11 novembre. Le Jour de l’Armistice

The north of France was occupied in both World Wars and suffered a lot of damage, both to humans and, more visibly, to buildings. Large areas of Valenciennes are very new, not because the town planners thought it would be a good idea, but because the area had been flattened and people needed places to live and work, hospitals and administrative centres. Most families in the area must have lost someone in one or both of them, so it’s felt quite different being here compared to in the UK. There are the obvious differences: the numerous large war cemeteries, the few graves tucked away in a small village graveyard.

The programme of events had started with wreath-laying ceremonies at the Commonwealth and Russian cemeteries, French Customs Officers and French people who died for their country: soldiers, Resistance and people who had the strength of mind to stand up for themselves.

We woke up too late for this and Wilf went out to get bread. The baker’s is between us and the cemetery. He was wearing jeans and a hoody and was running quite fast. Security is tight today. The police car that passed him swung around at the roundabout and asked him where he was going. He reckons that he was too old to be considered a major threat and he was allowed on his way to buy the croissants.

We missed the “revue of troops” but got there in time for the procession of sports clubs. We knew there were quite a few clubs and that they seemed popular but were surprised that so many people came out to walk, having heard of the struggle scout and church groups have in the UK to turn out. It was all very relaxed: a stroll around the square to the accompaniment of the town brass band, clubs with their uniform and usual equipment, kids, parents, grandparents, several hundred showing their support for the football team. Lots of smiles, waves and clapping from the spectators and participants. Once all had gone by, the music was halted and we heard De Gaulle’s speech telling the country that the war was over. 

There was no silence at eleven o’clock. 

My new running and Nordic walking club

31 octobre et 1er novembre

The 1^st of November is a bank holiday here, for Toussaint, All Saints’ Day. As it fell on a Tuesday, the company made the 31^st a ‘bridge’ day so Wilf had a long weekend and settled for a lazy day with lunch out at one of the places we’d been on the diner progressif in September, a rather imposing place in the town centre with friendly service, good food and wine. I decided it as a good time to try snails. They were fried in tempura batter and like a meaty shellfish and something I'd eat again.

During the dinner we’d been told that it’s a good time to go and visit St Roch cemetery, as there would be a lot of flowers on the graves. St Roch has several graves of notable locals, many artists and sculptors, many ornate tombs. It’s only about fifteen minutes’ away and we made the most of the crisp, dried leaves which had suddenly fallen over the previous few days. 

One of the first things we noticed when we reached the cemetery was a stone plaque on an ossuary, housing the bones of people guillotined during the Revolution. It was interesting to

see how the names of the months were changed. 25 Vendemaire, An III would be about mid-October, 1795. 

It’s a huge cemetery. We went to find out what a Columbarium is: a garden of rest. Some people really like to plan ahead.

Further on we found the Muslim area, very simple graves, with rocks marking edges and very simple headstones. The children were all buried in the same area, keeping each other company.

Half the Commonwealth graves, with Russian ones just visible behind them

 




The sun was starting to get low and we turned back. We came to war graves, first Russian, then Commonwealth, about a thousand of the latter. 


There were, as hoped, plenty of flowers and more leaves to kick on the way home. It prompted so many questions: Who were the “Forget-me-nots” and “Cornflowers”, was the guillotine portable or permanent, why does the river Rhonelle flow over the old river bed of the Escaut? We’ll find the answers when the weather’s not so cold.

 

Octobre. Hourah pour les photos digitales!

I’m so glad that all my photos include the date when they’re uploaded. Without the reminders I wouldn’t have a clue what I’d done last month.

We started with the National Nordic Walking festival on 1^st. The mayor came along in his suit and did squats with poles in the Nordicfit session, rather like military square-bashing to music, followed by a walk round the lake for the rest of us, in lovely sunshine.

We saw the mayor again the following week, at a reception for newcomers to the town. We've been here five months but better late than never and cocktails were on offer so it seemed rude to refuse. I was mildly disappointed that the cocktails weren’t the little paper umbrella type but the champagne flowed freely enough and I got over my disappointment. The roll of honour for the mayors was interesting: we couldn’t think why the years seemed odd but realised that’s what happened when France has a revolution.

On 12^th I went on my first longer Nordic walk, in the Wallers-Arenberg forest. This will be familiar to anyone who is interested in cycling races as it’s on the Paris-Roubaix course, and has a notorious cobbled section. There's a rather stylish memorial at the entrance to the cobbled part, to a local professional cyclist, Jean Stablinski, world road race champion in 1962, among other achievements.

The walk took us through the forest and up (and down and up and down) the local version of a hill, a former slag heap, which gave rather misty views onto the lake. It was good, after five months to be able to look down on a view, albeit not very far down.

 

Wilf came home from work on 13^th very pleased with himself as he’d learned the word for pie-chart. I first guessed “pie-chart” as so many technical-type words are the same as the English one. No
“Pee-sharte?”
No
“Tarte-charte?”
No…………………… Camembert!
I have to admit I could see why he was so pleased. Not many statistical figures are named after cheeses.

A famers’ market in a small square on 16^th opened our eyes and ears. There were the biggest carrots I’ve ever seen and background music from a slightly stereotypical singer.

The songs were in the local dialect so we hadn't much idea what he was on about but it was a pleasant way to pass half an hour on a Sunday morning.

Autumn is coming. The hectic whirl of events in the town is slowing down, the trees are losing their leaves,

starling numbers are growing as they come in to roost in the evenings and I bought an apple which, if it had landed on Newton’s head, would probably have meant that we wouldn't have had his Theory of Gravity. 

Have fun, folks. We'll continue our research into local restaurants and France's wine industry, without neglecting the more local brewing businesses.