Ouistreham, France

My folks had been to Normandy over the summer and had heartily recommended a visit to the Pegasus Bridge museum at Ouistreham, north of Caen. Despite my love of Second World War films as a nipper, the story of the daring raid on the Pegasus Bridge had somehow passed me by completely. Intrigued by what they had said about it, I pedalled through uninspiring industrial estates to the site.

The place had just opened for the day, so once again I was a lone museum observer, peering at an impressive and immaculately-presented collection of weapons, uniforms and other war paraphenalia. I peered a little too closely, in fact, banging my head against the glass of one cabinet, causing a tremendous rumble to reverberate around the empty museum which I had no luck in dampening.

Walking away swiftly with a puzzled expression which I hoped said “I wonder who caused that noise?”, I headed for cover at a central area of the room containing a scale map of the coast around Caen. The map had a series of buttons which illuminated tiny lights on the map. Thinking I couldn’t possibly break this, I cautiously pressed one.

This seemed to do the trick, as a little man in a tank top suddenly popped up – somewhat like, er, a genie who shopped at Marks and Spencers – and started speaking British at me.

At first I thought I must be hallucinating due to the blow to the head, but soon I deduced this chap was the curator of the museum and that he clearly had a great passion for the military operation it described. He very kindly took me through the events of that day in great detail, using the map as a reference and weaving in anecdotes the veterans had shared with him.

In order for the D-Day invasion of France to have any chance of success, the Allies needed to secure their left flank; failure to do so would leave them dangerously exposed to German counter attacks from the East. So in the hours before D-Day, five gliders each with a capacity of thirty men were launched mid-Channel from their towing aircraft and soared silently over the French coast, navigating purely by stopwatches and compass headings, and heading for two bridges over the river that flowed through Caen. Incredibly, from such a distance and with such fly-by-wire blind navigation, a couple of the gliders managed to land silently within just fifty yards of the Pegasus Bridge. They surprised the guards and within just ten minutes of landing the bridges had been taken intact, ready for the D-Day forces to arrive.

One glider’s cable, however, snapped prematurely, and with their calculations now useless, they had to navigate by sight. Mistaking an estuary further along for the mouth of the river through Caen, they landed at another bridge… and took that anyway! The operation was vital to the success of the D-Day invasion, as it gave the Allies a “hinge” on which to turn and advance eastwards. It was the stuff of films: a courageous attack, meticulously planned and beautifully orchestrated – as much as an act of war can be, that is.

By now a small tour group had arrived, and so the curator put on a short video for us all before taking us out to look at the  Pegasus Bridge itself, which had been decommissioned in the seventies and rescued from rotting in a French farmer’s field by money raised via the museum’s charitable foundation. The bridge had been faithfully restored, although they had thoughtfully left the bullet holes intact. The chap also showed us a  replica glider of the type that had been used in the operation. Whilst the museum on its own had been excellent, the curator’s presence had completely made the experience and ten people left that day with a vivid picture of the event and a real appreciation of its importance.

I cycled back, heading for the train station with the intention of jumping on a train to Paris. Maddeningly, the direct trains to the capital from Caen didn’t have the capacity to carry bicycles; apparently it was necessarily to put it in a bag and send it as luggage, or somesuch insanity. Luckily, I could go on regional trains via Argences, which had capacity for cycles, although these trains were slower and less frequent, meaning I finally reached Paris gone 10pm.

Tired, and with no wish to cycle the City of Lights without any lights, I decided to splurge by taking a room at the Novotel next door to the Montmartre train station I had arrived into, especially since the chap on reception had offered me a rate more suiting my budget if I paid up-front in cash. However, it took some insisting to get him to let me park Ron down in the underground private garage, with him cheekily suggesting Monsieur’s bicycle would be better out on the street, and me strenuously countering that Oh No, Monsieur – who may very well be unshaven and smelling slightly of Normandy but who was now a paying customer of Novotel, if you hadn’t noticed – most definitely requires one’s cheap and cheerful Halfrauds bicycle to be out of sight and parked down with the Mercedes, Thank You Very Much.

I had the best night’s sleep so far since being on the road, and swiped every freebie from the room except the shower cap.