Caen, France

I had thought I was the only guest in the hostel for the second night running, as it had again seemed deserted, but I walked into breakfast this morning to find an American guest already tucking into the pastries. His name wasn’t Karl, but I will call him that anyway. Karl was a Nebraskan ex-military type, having served as an engineer in Afghanistan and Iraq, and was seeing a bit of Europe before heading back into college. He was thoughtful, had his head screwed on and seemed to be genuinely fascinated by France, especially in its Second World War history. I rattled off words like a Gatling Gun, as I hadn’t spoken any English in seven days (not even to rabid dogs, at which I swore in French).

Karl and I covered all manner of things in the time of a few croissants and cups of coffee, although I deftly avoided any heavy topics after discussing the Roman origins of the English city of Bath, which he had visited just a few days before. Karl casually mentioned that he was amazed such an advanced civilisation as the Romans could have been so deeply superstitious. I then casually asked him to consider his own country, the sole world superpower but half of whose population - including the incumbent (incompetent?) President - believed the Biblical account of Creation in Genesis was literally true. I casually got a blank stare back, and so changed the subject. Casually.

Karl had certainly given me a new appreciation for my chosen mode of transport. When looking at options for visiting the D-Day sites, he had the choice between a restrictive, pricey organised tour or an even more expensive taxi. Despite the weather and the hard work, with Ron I had the freedom to go wherever I wanted, whenever I wanted - for free.

I set off for the cityport of Caen, but chose to take an indirect route via Tilly-sur-Seilles for a couple of special waypoints. My first port of call was the village of Fontenay-le-Pesnel, to which my grandfather had marched from Gold Beach and where he had been involved in fierce fighting with a Panzer Division. These days it was a peaceful place with a  large pond inhabited by a pair of swans who didn’t seem the slightest bit interested in the bits of baguette I peppered at them.

My second stop was at my grandfather’s request: the huge  British Cemetery at St. Manvieu, where a large number of his fellow Hallamshires were buried and at which I paid my respects on his behalf. It was lovely - if such a word can be used to describe the final resting place of thousands of people killed so young. The sun was shining, it was peaceful, and the grounds were immmaculately laid out and well tended to. I wandered around the graves reading the inscriptions and tributes. It was an incredibly moving experience; I challenge anyone not to feel the same should they find  a message like this on a young soldier’s grave.

Caen was easily the largest place I had been to in France so far. It felt at first odd, then reassuring to be back in amongst an anonymous throng of people once more. Sadly, its size didn’t prevent it from having a single youth hostel open, and so once again I was on the hunt for a cheap hotel with parking for Ron, finding the perfect candidate in the vicinity of the train station. I ate in a nearby Japanese restaurant, and the friendly waitress nearly jeopardised her tip when at the vital moment of pocket digging she stated “You’re American, aren’t you?”

That evening I considered my options. The train strike had cost me several days of time on my journey, and so I had to rethink my Lack of Plan if I wanted to squeeze in all I had in mind before Christmas. Strike-gripped Normandy in Winter had frustrated me, and Caen had given me a taste of urban France, so I decided to skip the further Normandy amblings I had in mind and head to the French capital by train - but not before one more fascinating stop on the D-Day Trail.

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