So I had four men to see today. The Pair went off to Tyne Cot and The Brooding Canadian Soldier, to my mind the finest memorial on the Front. I laid in like a Sloth. 

 Got my uniform on because I needed to honour my last four men. The Pair suggested I did five to make sure, but more to come on that. I went to the Menin Gate and left my tiny little poppy, you will see it in the above photograph; next to the trademark helmet. I left it next to the factory-made huge wreathes left earlier. Nothing wrong with them, but they were made in a factory. Mine was made with love by a friend, no idea which, but I know it was made with love and feeling. Its a tiny little poppy and that makes it special to me. 

I humped my bike up onto the ramparts and cycled round the wall to Ramparts Cemetary. Yes, Im still riding the bike. I have the people I have my little hobby job with to thank for that. One person got me into biking and she knows who she is. Thank you, because otherwise this may not have happened.  I left the poppy on a brave Northumberland Fusilier and also at the Gurkha memorial.              

I set off to find Hells Corner but found another instead, Menin Road South, and left a lovely poppy for a fine KOYLI. The Pair called so I joined them for a bijou drinkette then off for the last two men. The first was a Royal Scots Fusileer at Perth cemetary, then I trundled to Zillebeke.  I had seen 99 fine men and the last had to be special. I saw a sign for a cemetary and cycled up a snicket to find one of the most wonderful I have seen on this extraordinary journey.  I found an Unknown Soldier from the Duke of Wellingtons regiment, a tyke one at that. My first was a West Yorkshireman, and the last. I laid my last poppy at this brave mans grave, and saluted the man. He died for us. Thank you.

So that was the end. My last man. I went off and cried my bloody eyes out. 

 My mother died last September. She installed at an early age an appreciation of Second World War history. My Grandad, Raymond Bather, fought with the 51st Highland Div from El Alamein to Tripoli. My maternal Grandad, Bob Gould, was in the Territorials and was on the BEF on the retreat to Dunkirk, which is why I needed to do the wading into the sea.  My mother would have been really proud of this venture. She wouldn’t have told me. She would have told everyone else, but not me. Thats what she did. I never cried when she died. I didn’t cry when my dad died in 1996. But I cried today, a lot. I wrote a message to my wonderful sisters and brother afterwards. My other brother, Frank, went ahead a few years ago to get the place sorted for when we all joined him. So we are four now. 

This has been a wonderful, difficult and emotional voyage. I did what I set out to do. Please give to the cause if you can. I’ve earned it.

This is my Last Post. Goodbye. 

So the Ride was over but I still had a job to do. 15 men still to visit and I was to do a tour of the Salient. The pair let me sleep in way too late. I had to complete a circuit and it ended up as 35 km in the end. 

We have been camping all the time and we have a lovely big tent with an awning. Ray and I sleep in the two bedrooms and Marc sleeps in the awning with all his mates. He has got the letty downy air bed tee hee. I had it at Albert. 

I had to do a tour of the Salient today because I had 18 more men to honour to complete my 100.  Its easy here; there are cemetaries thick and fast I headed west and found a consolidation cemetary , where a lovely couple took the photo above by the Great Sword. Every cemetery has this Great Sword, you will have seen it in my posts and i have always tried to include my helmet in every image. 

The next was Essex Farm where the Canadian Doctor wrote In Flanders Fields. It is large and was covered in schoolchildren. There is also the West Riding monument, built in the Yorkshire style from millstone grit from the Pennines. Captain John Mcrea , a doctor in the Canadian army, wrote the famous Poem and is widely viewed as the inspiration of the poppy as a memorial symbol. There were bunkers there where field surgeons tried to save the lives of men damaged on the battlefields. 

Another lovely Cemetary,  then I had to go to Langemark for the German cemetary. It is a bleak place. But eight men in a mass grave now have a pretty poppy. They were Germans, but they had mothers, wives, children and they were as brave as all the others. They deserve our respect.

I have a mate at my work who is Irish and his family were traditionally state men. I found a monument to a Nationalist Irish poet and placed a poppy on the spot where  he died. His name is Francis Ledwidge and his poem Soliloquy is legendary.

At Langemark there was a party of schoolchildren from Somerset and their teachers encouraged them to listen to my tale. They gathered round; I in my uniform telling tales of derring do and they hung on every word. That’s how you teach history. 

I went to Passendaele  and had a pint and a chat to an Aus from Melbourne. His parents were Ten Pound Poms in the sixties. 

Third ypres July 1917 was all about Passendaele. It was a tiny undulation but was a thorn in the British side. Haig thought that if we broke through here, we could go to capture the Belgian ports and roll up the German Army; well that didn’t happen. There was torrential rain and the battlefield became a quagmire. The result was hideous in the extreme. 

