Where in the world has David been today? Dunkerque, Rexpoëde, Poperinge, Mesen and Roubaix

I stuck one or two of those names in the title of the post just because I liked them so much, in a way! As promised from my 'desk' at McDonald's where the last post was written, today's is prompt. I have been at my little hotel for an hour or so now. All the photos have been uploaded and annotated, and today's ride has been uploaded successfully (see end of post). Must have been my problem yesterday, not the bike computer's. I have even got out what I need for the evening without having to unpack absolutely everything owing to a new system of packing devised this morning.

OK, so let's go back to the beginning of the day. Breakfast in a hotelF1 is pretty basic - cereals, orange juice, coffee, baguette and brioche with a variety of things to spread on them. Still it is cheap, and if you eat enough brioche it gets you started! I woke early, as previously reported, having left the light on all night, breakfasted early, and got an early start. All very good, so far. I had written out careful turn-by-turn instructions to avoid using the GPS as far as possible, and they went well at first. That was until cycle restrictions, one way systems and so on had messed with it comprehensively. In fact I was pretty much right in my instincts, and once on the right cycle path it was plain sailing, but in the meantime it was annoying. I just had to let it go. That was the last navigational issue of the day, really, and for much of it I was blessed with pretty good cycle paths or cycle lanes for protection - a first on this trip.

About 10 miles into the trip brought me to Bergues and a set of signs saying that there was a McDonald's in Faubourg de Cassel a mile or so on from my turning. "Ah, I can update the blog", I thought! But no, it was only just after 10.00am when I got there and they weren't opening till 10.30am. I didn't think it was a good idea to wait, so I backtracked and got on with my route into Flanders. Next up were towns with names such as and Haeghe Meulen and Rexpoëde, so the Flemish Belgian influence was quickly becoming apparent. By this time the sun was coming out, and by the time I reached the Belgian border at Oost-Capell (which came as quite a surprise) it was starting to get baking - time to shed a layer.

There was a bit of excitement at Oost-Capell. A group of brightly coloured sport cyclists came heading along the road that follows the border, and as they stopped at the junction, the oldest member of the group - already sporting a plaster on his face - simply fell off in a heap. No harm appeared to have been done, and no good Samaritan gestures were required, but I still don't know why it happened. I thought only I forgot to unclip from my pedals. Then another cyclist appeared on a Dutch bike, and in very ordinary clothes. He was Dutch and he was following part of the North Sea Cycle Route (LF1) from Amsterdam to Boulogne. He and I passed the time of day, and took pictures of each other with our bikes by the Belgian border sign. We both also took pictures of the border post, complete with its statue of a border guard sitting silently at his duty!!

The next major town was the wonderfully-named Poperinge! I was held up slightly there by the fact that there was a funeral about to happen, so there were bells ringing and there was a procession of cars through the town led by a horse-drawn hearse in a Belgian style. I didn't feel it was decent to whip a camera out and take a picture, so I am sorry to disappoint you. However, it was quite a sight really - and the driver of the hearse looked just like a funeral director I know! I suppose that is a bit of cultural interest, plus some professional curiosity creeping in. A few km later I stopped for lunch in Loker, where I bought myself a drink, a Magnum ice cream and a piece of gorgeous looking cheese - a Belgian cheese called Herve. If you have ever eaten Herve, you know it was a mistake not to wear a peg on my nose, and wash it down with a strong beer and loads of bread. It was THE most disgusting cheese experience of my life, and I will not be repeating it. I am afraid everything after the first mouthful went in the bin, so it was a bit of a light (and not very balanced) lunch. Still, my motto is that there is no sports nutrition problem that cannot be solved by a visit to McDonald's (see later).

My route after lunch continued through Belgian Flanders through Dranouter, and then on towards a place called Mesen on the signs. Whereas there had been few hills bigger than a pimple up till now, it was a bit more of a drag up to Mesen, and when I reached the top I stopped for a drink when I saw something interesting. I should have been quicker on the uptake. I had been passing numerous signs to Commonwealth war cemeteries. Here was another one, and when I looked, I realised that Mesen=Messines. I had just climbed up onto the Messines Ridge - one of the most bitterly contested areas of the Western Front during the First World War. I had been thinking on and off about how little evidence there had been of the damage done to the landscape during that period. Now I was confronted by the damage done to people. I parked the bike, and moved into the cemetery.

The first part of the Messines Ridge Cenetery that I came upon was, appropriately enough, for members of the Cyclist Battalion. Yes, you read that correctly, so now follow the link. That was a light-hearted start. It was actually part of the New Zealand Memorial which commemorates over 800 soldiers of the New Zealand Expeditionary Force who died in or near Messines in 1917 and 1918 and who have no known grave. That was striking enough, but stepping past it into the main part of the cemetery was a heart-breaking moment. I had no idea it would affect me so powerfully, but I found myself weeping uncontrollably for a long time as I wandered around.


