured on D-Day itself. In reality, it saw some of the fiercest fighting in Normandy and didn’t fall until over a month later on 9th July.
We pedaled on eastwards past Flers but the relentless climb then coast, climb then coast was energy sapping. And no more so than on ‘The Hoys’ (Joe’s unnaturally tree trunked legs). In hindsight, we perhaps should have popped into Flers for some lunch, but we were overly eager to yomp through the miles towards the next campsite in Argentan. Then we totally ran out of fuel for The Hoys. No energy gels, no water; nothing. We pulled off the main road and studied the map. ‘Landigou’, ‘Durcet’, they seemed reasonable options for sustenance, so we nosed off our planned route into the countryside. We quickly discovered these were just locations on a map which coincided with a road junction or farm but no promise of a pâtisserie, boulangerie ou marché.
Returning again to the map, we fixated on Briouze. With a slightly larger font face this surely would yield at least a croissant. Crawling the last 5 miles into Briouze, Joe’s legs were running on fumes.
Result! There was a café; La Squadra du Hazé.
I walked into the cafe. A large table of French men who had been nattering immediately stopped to eye the lycra clad intruder. A waitress appeared from behind the counter.
“Table pour trois persons?” I asked hopefully.
“Je suis désolé , nous sommes fermés.”
“Oh.” The norms of French service once again got in the way. Being lunchtime, all the cafés were closed for lunch (unless you were local).
I walked back out to Joe and Lew who were optimistically dismounting the bikes.
“Sorry guys, they’re closed.” I wasn’t sure how we were going to nurse Joe the last 20 miles to Argentan without food or drink.
Then, “Monsieur!” I turned, and the waitress was back. “I can make you a baguette?” I must have looked so crestfallen that she took pity on me. We threw words like ‘grande’, ‘jambon’ and ‘fromage’ at her, and sure enough a few minutes later she brought out 3 large ham and cheese baguettes. It was possibly the best ham and cheese baguette Joe had ever eaten, and certainly the most necessary.
We finished up and headed back to the main road. We immediately happened across a large supermarket. Cue a load of pastries and orange juice. With our energy levels resumed we covered the last 20 miles to the campsite at Argentan.
]]>The first 80 miler Lew had planned. We rose at 7, feasted on brioche and soggy baguette and hit the road. The advantage of staying 2 nights at the Bayeux campsite meant our panniers were unladen, so we had a slight spring in our pedals. Our first stop was the German War Cemetery at La Cambe. Home to over 20,000 German graves, it felt particularly somber and poignant.
From here we ploughed on West to Carentan then swung North towards Utah Beach. With warming sunshine and a light tail breeze the 3 man chain gang was in full flow. The bikes casually ate through the miles and we pulled into a beachside cafe to refuel (chocolate and banana crepes, coffee, orange juice). We took in the beach and the gun placements, inappropriately recreated the run from the sea to the scrubland, then re-saddled, heading back to Carentan. The smooth roads once again made for rapid shifting and after a brief stop for more French pastries we covered the remaining thirty miles back to Bayeux.
At 4:45am atmospheric music was piped into the cabin of our landing craft (a Brittany Ferry). Lew, Joe and I went down to the car deck to ready our mounts. Cycling off a ferry is a novel experience I suggest you try at least once. We rolled off the ramp at Caen ferry port, re-secured all the panniers and immediately headed to our first objective, Pegasus Bridge. A short, misty cycle along the Caen canal brought us to the famous bridge. Although the original bridge is no longer in place (it lives at a museum a stones throw away) it was quite surreal. As a member of Generation Y I’d played this level in countless games from Hidden and Dangerous to Call of Duty. And yet here it was, one of the first objectives captured by British airborne forces in the early hours of 6th June 1944.
After taking in the bridge, we rode down to the Commonwealth War Cemetery in Ranville. Still before breakfast time, with the sun just rising, mist low on the flat land and no other souls in sight, it gave an incredibly peaceful aura. After paying our respects we headed back up across the bridge to pick up the Normandy coast and head West. A quick fuel stop (jam, baguette, croissant, coffee) at Luc-sur-Mer and we cruised on to Arromanches where we visited the 360° WW2 Battlefield cinema.
Next stop was the German gun battery at Longues sur Mer. The intimidating concrete bunkers and giant rifled artillery barrels giving a flavour of what the Allies faced once they made it across The Channel.
We cycled on through light drizzle to Saint-Laurent-sur-Mer, home to the Normandy American Cemetery overlooking Omaha Beach, both of which now infamous thanks to the opening scene in Saving Private Ryan. There was a lot more pomp and ceremony to this cemetery but it is hard not to be moved by the endless rows of white crosses.
After watching the daily flag ceremony, we saddled up and completed the last 10 miles to the municipal campsite in Bayeux. Having covered about 60 miles fully loaded we had built an appetite so we walked into Bayeux to sample the local cuisine. The service in our chosen restaurant was terrible, but only made us laugh. The lady who served us seemed to have her own agenda, which rarely coincided with serving us any food. Luckily the Pizza Super Souffle I chose was like a calzone on testosterone so I was happy.