After that I trundled to Tyne Cot. Nothing, but nothing prepares you for this place. It is monstrous. I got hijacked by some people and had my photo took with a gorgeous little girl with learning  problems. So pretty and I made her laugh. 

Off to Zonnebeek and a nifty pint and a chat with a Digger from Melbourne. I gave him a poppy to put on his local memorial onArmistice  Day. At a massive French cemetery I met an Aussie who worked for the Australian government and he is compiling a guide for the 1000 centenery. He took a photo and and said  it was going in the book. A lot of Aussies today; but then a lot of them died here. 
The Ride is over but I still have 4 more men to visit. Goodnight 

So that’ll be that then. Nobody said it was going to be easy. 

The last 50km and I only made three graveyards and a monument but that was what today was all about. The British front technically ended at Ypres but I had to reach the sea where my grandad, Bob Gould, was evacuated in 1940. Different war perhaps, but was it? Perhaps it was the same war, round two. The Versailles Treaty virtually guaranteed a replay. The Germans didn’t surrender in 1918, only agreed to a ceasefire and we imposed impossible terms on them. Anyway, I had to reach the sea.

The Pair let me sleep in too late so I didn’t get off until 1050. I was leaving from the campsite so no messing about loading up the bike. It was going to be just a tedious trudge through fen country with little to see so I just knew I had to get the miles in and nothing else. Set off towards Poperinge but found a minor road which paralleled the dual carriageway. I found a little cemetary called Hop Store and a man by the name of Earnest Pomellete, DLI, recieved a lovely crocheted poppy. A few kilometres later there was a tiny cemetary by the name of Red Farm. In that place was a stone for three civilian victims of the Great War so they deserved my poppy as much as any soldier, so they got one. 

A highlight of a boring ride; at a crossroads I was flagged down by a gentleman who spoke no English, but I showed him my card with the trip details and he shook my hand heartily and wished me good luck, and complimented me on my Dutch. At Dozinhem an elderly French couple asked about my trip and told me I was very courageous. Very few people speak English round here so I had to rely on my decent French and rudimentary Dutch.

I’ve stopped calling it World War One, and will never do so again after this experience. To me from now on, it can only be the Great War, because that is what the French and Belgians called it. In my travels this trip the scale has been beyond conception. The utter devastation, the extraordinary loss of life is so incomprehensible until you retrace this trip and see it for your own eyes. I recommend that you do it, but in a car with a bike on the back to access the difficult sites. 

My final cemetary today was Dozinhem and it was enormous, over 3500 men. It was a field hospital and many men they could not save, and they lie here. My Better Half is from Cumbria and her name is Bell. I found a young man, Pte R W Bell from Carlisle. Perhaps? …… I also found three Chinese labourers; name was in squiggly but the salutation was ” A Good Reputation Endures Forever”. An obvious translation from Mandarin. 

No more cemetaries after that, just a tedious pedal into massive headwinds, over flat and boring fenland. Lots of hops here, and at last the poppies reappeared; I had missed them. I took one to press as a memory. A couple of times I was downwind of the irrigation sprayers and was eternally grateful for a short spray of cool water droplets. It was bloody hot, with no shade and that damn wind. I had to pedal all the time because of the wind so my bum got very sore. I drank about three litres of water today. 

The crops now are mainly Hops and barley. Good priorities. I wonder what they are going to do with them? I have talked about crops all week, when you are cycling along you notice these things. In Picardy the potatoes were relatively young, maincrops. Further north they were mid crop and in flower; I never realised how lovely potato flowers smelled. 

I was aware I had not left a poppy at any Belgian graves, so at a village I placed one on the war memorial. No one was there to witness it. 

I never saw another person or car for 45 minutes. There was no private place for a wee so in desperation I just used the side of the road. As soon as I got my willy out a bloody car came past in mid flow. Would you believe it? 

I could see industrial buildings on the horizon. It was Dunkirk! I rang my better half and told her I was only 6 km from the finish. Karon has been extraordinary in this project. She set up this site, she keeps me straight and nags me at appropriate and inappropriate times. At the weekend she even went up and sorted my midden up at Swinhope. Despite her objections and protestations I intend to make her my wife. 

I trundled along a major road and 2 km from the end I entered the built up area and 2 km from the coast I stopped for a naughty beer. Then I got dressed in my Tunic for the glorious Finale into Bray. Half way there i saw a sign, Route Barree. Bollocks to that. I’ve come 380km. I went through the roadworks and the workmen yelled at me. ” Route barree, Route barree!” Sod em. I’m going through. I got to the barriers and moved them aside. I’ve pedalled from St Quentin, I’m 1 km from the end and no bloody hole in the ground is going to stop me now. I could smell the sea. 