The profundity of seeing the words 'Known Unto God' on each simple stone goes beyond description, and the all-too frequent inscription 'A Soldier of The Great War' with no name hit me like a sledgehammer each time. (Sometimes a regimental name would be added, just hammering home the fact that the only thing identifiable by the time some of these boys were brought to the cemetery was the insignia on their uniform. I can barely write about it now.) I was put in mind of St Paul's words in 1 Corinthians 15.13-14: "If there is no resurrection of the dead, then Christ has not been raised; and if Christ has not been raised, then our proclamation has been in vain and your faith has been in vain." I certainly found myself thinking that, whatever you think of the ethics of war, if these young men are not 'known by God', then our faith is in vain. I felt deep, deep shame and regret that going to war seems to be the only solution we can conceive to some problems, and I could have stayed much longer, gazing out over the ever-so-tidy Belgian countryside.

Soon after leaving, I was back in France at Warneton, and on my way into Roubaix via McDonald's in Marcq-en-Baroeul. I keep mentioning McDonald's. Whatever you think of the food, it is a good source of a hot or cold drink, and generally has decent toilet facilities, and - most importantly - free unlimited WiFi. I decided that after the Herve cheese fiasco, something trustworthy was called for. You can't really make a mess of Fanta, and a cheese, bacon and onion burger sounded just the trick with fries to get my carb and salt levels back up! I promise I won't do it every day, but today was different. There were two revelations though! Firstly, McDonald's in France serves a wonderful green tea with mint, even adding a delicious little chocolate. Secondly, they all seem to be sparklingly clean, well run, and with staff who take a pride in themselves and their store. It was amazing. I was there for more than an hour drinking green tea, blogging away, and by this time hiding from the heat. Today's average temperature may have been only about 71F, but that's because it was cold for the first couple of hours. The maximum temperature was just under 88F! My legs are browning now as well as my arms, having moved into shorts.

From McDonald's, I made my way into the southern area of Roubaix known as Croix in search of Allee des Marroniers. My grandfather and his parents lived in Roubaix during the First World War in a street called Rue Dupire in Croix. A postcard from his mother shows a street called Avenue des Marroniers (Avenue of Chestnuts), with a note that theirs is the next street. Well, there is a Rue Louis Dupire still north of the centre of Roubaix, but that isn't the right one. There is also no longer an Avenue des Marroniers, just an Allee des Marroniers inside a gated complex of new-ish houses. However, at least that is in the right place, and near to the high-speed tramway which we believe Avenue des Marroniers was. Perhaps this is the closest we can get to where they lived? Certainly some of the architecture of surviving houses in the surrounding area would fit with the image on the postcard. It would be nice to know, but I don't suppose we ever will. Sadly, the chestnut trees of northern France and Belgium have suffered from disease in the last 10 years.

From Croix, I made my way down to the Parc Barbieux. Sorry that link is to a French page, but perhaps you are either a) fluent, or b) a dab hand with Google Translate! It is a magnificent park, and I enjoyed wandering around it - as thousands of others were doing on a fine Saturday afternoon. The fountain was lovely, and there were a number of wedding couples having their pictures taken with it as a backdrop. There was a grotto of interesting rocks. There was a sculpture of a family of owls. The landscape too, was lovely. The park runs smoothly into the Boulevard du Général de Gaulle and down into the centre of Roubaix. Just before turning into the Grande Place (which really is a grand place) I had to negotiate an awkward junction, and was faced by a strange building, which I had been curious about as I descended the Boulevard. It turned out to be the Archives Nationales du Monde du Travail - the national archives of the world of work (or workplace). It remained a curiosity till I got home and looked it up, but something was niggling me about the shape of it - which said 'mill' to me. When I looked it up, it turns out to have been part of the last cotton mill built by Louis Motte for his Motte-Bossut and Co. Previous incarnations of the factory were destroyed by fire, but Louis Motte (and his successors) were much influenced by English mill design and methods. Perhaps this is where great-grandfather worked?

In the Grande Place, the Hotel de Ville is a monster of a building, and the clean, white church of St Martin Notre Dame faces it across the square. Today there was a heck of a din and a larger-than-usual crowd because there had been events all day to do with an organisation called 'Pas de quartier pour les inégalités' - very much like our Make Poverty History campaign. The final part of the day was to be a free performance by HK et Les Saltimbanques and they were rehearsing at the time and doing their sound check.

That was my last port of call for the day. It had all been quite intense enough! I made my way south back past the Parc, alongside the high-speed tramway (apparently already there when Grandad was living in Roubaix) and down to Mons-en-Baroeul. Thankfully my navigational nose was still working, as the GPS wasn't, and I found the hotel quickly and easily, and received the same hotelF1 welcome. Full marks to them. Let us see what tomorrow holds.