On the logic of war (Pèronne)
Looking back, I can see how ridiculous my anxiety about crossing the French border was. Essentially, nothing changed dramatically, as the bike paths, and especially their signposting, had been getting progressively more sporadic and less coherent the further I got from Holland, itself admittedly the Mecca of cycling. Once in France,this reverse evolution came to its logical conclusion as the bike lanes either disappeared or became littered with broken glass. I did not mind too much, as the drivers seemed to have no problem with me riding on the car lane and left a safe distance when overtaking.
Even the change of language did not prove to be such a great barrier as I had feared. As a matter of fact I can now understand most of what it says in roadside signs, while in the Netherlands and Belgium I was only guessing. I even managed to take care of all communication in my patchy French that may not be pretty but seems to be close enough to get myself understood.
I did do my best to prolong the inevitable, though. Yesterday, upon leaving Antwerpen I managed to spend so much time getting to Gent that was supposed to be my lunchstop that I just could not make it to France before dark. Thus, in the Belgian town of Kortrijk I decided to call it a day. Only to discover that there was no campsite, no hostels or B&B's, and the tourist office already closed. A taxi driver recommended I cross the border as there would be a cheap hotel on the French side, but having seen all those girls in their underwear standing in windows on the main street I was not too keen. Poshly, I opted to check into a Holiday Inn instead.
This morning I finally did the inevitable thing and crossed the border, which consisted of nothing more than the river Leie. At first, reading the map with its countless crossroads and ever-changing road numbers seemed exhausting. One simply could not ride and look at the map at the same time, which resulted in constant stops and a growing sense of desperation. I was beginning to wonder if I would ever get to Paris, when getting out of even the smallest town was this difficult!
It did get better, though, as I learned to avoid the town centres altogether and to choose such roads that kept the same number for more than a few km's. By late afternoon, I was beginning to even enjoy myself, as the gentle tailwind spurred me on through the gently undulating countryside. And, finally, the sun was shining.
Riding through the open landscapes I could not help but wonder about the sense of warfare. My route passed countless military cemeteries from the WW1, while the memorial monuments that stood guard at them showed them to commemorate soldiers from Britain, Canada, Australia, Germany, even Portugal. Looking at the vast plains stretching into the horizon I found myself disgusted by the logistics of such battles: men fighting each other in trenches, hastily dug in the fields, with no cover for tens of km's either way, probably stuck in their positions for weeks at a time, and any advance only made possible with an enormous loss of life. And what was it that these people were fighting for? Their country? Their Queen? Their freedom? I could not help asking myself whether it wasn't all some stupid power struggle between a few Big Shots, safely in their bunkers behind the lines, having a glass of sherry while deciding on yet another meaningless attack to gain a few hundred metres of muddy ground?
I am the first one to admit my ignorance on the historical reasons that led to that (or indeed, any!) war. In my mind, the title given to the tens of thousands of graves I must have passed today, gives as accurate a reason as any: this was the commonWEALTH war, but as a matter of fact the wealth was not to be quite that common in the end. Thinking of all those wars waged ever since, was there ever any other reason?
Even the change of language did not prove to be such a great barrier as I had feared. As a matter of fact I can now understand most of what it says in roadside signs, while in the Netherlands and Belgium I was only guessing. I even managed to take care of all communication in my patchy French that may not be pretty but seems to be close enough to get myself understood.
I did do my best to prolong the inevitable, though. Yesterday, upon leaving Antwerpen I managed to spend so much time getting to Gent that was supposed to be my lunchstop that I just could not make it to France before dark. Thus, in the Belgian town of Kortrijk I decided to call it a day. Only to discover that there was no campsite, no hostels or B&B's, and the tourist office already closed. A taxi driver recommended I cross the border as there would be a cheap hotel on the French side, but having seen all those girls in their underwear standing in windows on the main street I was not too keen. Poshly, I opted to check into a Holiday Inn instead.
This morning I finally did the inevitable thing and crossed the border, which consisted of nothing more than the river Leie. At first, reading the map with its countless crossroads and ever-changing road numbers seemed exhausting. One simply could not ride and look at the map at the same time, which resulted in constant stops and a growing sense of desperation. I was beginning to wonder if I would ever get to Paris, when getting out of even the smallest town was this difficult!
It did get better, though, as I learned to avoid the town centres altogether and to choose such roads that kept the same number for more than a few km's. By late afternoon, I was beginning to even enjoy myself, as the gentle tailwind spurred me on through the gently undulating countryside. And, finally, the sun was shining.
Riding through the open landscapes I could not help but wonder about the sense of warfare. My route passed countless military cemeteries from the WW1, while the memorial monuments that stood guard at them showed them to commemorate soldiers from Britain, Canada, Australia, Germany, even Portugal. Looking at the vast plains stretching into the horizon I found myself disgusted by the logistics of such battles: men fighting each other in trenches, hastily dug in the fields, with no cover for tens of km's either way, probably stuck in their positions for weeks at a time, and any advance only made possible with an enormous loss of life. And what was it that these people were fighting for? Their country? Their Queen? Their freedom? I could not help asking myself whether it wasn't all some stupid power struggle between a few Big Shots, safely in their bunkers behind the lines, having a glass of sherry while deciding on yet another meaningless attack to gain a few hundred metres of muddy ground?
I am the first one to admit my ignorance on the historical reasons that led to that (or indeed, any!) war. In my mind, the title given to the tens of thousands of graves I must have passed today, gives as accurate a reason as any: this was the commonWEALTH war, but as a matter of fact the wealth was not to be quite that common in the end. Thinking of all those wars waged ever since, was there ever any other reason?
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