I arrived at the seafront and it could have been Southport or Herne Bay. Old people on benches. The sea was out. There was a memorial to the French rearguard from 1940. The French saw Dunkirk as a disgraceful abandonment by the British, and a gallant Rearguard action by the French to allow it. Yet almost a third of the evacuated were French troops; the majority elected to return to France rather than join De Gaulles Free forces.  And why not? The “knew” the war was lost and they wanted to go home to their loved ones and so would I. But the French forces did provide a stirling rearguard and spent four years in captivity for their efforts. Their Memorial got a poppy. 

I looked north and south and saw the dunes my grandad was evacuated from. The lads weren’t there for the finale so it was an anticlimax. I took some pictures , found a crap pub and got a chap to take some photos for me. He wanted selfies with me. Later the Pair joined me, we had a drink then I waded into the sea. I’d done it. Bloody hell. 

At the crap bub, prior to the wading, I had taken off my shoes and socks and went to pay my bill. A nasty old bag gave me a real bollocking for being in the pub barefoot and told me I must be English. I told her to take a flying leap, the old cow, in French. After the paddle three lovely old alcoholics came and one of them spoke passable english. They insisted on shaking my hand many times and the english speaker insisted in kissing me in the French man style, only he went a bit overboard and I could taste intimately what he had for lunch.  He hadn’t shaved in a few days and I worried my tach and his stubble would do the Velcro thing. He told me he loved the British and if it wasnt for us he wouldn’t be free. That was really nice and made up for the vitriolic old cow, apart from the tongues. ( I exaggerated that) .  I gave them each a poppy and got them to promise for me that on armistice day they would put it on a grave or memorial. 

We whizzed back to Ypres and had an hour sitting in the last of the sun. We went off to the town and Ray and Marc went to see the Menin Gate ceremony whilst I did paperwork. Off for waffles and ice cream then back to the tent to talk bobbins. Our tent is enormous with a huge awning and a fridge so we have cold beer. Marc sleeps in the main tent whilst Ray and I are in the bedrooms. Ray has not been camping in 50 years; Marc and I are ex military men. Ray was never meant to camp; he was supposed to be in hotels but gave it a try and he has done marvellously. 

So; thats that. I have to do a circular tour of the Ypres battlefields tomorrow as I have 15 poppies to award. Its easy here as one man died for each square inch captured. Imagine that; 350000 men for six miles gained. One per inch. A mothers son. For one inch. They stopped using rifles here in the latter stages of Third Ypres. They put bayonettes onto poles so they could stab at further range than the Germans. They used stabbing knives, coshes with nails in them, knuckle dusters because the fighting was subhuman grappling in the mud. As many men drowned in the mud as died through gunshot. It was hell on earth.  One General being given a tour at the end of the battle broke down into tears and said ” We sent men out to fight in this?” . Yes you did sir, whilst drinking fine wine in your chateaux. Hurrah! Oh what a lovely war. 

Tomorrow I will discuss the whole experience as I haven’t finished yet: I have brave men to see and beautiful poppies to lay. These poppies were hand made with love. Thank you ladies. From the bottom of my heart. For years to come visitors will see these poppies and wonder how, and why. We know. 

So, apart from tomorrows little tour, the job is done. I cycled from St Quentin to Dunkirk. 380 km. Karon made me have a NHS check before I left. I think some people had doubts as did I after day one. But I feel as fit as a butchers dog. My bum hurts, I got ran over but otherwise spiffing. 

Low points? Being run over wasnt great. Arras; what a flytipping shithole. The damn wind. 

High points? The old man shouting “Wondorfool! Wondorfool!”. The two small boys marching past singing le Marseillaise and saluting. The poppies, the ubiquitous poppies. A very special memory that. 

1 700 000 men from Britain, the Empire, and the Dominions died on the western front. There are only a few villages in Britain where every lad came back. They are called The Thankful Villages and they can be websearched. One may be near you. I spent 21 years in the armed forces and never was I put in harms way. Thats the equivalent of both world wars, the Korean War, both gulf wars, the Crimea, and the boer war. I was lucky. This was an artillery war.You were lucky or you weren’t. 

My emotions are in some turmoil this evening, but the job is done, and in opinion, done well. Goodnight my friends, sleep well as will I. 

Into the salient. That phrase sent shivers into many a brave man. So, we are now in Belgium. We had to retrace back to Fleurbaix in France to find my Uncle Albert, on my mums side. He died of wounds sustained in May 18 during the Kaisers Offensive. He recieved a poppy from our Mother, who joined him last autumn. 

