My ferry isn’t until 11:30 pm. So I potentially have a full day to explore. It’s an interesting area – the dense history; and flat, beach-rich terrain alongside an ecologically significant area of wetlands. I have a sense of jostling, between the rights of nesting ringed plovers, nudists, non-nudists, cyclists, walkers…
As I cycle past the Pegasus Memorial Centre (https://musee.memorial-pegasus.com/en/pegasus-bridge/) I don’t even think, “Villages were bombed to smithereens, ordinary men mustered beyond-human levels of courage in unbelievably brutal conditions” – it’s a visceral, gut reaction as I find myself welling up. And I ponder on a conversation with Aurore. Her take is that, in France, if it’s not allowed it’s forbidden – and this comes from the Revolution and rights not lightly relinquished, once won. The feeling of “we” makes state or departmental dictates easier to take on board. And whilst the French tendency to strike is notorious, it has an aspect that goes beyond the individual. It’s not just bolshiness. In Aurore’s view, there is more solidarity in France and more compassion in England. Head and heart? I think I agree.
Cycling along the straight, wide Orne river (actually a canal) is a little dull. So I deviate into the hinterland.
At the Gros Banc ornithological reserve, in the Orne estuary, I briefly abandon the bike in order to walk through the dunes to the northern beach. All around are the remains of 2WW defences.
I am amused at a stern sign outlawing nudity – on pain of municipal arrest. Seconds later I see why it is there – as I stumble on a naturist beach. This is actually good news. There’s nothing I like more than throwing off my clothes and plunging in for a swim. But the mahogany paunches are a little comic. And, although I do get in the sea, it’s a bizarre experience, as a single female. Especially as I now see I am beyond the edge joining the non-nudist area. So I am expecting any minute to be arrested by the municipality through being in the wrong place, or wrongly attired.
Back on my bike, even without looking, I fall on historically significant places, like the avenue of trees at Merveille-Franceville commemorating the 9th battalion parachutists.
And at Oger I read:
In the early afternoon Amfreville, and the Oger hamlet... benefitted from a vast view to the sea and the estuary of the Orne river, over the valley of the Dives to the East and Bréville to the South. As a strategic spot, Oger was occupied by British, French and then Belgian troops, who took turns in the fighting during the summer of 1944.
Situated at the far end of this little square, the hamlet castle welcomed its first British liberators as early as the afternoon of 6th June. Among them was an engineering company from the 6th Air-landing Brigade led by General Gale.
The building was occupied by different military staffs and mainly used as headquarters for Commando n°4. This is in the park of the castle - where the first graves for the killed commandos were dug – and where the British erected a monument in honour of the Franco-British Commando n°4 in July 1944. It was conceived in the Scottish tradition, moulded in a washtub and given the shape of a "cairn" made with a number of stones, equivalent to the number of soldiers in the unit on 6th June 1944.
It happened. And most of us take for granted the lives we are living now which would been so, so different.
I make it back to the hotel and finally start reading one of the two novels that I have been lagging around for the last five days. After half an hour of idleness I cycle into Caen for a guided tour that I’m booked on. It is worth the effort. I will forget everything by tomorrow. But, at the time, the following stories impress me:
– the River Orne originally ran through the centre of Caen, but was deviated early in the history of the town, thin blue lines on the pavements show its original route
– the importance of stone as a basis for Caen's dominance as a town, and creating its physical character (Cherbourg and Le Havre are said to look grubby in comparison);
– the fact that “only” 80% of the town was obliterated during 2WW accounts for its charm – though less of it is original than I originally thought;
– Guillaume le conquérant is responsible for some of the oldest buildings (I’m amused that apparently no French child is likely to have heard of him – he was just a Norman duke, after all), including the castle;
– Guillaume was successful at Hastings because although the English were better at strategy, the Normans were better at one-to-one fighting, which is how the battle was won; Guillaume also benefited from the English being distracted by fighting the Vikings up in York and choice his moment to invade accordingly;
– Caen has been very much remodelled over the last few years, with high-end blocks of flats replacing the heavy industry along the river (the usual story of Airbnb distorting the local market).
It’s an exceptionally pleasant city to walk around with many fine buildings and grand, wide boulevards. With an inner-city population of 100,000, Caen is punching above its weight, thanks to the post-2WW Marshall Plan. Go visit!
The rest of the day is a little trying. The sun goes down and the vibe at the end of this May Day is unpredictable. At Ouistreham I am accosted by a couple of drunken youths making clumsy small-talk. I feel conspicuous and uncomfortable, and become progressively colder watching the ferris wheel. Later than I could have, I seek refuge in a restaurant near the port for a cup of tea.
Finally, it is time to board. I spend a near-sleepless night disturbed by lager louts who haven’t noticed that it is night time. Hmm. Perhaps it was unwise to economise on a berth.
We make it back to Portsmouth without incident and the train connection back to BoA is smooth. Nice to arrive for the last day of the heat wave.
