Friday
27 March. Saffron Walden to St. Quentin, France. We leave the house at 11 and arrive in Dover
(100 miles) at 1:15 for the two o'clock P&O sailing to Boulogne ("Ba
loyne," I heard it pronounced in Dover), the start of our 1200 mile trek
to Rome. The weather in England is
cloudy and gusty; the Channel is choppy with swells, I have to maintain my
balance getting food on board during the two hour crossing. France is calmer. Once we're on the road again, I feel that I'm
on the continent. It's as if the land
has room to spread out, no longer crammed into the little island of Britain. There's room now for big vistas and hills of
size.
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| Heading to France |
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| On the Ferry |
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| St. Quentin; Our First Stop |
We
head south and east, listening (that means me) to Queen
Lucia, which is just right: a 1920
English setting, exquisite characters and a marvelous woman reader. I find St. Quentin (132 miles) and our hotel
near the town center without much trouble, though it isn't as easy as the
hotels just off of the highway. We
arrive at 7:30, our
destination is the Hotel de France et d'Angleterre (28 Rue Emile Zola). We are greeted by a very friendly hotel
keeper, who speaks some English, checks us in and encourages us, when we ask,
to dine at the Lowenbrau Tavern. We walk
up the street to the spacious St.
Quentin plaza of which the locals
are justly proud. The hotel d'ville (town
hall) is pictured on the 50 Franc note.
The
tavern keeper explains that the plaza also has underground parking for 400 cars. Robert
and Mara have crab, but don't eat much after what goes along with it: a
plentiful selection of shrimp, mussels, scallops, snails, all of which are
appetizingly displayed in front of the restaurant. We are seated upstairs. Our host and waitress are very friendly. It is a good, but unremarkable dinner for
433.5FF (at 9.45FF per £, about $75).
Back at the hotel we have a comfortable night's sleep. I continue to be amazed at the spaces they
are able to locate the tiny showers.
My
impression of France is, as before, roominess.
Stuffiness, too, but not quite.
Reserved, except for those in the business, such as the hotelier and
restaurateur.
Saturday
28 March. St. Quentin to Basel,
Switzerland. We leave St. Quentin at
about nine in the morning, heading southeast towards Reims and listening to
"The Giraffe, Pelly and Me" read by Roald Dahl. (This time I manage to go in and out of the
hotel garage, narrow though it is, without scraping.) I make a wrong turn at Reims and realize a
disadvantage of these high speed motorways – 20 kilometers between exits! We reach Verdun at 11:30, gas up and buy food
in town. Verdun, a name that still
echoes from history courses taught long ago, is an important stop: like
Normandy, a chance to see one of the places important to our century. For nine months in 1916 the French and German
fought over this position. In the end
neither side gained any advantage and 680,000 people were killed. Yet Verdun is actually more important for a
treaty, signed a thousand years ago, among Charlemagne's grandsons, dividing up
what would, as a result, become the separate kingdoms of France and Germany and
the middle countries from the "low countries" to Italy.
With our spit roasted chicken, bread and
orangina, and a bottle of red wine from the ferry, we drive up into the hills
to Fort Douaumont, past evidence of trenches and other battlements. We have a leisurely picnic in the sunshine,
outside the Fort, looking out over the countryside in what happens to be the
better part of the day, as the sun shines in between the clouds, which have not
yet brought their moisture. I take the
children on a tour of the underground Fort, rusted gun turrets on top and an
amazing collection of rooms built in multi-levels into the top of the hill,
with windows looking toward the Germany.
Six hundred and seventy nine Germans were actually killed in their
barracks by the accidental detonation of ammunition. The reality of the experience is increased by
the appearance of what looks like a rusted old tank in the fields below. Considering all the dead, the damp, wet rooms
with their stalactites and stalagmites, Fort Douaumont is strangely alive and a
moving experience.
As
we leave, we drive through the nearby French cemetery, with its bullet-like
monument, rising fifteen stories in the air, standing watch over the rows and
rows of immaculately tended graves.
Graves and monuments, however, are everywhere (like Vicksburg). I am especially moved by "Two
Heroes": two small crosses next to each other by the roadside.
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| Verdun |
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| Viewing the Fort and Battlefield |
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| Verdun Cemetery |
From
Verdun, we head west to Metz, then southeast to Nancy, now followed by rain,
off and on. In the morning we passed by
a large, old gothic church in Reims, but the one in Metz provides a spectacular
vision, as we pass by: a glistening and glimmering green copper church roof,
wet with rain, caught by a ray of sunlight.
After Nancy, we leave the main highway, heading up onto the west side of
the snow covered mountains, through Baccarat and other pretty towns. I begin to worry about mountain passes; it
looks as if it is probably snowing at the tops of the mountains. As the day grows long, however, we leave the
scenic route, and take the short cut: a five mile tunnel right through the
mountains to the eastern side. After
more small towns on the east side, we finally reach the flatlands, leading to
Colmar, where I had wanted to stop; but it is too late (6:30) as we must
proceed to our next destination, Basel.
Even
though we already purchased our tax stamp and have nothing to declare, we are
questioned by a fierce looking female Swiss border guard, standing beside a
militaristic sculpture or perhaps old iron weapons, the effect seems odd for
Switzerland!
It
is a wet evening in Basel and we head across the Rhine toward Liestal. I am beginning to think we have passed the
turn off, when we finally see it (it's on the southern side of town). Our hotel (Hotel Engel, Kasernen Street, 10,
Basel) is a welcome sight: the smell of burning pine logs and German voices
greet us as we walk in the door at about eight o'clock. We have two rooms (one with a vibrating bed)
and a good Swiss dinner.
The
clocks change to "summer time" tonight, something I suspected in the
morning, but was unable to confirm in St. Quentin. The young man at the hotel could not grasp
that the hour to which I was referring was the summer time hour, not the hour
time change from France to England.
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| A Comfortable Bed in Basel |
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| Making Lists! |
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