I like Armentiers, it has cycle lanes. A complete contrast to Arras and its environs. The plan today was a gentle trundle to Ypres, directly 22 km but I was to wander about finding Hexham men and seeeing as many lads as I could. In the end it was 46km. It was blisteringly hot but occasionally I had a good cooling wind. The bike is performing wonderfully.  Once out of the urban sprawl I was into open country once more and I love it. 

The names of the places en route were really evocatve, especially when given Tommy names. Plugstart (Ploegsteert), Wijtschateate ( you guess!) , Hemmel. Crop of the day: Hops. It was really easy cycling but hot, hot indeed. The first cemetary, the Strand, I found a Mauri soldier from Rotorua; I’ve been there, and it is indeed very smelly from the hot springs.  What an awfully long way to travel to die. For the people that nicked his country. There were no Long White Clouds today, utterly blue sky.  At Hyde Park Corner, I met a Cameron serving in the Cameron’s and a lovely poppy adorns his grave. The Cemetaries came thick and fast, I had to pick and choose. I chose well. 

There was a massive, even ostentatious memorial to the Berkshire Regiment, almost inappropriate, opposite Hyde Park. Almost everywhere I have been people have shown curiosity and interest in what I am doing. At the Berks memorial, there was a people carrier with several English men with southern accents, smoking tabs and drinking beer; they never gave me a second glance. Why were these men here? A jolly, a week away from their partners on a lads drinking trip?  They saddened me, drinking and smoking and swearing in front of a beautiful if gory monument to dead men. Just down the road I saw a sign for the Christmas Truce memorial and two Cemetaries, Mud Corner and Prowse Point so I trundled down the lane. Mud corner was a charming small plot, it now housed the Cross originally erected for the Christmas Truce. A New Zealender native to Auckland has a poppy there. Prowse Wood was named after a Major who took the position without loss of his companies lives. Lost his though. In between was the awful, tacky appalling UEFA monument to the Christmas truce. Why? They moved the original Commemorative Cross down the road to Mud Corner, so now all they see is this celebrity endorsed eyesore instead. Bloody awful. 

I had some bait at mud corner and headed off up Messiness ridge, about 2 km of relatively strict climb. Halfway up is the wonderful Island of Ireland Peace park with its evocative tower. I took pictures, left a poppy and sent the photos to my good Irish mate that I work with; unfortunately I suspect he is a State man. Trundling up the hill, I finally reached Messiness and looked for my map for the way to Kemmel. BOLLOCKS! I had left it at Mud Corner. I could buy another one at the shop I was parked by, but no, this was MY map and it had served me well so was bloody well going to get it back. So I did. 5km added to the journey in scorching heat. But it was my map. And I love it. I found it. tatty though it is. 

I have bad news for Karon, my supportive and lovely partner.  I’ve fallen in love with my bike. If it wouldn’t have punctured my air bed I would sleep with it. I’ve lived with it, hurt with it, gone through the best and wort of times with it for over a week now and I cant bear to be parted. I even cycle to the loo at the campsite. It’s taken me from St Quentin to Ypres and been my mate and companion. I’ll miss it when I throw the bloody thing in the garage after all this and go back to Karon. As Robert Shaw said in Jaws, ” you’re going to need a bigger seat”.

Back on the road to Messiness then to Kemmel. Wild goose chase looking for one of our Hexham lads then I did a naughty thing,  I only had a straight 8 k to get back to Ypres so I stopped at an estaminet and had a beer. Shocking. After that another Northumberland Fusilier got my poppy and I trundled towards Wipers. Shortly after I came across La Laiterie, a square large cemetary which contains two of our fine Hexham lads and it was a pleasure to lay them my lovely hand made poppies. 

Talking of hand made poppies. I had nearly two hundred wonderful hand made poppies to give to the lads. I even flew especially to france to meet my magnificent ladies who made me so many marvellous poppies. So they are entitled to know where they went. Just like I sometimes randomly select men to honour, I have a pannier full of poppies which I fill every day. On each visit I plunge my hand in blind and select a poppy at random. Each poppy is appreciated with all my heart, but that’s the way I do it. 

A couple more Graveyards on the way to Ypres and then I met the Pair in the square. After 72 hours long wait I got served and the Pair went back to the campsite whilst I contemplated my navel over another beer. I was photographed by a Belgian man who wanted  my email address to send me the photos. He stared at me a lot. I think he loves me. Its not reciprocated.              

I had more beers than were recommended by the Temperance Cycling Club and rejoined the chaps slumbering away at the campsite. I cooked last nights doggy bag of Flanders beef stew with some carrots and onions and it was delicious . Ray had a pint of air. We sat all evening and talked bollocks until the early hours. Three old men and a bike. 

