Monday morning rush hours on the M25 are about as easy to predict as a rabid dog so a 100 mile drive to Gatwick airport from Leighton Buzzard would have required a very early start to be sure of arriving in good time for Keith and Marlene’s 10:40 check-in. There is a direct train service from Flitwick straight through to Gatwick, however, taking a reasonably predictable 1hr 45 mins. So, we decided to go with the train option. 7:30 AM, load bags in car and cue waterworks from Marlene and Carol. (They had both been practicing for emotional trauma yesterday, along with my good self, by watching Out of Africa – great for flushing out the tear ducts.) After being together for five weeks and sharing many adventures without killing each other, the cutting of the umbilical cord was bound to be a tearful affair but cut it we had to and cut it we did.

I drove to Flitwick railway station with Keith and Marlene while Carol remained at home to rouse her mother in readiness for her delayed train ride back to Scotland. Alas, not many deer were visible through the grounds of Woburn Abbey but we arrived 20 minutes before the train was due for Keith to buy his tickets. I helped get the not-inconsiderable baggage up and over the bridge to the correct platform and managed to get into a very meagre single shelter from the relatively strong, cold wind. Thank goodness it was not raining. The train service is fine (at least I saw a baggage rack in the carriage) but the station is truly pathetic – no help for people with baggage and precious little shelter from the elements. Way to go! The train arrived on time, however, and they were soon safely on their way.

Back home to deal with Carol’s mother and send her packing back to Scotland. The Gods must have been smiling ‘cos we found somewhere to park at Milton Keynes station. The Virgin train to Carlisle arrived on schedule and our last remaining house guest was soon on her way back to the frozen north.

We’ve had a great December, Christmas and New Year but the house is empty now and it all seems eerily quiet. We’ll have to talk to each other.

Saturday was to be our last excursion together before Keith and Marlene’s long trip back to Virginia. Carol had applied for tickets to the British Museum’s exhibition of The First Emperor and our allotted time slot was 8:20 PM. I don’t really like to be in London that late but it’s a very popular exhibition and availability is limited. So, we planned ot make a day of it visiting some sights in the afternoon followed by dinner in a restaurant somewhere before hitting the museum.

We began by visiting Tower Bridge. It has a permanent exhibition of the development and engineering involved in the bridge itself. Originally, the roadway was raised by large steam engines powering the hydraulics; today electric motors provide the power. The views from the walkways 140 feet above the Thames are impressive, too, although it really shows what a complete architectural mess London’s skyline has become; absolutely no integrity whatsoever.

Next we sauntered along the south embankment of the Thames and found Borough Market, albeit in the throws of winding down for the day. This is a great Saturday market for foodies but cheap it ain’t. There’s a lot of good stuff there if you feel like paying for it.

Although we started out from Leighton Buzzard in sun, the weather had caved in a little as we approached London which was grey and overcast. Now it was getting decidedly chilly so we decided to go and find dinner in Chinatown before heading up to the museum. We picked a restaurant which apparently specialized in crispy aromatic duck and the three of us managed to brow-beat Keith into one of the set meals for four featuring the very same. The meal staggered up to the dizzy heights of OK, in my opinion. The wine was good, though.

Finally, we travelled up to the British Museum to see the old Emperor guy and his terracotta army.We arrived when the 7:10 PM intake was going in, just over an hour too soon. Marlene to the rescue; she put on her best American accent and sweet-talked the nice young man into letting us in early. Result! Now we were able to get home before midnight. The exhibition was very good even for someone who doesn’t particularly enjoy museums. The terracotta figures were larger than I expected, around six feet tall, much larger than 2,000 year old Chinese people. It was very hot in the exhibition, though, and Carol and I eventually found Keith and Marlene trying to recover from the heat exhaustion by the exit.

Back home by 10:30 PM for the reviving drink of your choice.

Well, not exactly meet, perhaps, since our four friends, Peter, Janet, Steve and Rosemary, who were to join us for dinner on Friday evening had already met Keith and Marlene on previous occasions. This was more like renewing old acquaintances. The originally planned dinner for eight had become dinner for nine with the addition of Carol’s stranded mother. Seating would be a challenge and very cozy. However, neighbour Paul came to the rescue by supplying a few more dining chairs.

