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.