Technically, I have achieved the aim of cycling the whole British Front by arriving at Ypres from St Quentin. By rights I should stop now; Ive met my remit. But the front didn’t end at Ypres; it ended at Nieuport; but that was covered by by the Belgian army My quest is the British line so I must end it at Dunkirk. There lies another story, another war. My Grandfather, Bob Gould, was evacuated from those beaches. Tomorrow I will wade into the sea as he did so many years ago. My mothers father, my mother having joined him last year. This last part is for her and my Uncle Victor, Auntie Elsie, Auntie Marjorie, Auntie Betty and Auntie Carol. 

I’m now terribly sad it is nearly over. One last push and I’m at the sea, the climax of all that I have planned and dreamed of. My pair have been magnificent, as has Karon with her techno skills and all the others at home. But, to be immodest, there was only one man on the bike and  I hope I made my family and friends proud. I am proud of myself too; at stages I thought I wouldn’t manage it.  But like the Duracell Bunny, I am still there. Not bad for a man approaching 59?

Well, today WAS another day. We had to strike camp this morning and move to Belgium but the Pair allowed me a lie in until 9.30 whilst they did most of the work. As apparently I can’t pack a car properly so they did it today and made just as much of a dogs breakfast as I did. So today was to get back to Bully and my target was Armetiers on the Belgian border, a tough task with a late start so I would be pedalling in the heat of the afternoon. It had to be a short day today because of the move but I still managed 46 km in soaring heat. 

On the way we spotted a Czech cemetary and a Polish memorial. Presumably, they fought on the German side as they were then occupied by Germany and Austria, but they still fought and died so a poppy each they recieved. The Enemy can be brave too, and they weren’t even fighting for the fatherland. Their countries got short lived freedom for a few years after Versailles. 

Back at Bully, and I had to find a way out of this ugly mining conurbation. It was a ‘mare as there were no signposts so once again I reverted to compass and found myself on the road I wanted, heading slightly east of north. As I was checking my map, safely on the pavement so no lunatic could reverse into me, I heared two young boys singing Le Marseillaise: they were marching in perfect step saluting me. I saluted back, wonderful. Many waves, horns, salutes today, until I got into Flanders. At one Cemetary the CWGC men were busy tidying up a pretty tatty site and insisted on photos with me. I think it must give them much satisfaction that their work is so appreciated. 

The crops have changed slightly now; cabbages and my first grape vines. Lots of cabbages of all hue; Savoy, Red, Primo.  Maize, but in France primarily for animal feed. Fewer piles of stinking poo at the side of the road. And the poppies returned; I’d missed them in the conurbation and they made my heart sing again. When you are in a car speeding along, you miss these little nuances. At my speed you have lots of time to think and you notice so much. Better that than on a racing road bike with your head down. 18kph is my normal pedalling rate and I see it all. I see lots of Lycra clad racers and they have their heads down, speed is all. Their loss. It was great to be back out in open country again. 

Today was about making Armentiers rather than wandering around as before. Yet I discovered some of the most charming resting places. There were a couple of musts; more later. The Pair went off to see our last Allendale lad in Arras that I missed in yesterday’s debacle and found him easily. Now every man on the St Cuthberts church gate on our route has a poppy hand delivered and hand made. 

I was content with serendipitous discoveries, and found gems. Woburn Abbey, Post Office rifles, Euston Post. Mostly small cemetaries from 1917 but as I approached Neuve Chappelle there were more from 1915 during that dreadful battle. That is where the Indians came in. At 1st Ypres one third of the troops stopping the German onslaught were Indian and they paid the price handsomely. The Indian monument there is lovely, in the Oriental style, with 4500 names on the wall.; no graves. I left a poppy on the alter. Later on I found a small cemetary in a farmyard, Rue Du Baqueroi No 1 ( snappy title). It was odd; two separate cemetaries in the same place, and one was divided into two by a wall. The larger cemetary contained Anglo saxons; the smaller Indian troops. The segregated section contained their British officers and NCOs. Different times when these graves were laid. The Past is a different country; they did things differently there.  An unknown brave Hindu soldier now has a scarlet poppy to liven up his rest. 

By the Indian memorial is the Portuguese one. They entered the war in 1917 and offered a division to the allies. They were put in a quiet sector of the line to acclimatise and recieved the full brunt of the German 1918 Kiesers Offensive and were slaughtered. One lone machine gunner held his post until he ran out of ammunition and was killed. It was a sad cemetary; the grass was well kept by the CWGC but no flowers, the stones were at all manner of jaunty angles, and most were unreadable through weathering and neglect. The Portuguese were wise enough to avoid major wars, happy with the conquests they acquired in the early days of exploration. They dipped their toe into this one found it too hot for them and declined the invitations to the replay. Miguel Marques was one of the few that could be made out from the dilapidation and neglect, and now is probably the only Portuguese on the front with a poppy. 