Carol came up with the bright idea of making a massive lasagna Bolgnese so my afternoon was dictated by the need to be tied to the cooker for four hours cooking it. We’d start with a selection of ante pasta dishes (cold meat components delicately rolled by Marlene), most of which required little or no preparation and, to make it a truly international affair, finish with another of those American diabetes-inducing sugar-injections called pecan pie a la Keith, baked in a case of Carol’s excellent pastry.

Having seemingly involved almost everyone within striking distance, it all came together as planned and we had what seemed to be a long and sociable evening polishing off everybody’s culinary efforts and, of course, washing it all down with further extracts from our now familiar wine lake.

What a team effort.

Wednesday was time for Carol to collect her mum from her sister’s house in Aylesbury. She was to stay with us for the night prior to being ferried to Milton Keynes railway station on Thursday for her journey home to Auchinleck in Scotland. All went well – initially. I returned from a shopping trip to find our house being turned upside down for an apparently missing train ticket. It turned out that the aforementioned ticket was still pretending to be a book mark back in Aylesbury. Bad ticket! What a nice day for a second round trip to Aylesbury to retrieve said ticket.

Having retrieved the ticket it seemed that Thursday rail travel on the necessary line was out of the question due to some over-running engineering works on the line by Rail Track. Bad Rail Track! We were to have an extra house guest for a few days. Full House. We decided that Carol’s mum should stick around over the weekend while any back log of passengers was cleared so she would eventually get a calmer trip back home.

Next problem – not enough of the daily medications necessary for the extended stay. This was relatively simply fixed by a trip to our local General Practitioner, fortunately. Well done Carol.   Good Doctor!

Drinks needed!

New Year’s Day started very murkily as we had a relatively leisurely pack in readiness for our journey home. After packing and negotiating all the various high-security exits to the apartment complex, Carol and I took a brief stroll around the Dives-sur-Mer harbour development before saying au revoir.

We had plenty of time for the journey; Calais was about three hours away and the ferry booking was for 5:30 PM. So, we decided to call in to a town that we habitually simply drive through on our longer French journeys: Rouen. This is where the English practiced their early barbecuing skills on Joan of Arc. We arrived just before midday and found somewhere to park fairly close to the centre. Being New Year’s Day, France was essentially closed for business but there were a few people wandering about. The town was badly damaged during the war and had obviously not been very sympathetically restored. The Cathedrale de Notre Dame and Palais de Justice were magnificent, the latter having largely been painstakingly cleaned of the years of grime. Scattered between the old elegance, however, were concrete monstrosities serving as stark reminders of the architectural follies of the late 1960s, some of these being covered in graffiti and sporting broken windows. One such building appeared to have incorporated and old historic wall into its structure but the joins were everything but seamless and the new swamped the old thus making the token gesture appear totally pointless. Curiosity sated, I think we’ll resume our former straight through approach next time.

Continuing our northward thrust toward Calais, the weather deteriorated and became depressingly wet and foggy so there was no point dallying further. We arrived at the ferry port and managed to get on to a crossing departing at 3:50 PM which would make our home time more appealing. We were boarding about 20 minutes after our arrival and managed to get a table in the on board Langan’s Brasserie. Apart from giving Keith and Marlene a comprehensive Channel crossing experience (tunnel out, ferry back), my main reason for using the ferry on New Year’s Day was to eat since I wasn’t sure what else might be open in France; a good decision, as it turned out, since little else was.

Naturally, once back on English soil the traffic density shot up alarmingly but we returned home without mishap carrying two prisoners captured from the Normandy Calvados Battalion as a reminder of a splendid trip.

Happy 2008 everybody!

