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In Which I Learn My Lesson
August 9, 2007 by Mike
Hermanville-sur-Mer
Route: Yport - Etretat - Le Havre - Deauville - Hermanville
Three Things I Learned About Camping Last Night
1. Don't pitch yr hammock close to the obese man with a chesty cough who breaths loudly even when walking on flat ground. He's going to snore. Very loudly.
2. Don't pitch yr hammock close to the toddler who screams and cries all day just for the hell of it. She's going to scream and cry all night too. Very loudly.
[The above two lessons can safely be replaced by this one: Don't pitch yr hammock close to any wife and mother who looks like she hasn't had a decent night's sleep in years.]
3. Don't pitch yr hammock so that yr head is many inches above yr feet. You'll find that gravity has a way of depositing you at the foot of the hammock in an unruly, unsleeping mess.
--
Passing close to Crecy (no signposts to be seen - but then, France lost that one) and passing through Le Havre (much more interesting than I'd expected, but I'm still not feeling big town-y) brings me to Honfleur. Now I'm starting to get worried, because I don't feel small town-y either, despite the obvious beauty of this old, well-preserved port. The houses close to the waterfront are tall and thin, just like me. *joke* It's the volume of tourists that puts me off. So many of them shoulder-to-shouler that I'm surprised nobody gets shunted off the dockside into the briney. I'd like to come back in the dead of winter to see it -- as long as the sun was still shining. Deauville - the same. Although I laugh to see how many of the bikers in town are riding the Honda Deauville. Note to Honda Marketing Dept: why not name yr next bike after a city with a larger population? There's 28,025,000 people in Tokyo, fergoodnesssakes. Some of them must ride bikes?
More than anything, though, the reason I'm not stopping is that, for once, I have a destination in mind and, contrary to what I wrote about 30 seconds ago, I'm very glad to be sharing it with so many other tourists. I'm in Normandy. I'm besidetheseaside. It's time for the Normandy Beaches.
Time today to see the Pegasus Bridge, the first target taken by Allied Forces on D-Day: 6th June 1944.
Or rather, in the last hour of 5th June. And beside it, the Cafe Gondree, the first house liberated in France. This is history, but it's living history. The current owner of the cafe was four years old on D-Day. She still looks pretty good. The bridge, across a vital canal linking the city of Caen to the sea, has been rebuilt to its wartime specifications. Small monuments record where the British gliders landed (within 50 metres of the bridge - perfect) and the details of those few vital minutes. A bright summer's morning, passing caravans and a roaring trade in postcards, baseball caps and fridge magnets doesn't do justice to the conditions, the danger, the *fear*. Except.. surprising myself.. I *do* feel it, just for a moment. It's chilling. Having seen where the first shots of WWII were fired, I'm now witness to the beginning of the end of the war.
Watch 'The Longest Day' for details. Or, if you prefer, 'Saving Private Ryan'. Or, better still, read a book. Or, take a leaf out of my book -- come and see for yrself.
--
I treat myself to a base for the next couple of days - a pension in Hermanville-sur-Mer, which name makes me laugh even though it shouldn't. Hermans should be remembered too.
--
Hermanville-sur-Mer: population 2,690.
Hermanville-sur-Mer British Military Cemetary: population 1,005.
--
What is it with the bars round here? Everything is either closed because the owners are on holiday -- this is France. It happens -- or closes at sunset. I want to drink after dark! Although I should be grateful. A long walk in search of booze brings me to the next village, Lion-sur-Mer, which has a night market tonight on the seafront. Hams, cheeses, shoes, swimwear, knick-knacks.. I do love a market.. and a live band, The Repeaters, playing off the back of a lorry and trying quite hard to be The Clash. Tiny children dance out of time and arm-in-arm in what should by rights be the mosh pit. Grannies tap their toes and chew their sausage'n'chips in time to the music. Yaay! Punk rock!
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