Just after the Indian and Portuguese sites I found a charming cemetary on a busy road called Euston Post. As I was about to leave a charming American couple pulled in; they were going in the opposite direction and saw me. They were on a pilgrimage too. We had good chats, they were remarkably well versed and it was a pleasure to meet them. He hated Haig with a passion. Pictures were taken and off I went. 

I had a destination and a timescale so I couldn’t mess about today, but I kept stumbling on sites and just had to stop and pay my respects. The entire route today was as flat as a billiard table. Let me explain about electric assisted bikes: they assist the pedlar when the going is difficult i.e. On hills. On the flat they do almost nothing. Paradoxically then, pedalling on the flat is harder because you get little help and the gears are optimised for motor assistance. Going up hills you do and downhill you can freewheel, stand up, and give your bum a brief respite. And it weighs twice as much as a normal bike. 

I was now in Flanders and much has changed from Picardy. The style of the houses is different, and the gardens. I came through a small town, last before Armentiers, and noticed a communal graveyard with a CWGC sign. On entering I found amongst the civil graves a line of British men from the retreat to Dunkirk, only a few of them. I chose one of the nine Yorkshiremen there and awarded him my poppy and moved on. Thirt minutes later I got a Facebook message saying my maternal great uncle was one of those few men. I will be going back tomorrow. In that message I was also told that another paternal great uncle was at a cemetery I had earlier visited on the Somme but its too late for that now. Another day, another year. 

I trundled into Armetiers in extremely high spirits and had my customery large Stella at an estaminet and the Pair met me. We offed to Ypres to the new campsite, our last for the trip. On the way we went to Bedford House to visit Captain George Fenwick Charlton, a Tynedale man who died in 1917. We visited his only brother yesterday in Wallencourt near Albert who died on the Somme. So a family lost both its sons. Its not the only pair of brothers we have seen. Nine months in the womb, years of love and nurture, snuffed out for King and country. I hope king and Country are grateful. That’s why I’m here. Because I’m grateful. 

The new campsite is lovely, and the toilets have seats! In france campers are expected to bring their own. On the site are a gang from the British Legion Bikers association so we had a chinwag and got promises of donations from several bystanders. We offed to Ypres for a hugely expensive dinner and as we were about to leave a bunch of slightly tiddly Yorkshiremen (we get everywhere!) wearing Pontefract RUFC blazers and ties gave me some donations and tried to get us to stay. 

We leave on sunday for Zeebrugge and Hull, Allendale around lunchtime. Tomorrw I go back to Armentiers and pedal about 35 km back to Ypres, a short day but the forecast is the hottest yet, Thursday I plan to reach the sea on the beaches north of dunkirk as my grandad did. That’s a long day of 55 km. Friday I will do a final loop of the Passendael battlefields, then the bike goes on the rack and stays there, and the uniform in the laundry bin. 

It is difficult to grasp that this thing is nearly done, and ahead of schedule. I have been incredibly lucky with the weather, if you think 28c in full military kit is lucky. I’m approaching 59 and trained for this enterprise by sitting in the Golden Lion and drinking beer. But I’ve done 280km already in full  kit in scorching heat and feel really great. I actually feel sad that by Thursday afternoon this will be effectively completed. There were many sceptics, and with good reason, including myself after the first day. But I can now almost see the sea. Are we there yet, dad? 

Complacency. The last 3 cycling days were a true joy. I knew today was going to be a challenge because I had to either go through or circumnavigate Arras. Nothing prepared me for, or warned me of today’s debacle. We first went to Walencourt en route to see three Tynedale men; back at the car I realised we had forgotten the bike battery so back to the site, only added 30 minutes to the day but it was a schoolboy error. 

The Pair dropped me off at Croiselles and we agreed to meet at Vimy Ridge memorial at 1300. Off I trotted and turned right at a village. Stopped in a safe spot to check the map, head down : BANG! Went backside over breakfast time, bike somersaulting, me sprawled face down in the road, turned around and to see a Renault that had reversed out of a parking slot straight into me. nearly Game Over. He got out and was profusely apologetic and helped me pick up the bike. The bike was fine and I wasnt apparently dead, just tunic a bit damaged and a bruised shin. In the spirit of Anglo-French cordiality I offered him my hand and he grasped it with some enthusiasm and thanked the Lord for my magnanimity; BTB (Bather The Bastard) was having a day off. 