After picking up a few supplies, Lew, Joe and I headed back to our 2 man tent to get some sleep in advance of our first ‘big’ ride.
It was whilst poring over these maps and reading these memories I had the idea that we might be able to follow in his footsteps and cycle the route. Inevitably, life got in the way and it wasn’t until 5 years passed and Supreme Commander Lew (capable of organising things) kicked the plans into shape, that we actually did it.
During preparations, it became apparent though what took the Allied forces a year to do would probably still take us weeks and weeks to cover on 2 wheels. So we scaled back the idea just to follow a bit of Grandad’s route and spend a couple of days visiting the WW2 sites in Normandy. Lew came up with a comprehensive and meticulous plan (he’d have liked my Grandad).
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They were all smashed when I met them on the platform at 05:30 am. Minnie, A-Rod, Dré and Darbs; the entire Wing Command. I, the sensible one, had been able to get a few hours kip. They instead got off the train the evening before, headed straight to a nightclub put their rucksacks and travel cases into the cloak room, stayed up all night and then rocked up at St Pancras. I realised then what kind of holiday this was to be.
The entire team slept most of the 6 hour TGV journey down to Nice. The only interruption was Minnie transferring his stomach contents to his jeans. The Brits were definitely abroad.
We checked into the Villa Saint Exupéry Beach hostel in the evening. Our first night was fairly restrained. We had some pizza and got our bearings by visiting a few pubs and bars. The vibe was Nice.
The hostel’s infinite breakfast was a great way to set us up for the day ahead. Dré had spoken to one of the hostel workers about the best beach to visit. Villefranche was sandier than Nice and only 20 minutes stroll away. Worth a visit then…
An hour and a half march later we had begun to question Dré’s judgement as to what determined a 20 minute walk. “Yeah, I think the guy meant it was a 20 minute walk to the bus that would take us there…” Nice one Dré. When we did finally get to Villefrance, Dré was busting for a potty break. We duly waited while he went off for relief. When he returned, he was at a leisurely stroll, licking an ice cream. This did nothing to alleviate the annoyance of his 2 hour unguided walking tour. Nice one Dré. Never the less, we enjoyed the day down on the beach frollicking in the sea and definitely not perving on all the bikini clad girls. We decided to get the train back to Nice. It took 4 minutes. Nice one Dré.
Still, the evening beckoned. The hostel had an ample social area with sofas, chairs and tables. Johnny Foreigner was sat around watching Cool Runnings on the TV whilst a middle aged American gentlemen played jazz on the piano in the corner. Someone needed to get this party started. That someone was us. We installed ourselves on the central table. The hostel had a Happy Hour 6-7pm with 1 Euro cans of beer. Excellent. Pretty quickly the table was awash with our empties and soon to bes. We bust out the beer pong equipment and the SOL Top Trumps. The gravitational pull of plastic cups and ping pong balls is incredible. Extra chairs and tables were dragged in to accommodate all the Aussies, Swedes, Americans and other flavours all eager to get involved.
The drink flowed. Beer pong developed into flip cup. People who had only just met were now discussing tactics and moving experienced players to prime roles in the teams. Finally, just to underline our dedication to providing the fun, Minnie took to the piano and began hammering out Journey and Bon Jovi to the delight of all. (My requests for Hanson were less celebrated).
At some point the Austrians attempted a coup of the flip cup table. Before any plastic cups were annexed, Darbs and myself split off from Wing Command and made it into Nice town. Sadly though, I had forgotten to put Darbs down for his mid afternoon nap. Within moments the bar induced narcolepsy kicked in and I was left with an 11 stone door stop.
We headed home.
We went to Nice beach and played with a ball. It was quite stoney.
Not wishing to deviate from an effective plan, that evening we hit the main table again. Dinner became beers, beers became individual beer pong, that became beer pong proper and before you knew it, we where in the middle of International Flip Cup once again. When we could no longer ignore the complaints about noise from the hostel management we moved the whole party down to the beach. A few members of Wing Command took the opportunity for a quick dip in the sea. Having completed my 50 lengths I attempted to return to my clothes to get dressed. At this point in my precarious ‘trying to get wet jeans back on’ position Darbs took me down and wet humped me into next Tuesday. No one helped me.
This excitement aroused Darbs’ senses and he got talking to a nice girl called Natalie.
Somewhere between brushing teeth and turning our underpants inside out, we lost Darbs. We were concerned enough to leave the hostel, get the train to Cannes, play in the sea with our ball all day and drink beer.
On returning to the hostel we find Darbs. He has been ‘on a date’ all day with Natalie. I use quotations because in between having lunch and looking at a pretty waterfall she has threatened to kill him several times. I’m no Streetmate, but I didn’t take this as a sign of endearment.
That evening follows a familiar path. Only this time we push it even further, peaking with 11-a-side Sangria based flip cup. With staff getting increasingly tetchy about the noise and boisterousness it was time to get the whole show on the road again. We got the 20+ crew moving on and out and into Nice town.
