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.