Trundled off and took a detour to find a Private Longbottom, selected at random. Then to the charmingly named Wancourt where I started back in the right direction, destination Tilley where Charles Waddilove, a Hexham man, was currently abiding. In between I came across a few opportune cemetaries and paid my respects to selected chaps including an A Robson Northumberland Fusileers. He was 56 for goodness sake! What was he doing fighting a war at that age? Dying for your country is for young men! My first War Grave was Bayeaux many years ago and the overriding memory was how young the men were who died at D Day. Then every now and then you would see a middle aged man, almost certainly the Bosuns of the landing craft. Silly old buggers, nearly as old of me, and were on their second war. Why was a Northumberland Fusilier dying in France at 56? Surely he’d done enough. 

In the next village I saw an old gentleman standing at the side of the road and wished him bonjour as is my fashion. As I passed he shouted ” Wondorfool! Wondorfool!” . The highlight of an otherwise grim day. Later in Givenchy I passed three scruffy builders; they lined up at attention and saluted me. Its silly little things like that…….

Everything changed today. Before I was trundling in blistering heat through the chalk country of Picardy; now I’ve left the Somme, At first I welcomed the change of scenery, then I found myself entering the Industrial Nord. The crops changed too ,you notice these things. Broad beans today, and almost ripe Linseed. Litter. I have been impressed by the lack of litter. The odd beer can or wine bottle. Now the litter becomes of UK levels. Broken glass bottles in the cycle lanes, presumably deliberately; if not, irresponsibly. Oh, and the flytipping. Much much flytipping; not a few bags, but on an industrial and commercial scale. I must refrain from being Townyist.

Navigation using my Michelin map now becomes impossible in the low rent area of Arras. I actually revert to navigating by compass! I saw a short cut on my google map and took it, metalled at first, then rough track, then dirt track, then farmers field. Thank you Google. Several things fell off my bike and my handlebars became loose so I had to stop for some maintenance. Then the most disgusting flytipping festival I have ever had the misfortune to cycle through. Great God, this is an awful place ( to plagiarise Scott). 

Back onto real roads I headed north until I hit a massive motorwayesque dual carriageway heading south east. My destination was north west. There was no option but to join it for four km. It was the most scary experience on the ride, or even for me for a long time, massive juggernaughts thundering past inches from my ear. What on earth did they think; there they are going about their business and on this pseudo motorway is an idiot on a bike in WW1 uniform pedalling for all he was worth. I`m not even sure it was legal. Pulled into Givenchy and retraced my pedals, into wind, uphill. Bobbins. 

It got better then. Because I had diverted, I found a charming civilian Cemetary with nine Yorkshireman having a lay down. My first Green Howard, the finest of regiments, A young private of the East Yorks got my poppy, then a very long drag up towards the most evocative of sites, the Vimy Ridge Monument. In 1917 the Germans held the ridge overlooking Arras and the place paid the price. In spring 1917 the battle commenced to take the high ground. The prize was the ridge overlooking Lens and the low ground below. The British forces battered away at the ridge for weeks, then the Canadians were given the job. Good choice. They took it with enormous casualties. But they took it. Now the British looked over the foul industrial landscape below and could fire at will. Met the Pair and looked around the site. They had been busy, visiting men off my route and putting the poppies on men from Allendale, Hexham and my sister in laws great uncle. They suggested that I packed it in for the day but I had plenty of battery and wanted to get another hour in. We walked around the magnificent monument and Marc studied, more than suitably necessary, the famous naked bosoms of the ladies on the sculpture. I thought they were a bit saggy. 

So, I decided that I could carry on despite my accident; I had battery life left and I felt fine. I placed a poppy on the Morrocan memorial and on my way. So on to Bully. I had to pedal all day; no freewheeling like friday, even downhill due to the huge headwind. That was tiring and a bind and made my bottom hurt. A few miles short of Bully I saw a sign for a cemetary; I checked my google map and it told me the road led to Bully on a light track so I took it. Again, it was a disgusting flytipping site, absolutely awful. I kept going until I met a huge pile of illegally dumped rubble blocking the track. Beyond it the track ceased, so I had to retrace my pedals. Google, I hate you to the bottom of my heart. 

Bully, now that’s a place. On the way in a bloody white van reversed out and I just managed to stop in time. Does everyone in Nord want to kill me? They liked me in Picardy? After some time I found a Bar Tabac to have a beer whilst waiting for the Pair. They had a beer I liked, Pelforth. I asked for a 50cl but they said I couldn’t because they didn’t have any 50cl Pelforth glasses. I pointed out that they had plenty of 50 cl glasses but they said it was forbidden to sell Pelforth in another glass. WHAT! I’d just cycled 55km and I wanted a pint of bloody Pelforth but you haven’t got the correct glass? Aaarrrgghhhh! They could only find a 50cl Afflogen glass so I had to have that. 55 km meant nothing. She poured me a pint of the foulest swill I have ever had the misfortune to put in my mouth. I rang the pair and they joined me. Because Marc was being rude to me I made him drink some of this devils urine. 

Final challenge was to find Uncle Fred Newman, an absolutely must do because I love George Newman of Allendale and wanted to honour his uncle. So we spent over an hour and a half in Arras trying to find it to no avail. Eventually I resorted to google earth and we got there. It was 400 m along a path behind a housing estate and truly lovely. We gave uncle Fred his greetings from George and Marc took a poppy from the surrounding area to press to give him on return. There were several men there who were executed for cowardice. On the orders of Generals living in Chateaux 40 miles behind the lines. 

After that we wearily made our way back to Albert via some exceptionally crap navigation to find the Super U had closed so we had no milk, bread or beer. Perfect end to the day. After an austere dinner in town we sat and chewed the cud outside the tent; very cold this evening, and I have spent some hours writing this. 

So, we are more than half way through the journey. Tomorrow we pack and move to Ypres, the saddest place of all. As Robert Graves said in Goodbye to All That; Subhuman Grappling in the Mud. Before that I have to ride to Bethune, Neuve Chapelle, and possibly end at Armientaires. There’s a song about that, parley vous, but its a bit rude. 

What is the thing about men called Frederick? Every really difficult man to find has been called Frederick. Why couldn’t they called John? 

It was hard today and frustrating. I became complacent and thought this was going to be easy on friday. No it isn’t, and I’m a bigger man for addressing that. This bleak industrial landscape is unpleasant to cycle through. It was worse to fight through. If I never see Arras again it will be too soon. But good men fought and died for the wretched place so I needed to honour them. Tomorrow we strike camp and make our way north. The Pair are going to drop me off in the wretched Bully and I hope to make Belgium tomorrow. Stronger beer and waffles. Goodnight all my friends.

Accompanying me on this trip are Marc Adams and Ray Tilley. Marc is ex army and RAF and Ray is ex RFA and Merchant Marine. They have come along as support crew and are doing a fantastic job. I rely on them entirely. Marc is the researcher and planner. Ray gives us direction and wisdom. I’m the idiot wot rides a bike.  They drop me off each day and pick me up afterwards. In between they organise food, Beer, gas and keep me sensible. A finer pair I could not have wished to have alongside. 

They are the unsung stars of this show. They refuse to be in photos and just get on with the job of supporting this quest. 

Marc Adams and Ray Tilley. Thank you with all my heart.

It 
It wasn’t really the Seventh Day, but it was a Sunday and some people believe in these things. But it was a Down Day with no cycling. My air bed agreed by going down in the night in support. It was a Dhobi Day and all my washing got done by hand, as the lads would have done, and hung up all over the guy ropes on the tent. Looked like a CND protest camp.( I considered less politically correct similies but was vetoed). The Pair let me sleep in until 1030, but the heat was blistering in the tent so I had to get up. Found I`d left my razor in the shower yesterday and it had gone so looked like a scruff all day. 

We chose to go to a few memorials today, Thiepval a must as there are 2 Allendale Lads on the wall, amongst 78000 others. And they are just the missing. Also is my sister in law Louis’s relative; her mum made me lots of lovely poppies. We found them and placed a poppy for each; the Allendale lads were too high up but Ray could reach Frederick Latimer so now his family has a photo with a poppy by it. I left the three by the alter and with my trademark helmet took the picture above. The panel of Northumberland Fusileers contained over 3500 men. The Yorkshire regiments dwarfed that. And thats just missing. 

Off to the Ulster Tower for my mate Lyndon in Northern Ireland. Left a poppy there too. After that a tortuous search for Serre Road No 2 Cemetary, the largest on the Somme.  During the main battle, it wasn’t possible to collect the bodies as the chaps were busy. In 1917 once the Germans had retired to the Hindenburg line, V Corps were tasked with going round the battlefield and collecting the remains of those that had lain there for nearly a year. Some had identification on them, some could be identified by regiment or nationality. Others were Known To God, and that is what is on the headstone. Two thirds in that Cemetary had no name.   

After that attempts to eat. French people don’t eat on a sunday, and neither should we. So everywhere is closed. Back to the Batcave for bread and cheese. Tonight I`m allowed to eat grown up food as I am on holiday.

I cannot wait to get back in the saddle but my bottom disagrees. it has been suggested that this is a military thing I`m doing but thats not true. Its humanitarian. As I stood on the ridges today and saw what our young and not so young men were ordered to do, climb those ridges under murderous machine gun fire, in full kit and blazing heat: who thought this was a good idea? 

If one does not remember history and learn from it, the same mistakes will be repeated. Please, not again.