I was walking and chatting to a nice Swedish fellow, appropriately named James the Viking. Dr, Minnie and Darbs were walking with another group about 20 yards ahead. The reason being within that group was Natalie, the girl Darbs had dabbled with the previous night. He was determined to force home the advantage. I explained this to The Viking and he immediately apologised to me, apparently having cracked onto Natalie earlier, possibly infringing on Darbs territory. I explain there was no need to apologise. Darbs is a weapon at the very best of times, and this was not one of his finest hours. He was pursuing in spite of her gentle rebuffing and she was therefore ‘fair game’.
However, I explained to James, this was Wing Command. Our job was to guide the heavy bomber to the target, distracting and confusing the enemy where possible. The heavy bomber had a considerable load to drop. The load had been backing up for a couple of months and I did not envy the final target, whoever they may be. When the damn did finally break civilians were likely to drown in the furious torrent. In my opinion Darbs should’ve been carpet bombing as many targets as possible. But instead he had focused on one, fairly low value target who was now getting dive bombed by anyone and everyone in a 5 metre radius. But, loyal to the last, Wing Command made its play.
From our holding position behind the main group I commentated to James as the manouvre progressed. “You see that strange guy who’s talking to Natalie right now. Well, that’s Darb’s main competition. Minnie is now going to remove him from the equation leaving the path open for Darbs”. As I spoke Minnie dove in with Operation Distraction. Natalie was getting harrassed by a strange art student type from Stoke. Minnie slotted himself in next to art student and fired off a savlo. (He recounted the conversation to me later).
Minnie: “So we are you from then?”
Art student: “Stoke on Trent.”
Minnie: “No way! My Gran is from Stoke on Trent!”
Art student: “Oh.”
Minnie: “Which part of Stoke?”
Art student: “Tunstall.”
Minnie: “No Way! Which road do you live on?”
Art student: “Roundwell Street.”
Minnie: “NO WAY! That’s the road my Gran lives on! Do you know her?!”
Minnie’s Gran routine had provided a valuable window, allowing Darbs to once again take up position as the number one harrasser. I could tell James The Viking was impressed as I explained to him what he had just witnessed. I maintained an air of nonchalance, like this was the kind of stunt we pulled every night.
The night continued to a club and then back to the Old Town where my negotiations with the local underground movement gained our motley ensemble entrance to a club. I started losing members of Wing Command as the pressure of 5 nights took its toll. Darbs lost Natalie to the advances of a U.S. push and started using the word ‘cunt’ a lot. Darbs and I hit the bottle and I felt a little subdued realising our French bender was drawing to a close. I eventually lost Darbs when he accidentally face planted the tiled floor (ouch!) and was carried home by a couple of American guys.
I ended up walking back to the hostel with James the Viking and his friend Anton du Beke. After relieving himself, Anton expressed his thanks at getting the crew into the club and generally for the conduct of Wing Command. It was over, but I was happy. The team had put in an excellent turn, building bridges and uniting nations in an understated but concerted manner. Particular merit went to Minnie who was awarded the Victoria Cross of Wingmanship for selfless actions in the face of the enemy.
Our adventure didn’t quite end there as we went on to spend 5 nights in Aix-en-Provence celebrating the Anglo-French union of a successful compadre to a delightful fille française. But I wouldn’t want to sully that with the drunken ravings of Wing Command. Suffice to say, now that the group has had the Stag Do to end all dos and the wedding to end all those, it’s now not worth doing either. Or if someone does, they’re going to have to pull something VERY SPECIAL out of the bag…
]]>Söll! A place called Söll. And we’re SOL! I lobbied the SOL Treasury (Mark) and the flights were booked. As per protocol, we substituted in a third man from our London base to increase diversity and boost the numbers.
Boarding the flight things didn’t look great. It seemed to be families, couples and annoying children. I could sense some disillusionment from the other two, but I still had absolute faith. I could feel it.
Several delays meant we didn’t roll into Söll til way gone 9. We dumped our bags and set out for food. The restaurant had a couple of large groups in. Large groups of foreign men. Large Welsh rugby men on closer inspection. No matter. It would still come good. It had to.
After food we set out for drink. By chance we stumbled into the Whiskey Mule and made our way through to the bar. “Did you see that sign in the foyer?” Mark asked.
“No, why?”
“It said strictly over 16s!”
Crumbs! I looked around. The place was full of those elusive beings. Girls. We established ourselves at the bar and after a short while some girls encroached our threesome.
“Können wir diesen stuhl?”
Eager to encourage my compadre’s into action, I responded with insightful wit: “Sorry, pardon?”
“Can we use that stool?” said a girl, smiling to reveal braces.
“Sure, yes! Are you guys from Austria?”
They were from Austria; proper locals. And they were young. Boy, were they young! Their parents may well have dropped them off outside. They actually sat with us for a bit. It was probably when they realised we were cheapskates who weren’t going to buy them beer that they slid off the chairs and disappeared into the crowd. As the girls went there were actually mocking groans from some guys behind us at our perceived failure. But it wasn’t, it was quite the opposite.
“Told you guys! One night here in Söll and we’ve successfully spoken to more girls than in the entirety of our previous 2 ski holidays.”
“Cheers!” We clinked our 3 beers.
That business out of the way, we could now concentrate on drinking. In between drinking we squeezed in a touch of skiing: