Once again, I was on the trail early, too early for breakfast in the monastery. When I had checked in the previous day, I had asked when breakfast would be available. Eight o’clock, they said, which would have me on the road sometime close to nine. As it worked out, I declined their breakfast, and I left the monastery at seven thirty.
Once again, my first stop was a patisserie. Even on a Sunday, and especially in a city the size of Arras, the boulangeries and patisseries are open early. Once again, I picked up some fresh croissants and pain-au-chocolat. Now, I just needed something liquid to wash it down. As it happened, the Arras railway station was on my route, and I was able to pick up something there. And so, in the light of early morning, I sat on a bench in the plaza in front of the railway station and enjoyed my makeshift breakfast.
With my carbohydrate levels thus restored, I headed out of town. The skies were cloudy, but I did not deter me in the slightest. I had checked the forecast, and it was due to be yet another day of good weather. The route follows an almost straight route out of town, along the Rue de la Republique. As it crossed the Rue Raoul Briquet, a sign told me that I was already 3.2km from the city centre. I continued on, turning right onto a side road at the auberge des Saveaurs. That road was quieter, but seemed to be much favoured by cyclists out for their Sunday morning exercise. I crossed the D60, and suddenly I was truly in the countryside again. I was still being passed by groups of cyclists, all greeting me with “Bonjour” as they went. The route passed under a rail line, and for some reason, all the cyclists seemed to peel off onto a right turn immediately after that, leaving me in splendid isolation to enjoy the countryside on my own. Despite the mist, the countryside beckoned.
I was firmly into WW1 country now, as evidenced by the number of military cemeteries that I passed, and signs for others that were off the route. The cemeteries up to this point were all for fallen allied soldiers. I had seen a large cemetery at Éscoivres, but now I was passing smaller ones, with perhaps 100 graves in them. Such is the folly of war that so many died for so little.
The route bypassed Boisleux-Saint-Marc, and I had no problem with that. Near the village, there was a small wayside chapel with a sign that told me that I was 220km from Canterbury and 1720km from Rome. The numbers don’t match with the guidebook, but they did at least tell me that I was solidly embarked on my quest. And then I was into woodland again. At Hamelincourt, the official route goes to the east of the village, but I decided to follow the D12 road through the village, knowing that I would meet up with the official route again on the southern side. I left the village, going on out into the flat countryside beyond. By now, the day had brightened considerably, and an even warmer afternoon was in prospect.
It didn’t take long to reach the next village, Gomiécourt. This tiny village had nothing to offer, and once again, I went straight through. It was the same in Sapignies. By now, I was in a hurry. I knew that there was a restaurant in Bapaume, but I also knew that on Sundays in France, everything closes at 2:30 PM, so I would have to get there quickly to be in time for a good lunch. I reached the edge of Bapaume, where the official route takes a circuitous meandering around the western side of the town. I went on into the centre, where I was in time to get lunch at the Hotel Le Gourmet.
I was actually most in need of liquid refreshment at this stage, and it took several beers and carafes of water before I felt I had drunk enough to restore my bodily equilibrium. But I also enjoyed solid fare. As I rose to go, and was hoisting the rucksack onto my shoulders, a group at the next table beckoned me over. They asked what I was doing, and I explained my quest. They asked me how old I was, and seemed surprised that someone of my age should undertake such an adventure. They explained that they were of similar age to myself. But then we all agreed that people of our age have often more drive to achieve something like this, and more often the stamina to match it, than our younger friends. They wished me well, and I was on my way.
In the centre of Bapaume, there is a statue of General Faidherbe. He commanded French armies in the Pas de Calais area during the Franco-Prussian war of 1870-71. In January 1871, the inexperienced French troops under Faidherbe marched out against an outnumbered but experienced Prussian army. The French won the day, but did not follow up, leaving the Prussians to march on towards Paris. After achieving their strategic victory, the Prussians turned again against Faidherbe’s troops and defeated them decisively at Saint Quentin. Neverthelss, it is the victory of Bapaume that the French chose to remember, and Faidherbe was regarded as a hero. He was later elected to the French parliament. During WW1, the statue was knocked down and melted by the German armies who believed it to be bronze, which it was not. A replica was installed in 1929, though it bears the marks of shrapnel from WW2.
And then I was leaving Bapaume. On my way out of town, I was greeted by a couple out for a walk who asked me was I a pilgrim. I answered them yes. We talked about how far I had come that day, and how far I still had to go, which was not so much. The wished me “Bon courage”, and we parted.
The official route again goes all over the place after leaving Bapaume, first to the west of the main road, and then slightly to the east of my destination, the village of Villers-Au-Flos. I chose the more direct route, following the main road, the D917, out of town, and then turning off onto the D11E3. This little road hardly merits a D rating. I went through Riencourt-les-Bapaume, and soon reached Villers-au-Flos. I had organised a small apartment as my accommodation for the night. However, I wasn’t sure what to do about my evening meal. I had some canned food that I had bought at the supermarket in Arras, but it didn’t seem enough. However, the time of year was potato harvesting season. Sometimes the trailer loads of potatoes going to be processed shed a portion of their load, and this had happened in Villers-au-Flos. A small quantity of potatoes, newly harvested and in good condition lay in the roadway. I took what I needed and went on. Sometimes manna does fall from heaven.
And so it was, that I enjoyed a good evening meal in a quiet farm based apartment that night, with a good rest to finish the day.
Walkingman 