Monday was deemed time for a break from the carnage of battle. Carol particularly had long wanted to see Le Mont-St-Michel but, since we rarely stay that far north for long, we had thus far avoided it. It’s about 100 miles from where we were staying in Dives-sur-Mer and now the French had put in a decent autoroute making it a reasonable drive of a little under two hours. So, off popped the battle-wearied troops. We arrived without incident approaching midday after a somewhat murky but nonetheless pleasant drive in very light traffic. This made me wonder where all the traffic at Mont-St-Michel had come from. The extensive parking facilities were filling up with hundreds of cars, in addition to about 25 camping motor vans and half a dozen or so tour buses spilling out an almost endless stream of Japanese tourists. I kid you not, I saw no exceptions; each and every bus appeared to contain exclusively Japanese. I’d heard that this was the most visited site in France and, given the crowds on New Year’s Eve, I could well believe it. Though quite busy it was actually reasonably comfortable – plenty of people watching to do – but what on Earth must it be like in summer?

The day remained murky so it was not a terrific photo opportunity but the place was very impressive, nevertheless, especially because of its scale. It is substantially larger than its related cousin on the English side of the Channel, St Michael’s Mount. We all climbed up to the entrance to the abbey itself where I decided to remain outside and do some of that people watching while Carol went in with Keith and Marlene. Eventually they re-emerged and we sauntered back down the hill through ever-increasing crowds, pausing only to buy lunch on the run in the form of pizza slices and a less-than-scintillating tuna baguette. We left the car park to continue filling up.

Returning to the carnage of war, nearby at Huisnes-sur-Mer is another burial site for German soldiers which we decided to visit. I was expecting another graveyard but it actually turned out to be an ossuary for the remains of almost 12,000 lost in various locations, including some from each of the Channel Islands of Jersey, Guernsey, Alderney and Sark. The structure resembled an enormous circular set of bank vaults on two levels, not particularly attractive, I thought, but moving nonetheless.

Now it was time to head back to Dives-sur-Mer for our now daily visit to the unexpectedly open supermarket to inflict further casualties on the forces of the European Wine Lake. Champagne was cooling in the fridge ready for the turn of the year and everyone either stayed awake or was woken up for it – weren’t they, Keith? Hard work, all this tourism.

Sunday morning dawned beautifully clear and we decided to head back to Arromanches to resume our tour where we had left off the previous day. We wanted to cover the ground more rapidly so chose the main road out of Caen. The first obstacle to deal with was the peripherique (ring road) around the city. After a minor glitch, all went smoothly and we returned to Arromanches, this time into the town and onto the beach front itself rather than on the overlooking cliffs. Our timing was perfect and the tide was low revealing massive remnants of the piers built in 1944 to unload supplies and sustain the invasion following D-Day. It was quite a sight now but I cannot imagine what it must have looked like completed and in full swing. The scale of the operation defies imagination.

Next we were off to the American sector and Omaha beach. “Bloody Omaha” was the hardest beach to take due to the strength of the defensive German positions and their commanding field of fire directly down onto the beach. After seeing the beach itself, now looking deceptively calm and peaceful, we drove up to the higher ground and along to visit the main American cemetery. Over 9000 brilliant white crosses and Stars of David, all perfectly aligned along every axis, made a very moving sight in typically immaculate surroundings.

Further west still lies the Pointe du Hoc, scene of an assault up a sheer cliff by American rangers using special climbing gear, necessary to neutralize German guns with a commanding field of fire over both Utah and Omaha beaches. The site has not been restored and still bears many craters and structures, even what appeared to be original barbed wire, as a memorial to those involved.

Being a little beached out now, we skipped Utah beach but did want to see Sainte-Mère-Église, scene of a famous incident involving an American paratrooper getting ensnared on the church by his parachute. An effigy of the hapless paratrooper (though he did survive the incident) hangs on the church now as a tourist attraction. Though I’m glad to have seen it, were it not for the somewhat theatrical dangling mannequin, there really would not be much to see.

Returning to ward home base once more, we passed the largest German cemetery at La Cambe and made a swift detour to call in. Here lie over 11000 German dead. How different this looked from other cemeteries we’d seen. Small, simple plaques lying flat on the ground each marking two graves with relatively few dark gray crosses somewhat thinly scattered in groups of five around the field. An intensely sombre look resulted.

Saturday morning is market day in Dives-sur-Mer and the old market hall quite a reputation as an architectural attraction. No trip to France can be called complete without a raid on a local market so we planned this for our morning sortie. We left our apartment and found somewhere to park without any trouble, then started following the stream of locals carrying market bags to find our objective. En route we discovered wonderful old timbered buildings arranged in courtyards ornately carved with references to Guillaume le Conquerant (William the Conqueror) and were immediately very taken with the town. The market hall and square outside proved to be an absolute treasure trove of mouthwatering food. We saw escargots, snails ready stuffed with garlic butter, cheeses3 (of course), mounds of fresh vegetables, rabbits being skinned, punnets of various mushrooms, duck, beef, pork, veal, pheasant, quail, partridge, guinea fowl; the list seemed endless. There was so much that appealed that a mere three days catering couldn’t do it all justice. However, hard choices had to be made and we contented ourselves with a few selections that could be managed with no oven and dubious cutlery: a couple of duck breasts, some locally farm-raised sirloin steak and paupiettes de veau (veal parcels) together with some pleurottes (a kind of mushroom) to make a sauce for the veal. Outside the market hall we were forced to succumb to the aroma of a rotisserie chicken to accompany some fresh bread for lunch. That was it – love at first sight.

Returning to the apartment, we took an adventurous route and stumbled across the local fish market down by the harbour. Inside we discovered a couple of stall-holders furiously shucking mountains of Coquilles St. Jaques (scallops) for two long lines of people, all of whom seemed to be buying about 5kg (11 lbs) of the them. At 5.50 Euros a kilo, we couldn’t resist and stood patiently in line as order after order was filled. After about 45 minutes it was our turn and, delayed slightly by the proprietor vanishing briefly to drag in a further mountain of scallops, we were rewarded with 10 of our own, surprisingly almost 3kg. There were also some wonderful looking turbot; if only we needed more food. The scallops turned out to be utterly stunning. Now I was completely smitten – here was a place truly worth invading.

After failing to kill-off completely the rotisserie chicken for lunch, we went out to do some sightseeing. First stop for us, just as it was in June 1944, was the now famous Pegasus Bridge, the first objective taken on the night preceding D-Day by a glider assault. The bridge over the Caen canal has now been upgraded but the original remains close by, together with a Horsa glider, in a memorial display commemorating the events. Regrettably, the memorial was closed but we did get some views through the surrounding chain-link fence.

Then it was off to the eastern end of the invasion beaches themselves. We dropped down to the coast road by Sword beach (British) and drove along to Juno (Canadian) before making our first stop at a commemorative marker to see an original defensive German anti-tank gun, still in its concrete bunker. A little further west, we came across what is said to be the first house liberated on D-Day. It sits right on the promenade overlooking the beach and continues to display a Canadian flag in honour of the liberating forces. Cue some tearful eyes from yours truly.

Once I could see clearly again, we continued west to view something I had long wanted to witness, the remains of the mulberry harbour built at Arromanches on the central invasion beach, Gold (British). I think we were all taken aback by the sheer expanse of the harbour that had been built by prefabricated units towed across the English Channel and sunk, many of which are still visible particularly at low tide. The wind was howling on top of the cliffs overlooking the scene and it began to rain a little. As the setting sun fell beneath the offending cloud bank, a rainbow appeared the end of which appeared to be directly on the beach itself. Now I was struck by the poetry of the scene – the end of a rainbow on Gold beach! Cue more waterworks. Fortunately I had my polarizing filter with me and grabbed a few shots. Also fortunately, since once more I couldn’t see clearly, auto focus exists. Being still on old film technology, we’ll have to wait to see if I was successful in capturing the sight.

At Longues-sur-Mer, just beyond Arromanches, is a German battery with the original guns in their bunkers. We called in to see something from the point of view of the opposition. Beginning to head back to base, we paused briefly at the British cemetery at Ryes which we stumbled across en route.

That was quite enough emotional turmoil for one day, it was time to head back and raid the supermarket again. Having seriously damaged the food market in the morning, our evening objective was mainly of a vinous nature. This time the attacking forces marched about 12 soldiers of the defending European Wine Lake battalion back to base for a prolonged session of interrogation over the next few days.

Having completed an intensive wine-drinking training schedule over the past four weeks, today we carried our battle to the enemy with a direct assault on the European Wine Lake in its very heartland. We were roused at 4:45 AM for our planned 5:45 AM departure and (hopefully) two hour drive in the personnel carrier to Folkestone where we were to board Le Shuttle for the 8:50 AM crossing. We were keen for Keith to see the train technology used in the Channel Tunnel. After a slightly delayed but very smooth 35 minute trip we took the enemy by surprise, stealthily emerging from the tunnel behind their defensive lines which were still positioned to guard the beaches against an expected seaborne invasion. We scampered on to the autoroute and were swiftly off towards Normandy to establish our New Year beach head.

Carol and I have always wanted to see Honfleur, by reputation a picturesque old harbour on the south of the estuary from Le Havre (by reputation, everything but picturesque). Today provided the perfect opportunity since our route to Dives-sur-Mer in Normandy would take us right by Honfleur. After about two hours driving, we pulled off the autoroute and broke our journey there for a seafood lunch followed by a stroll around the harbour enjoying the sites and aiding the digestion. Then it was back to the transport and on down the coast road for about another hour to find our accommodation. Our directions to our quarters had been written for a different flight path so, in consequence, we made one or two wrong turns before eventually finding a pleasant billet in Dives-sur-Mer just as light was fading. We were stationed in Port Guillaume, named after William the Conqueror who set sail from there in 1066 to invade England. Though his invasion technically succeeded, I can’t help but wish that he had done a more thorough job of instilling in the Angles the same passion for all things culinary that is so central to the lives of all Frenchmen. Nice try Guillaume – some of us are disciples to the cause and appreciate your efforts.

We fought our way through several heavily guarded entrance barriers using a combination of codes and keys to find the apartment. Having retrieved a special electronic device secreted by the French underground, we were then able to open a further two barriers and gain access to the underground parking area where our car would be safe from aerial attack by any cruising enemy seagulls. We completed the unloading operations and fought our way through further staunch resistance back upstairs to the apartment. Finally, we could leave to reconnoiter the local supermarché for evening provisions and to make an initial withering assault on the wine lake.

Allied Invasion Force Four was off to a grand start.

The ubiquitous “they” say that it takes visitors to make you do things that are on your own door step. That was certainly the case when it came to the Leighton Buzzard Narrow Gauge Railway. We have been living in this town for about 24 years and, although we have seen the little trains crossing various local roads on their journeys, we had never actually visited the operation. That all changed today, galvanized by Keith’s interest in all things rail. Boxing Day is one of the LBNGR’s so-called “mince pie special” days and steam would supposedly be up so off we went to the little terminus at Pages Park. The trains used to carry sand from our local sand pits to tile manufacturers nearby. Now, it is a leisure time passenger service.

We arrived just in time to see a train disappearing round the first corner on one of its 25 minute pleasure trips so we had time to wander around the tracks and see the lines into the engine sheds before the little engine, Doll, pulled the train back in to discharge its cargo. Not too many rug rats appeared, either, which looked like being a bonus. It could be that we had lucked out and hit a lunch time lull. As the passengers disembarked, the operators began filling the engine with water, too, so we were treated to some additional interesting maintenance activity.

With very little persuasion, Keith sauntered off to the office to buy a ticket (£5) for the next trip. He duly boarded the train, even braving a carriage with one or two children in it. As the train pulled out of the station, very slightly delayed while the steam changed colour having recently been stoked, Carol and I decided to drive off and try to meet the train as it made the first road crossing. Timing was perfect; as we drove across the tracks the train was just approaching the road and the attendant flag men soon appeared to stop the traffic. Carol and I pulled the car up to the give way line and played tourists by waving and grinning as the train passed. When all was clear, we shot off, threaded our way through few more back streets, and managed to find the train at the end of the outward leg of the trip. We sat and watched as the engine was being switched to the opposite end of the carriages for the return leg. We did a little more waving and grinning before returning to the terminus to meet Keith as Doll returned. We made a quick trip to the office for a few souvenirs before returning home for a refreshing cup of tea.

K&M were then forced to endure a showing of Casablanca (which is, of course, the best movie ever made) before we all trotted off next door to join Paul, Liz and two of their three daughters, for a splendid Spanish meal, tapas and paella, and to make a further combined assault on the European wine lake.