Rue to Friville – Grinding to a Halt

For a start we lost on penalties last night so I wasn’t joyous, secondly it had been the most enormous thunderstorm and going for a piss in the night had led to rain getting into the inner tent. Finally I didn’t sleep good. Or well. Or well good. So this morning was received in an unwelcome manner.

I would see how far I could get with this very grim demeanour, but I was hoping to reach a hotel in Friville, 19 miles away. My rucksack had mysteriously put on weight overnight. Unhelpful baston.

Another hot day coming up, but it only served to stew my misery, until I happened upon a bank of poppies.

I was circling round the bay of the Somme, which was a bit like the Wash around the time of King John. The King was counselled against taking a shortcut through this tidal marsh. He didn’t heed this advice, the tide came in and his Crown Jewels, his genuine Crown Jewels (not the slang version), sank in the mud. Never to see the light of day. He was at war with his barons, Scotland and France, shortly thereafter contracted dysentery and died in Newark. Poor baston. Newark ffs! The ultimate in bad luck.

I had seen a map of a route through this tidal estuary, the Somme not the Wash, and had a quick look around at where I thought it might have started. If I could take this short cut and stilll avoid my Crown Jewels, the slang version, getting trapped by the tide and the treacherous mud whirlpools then I could save 10 Kms. The tide was low, but I asked a couple of people, who looked at me with fear in their eyes. No monsieur, c’est trop dangereux. Vous avez besoin d’un guide.

It looks like there would be a crossing somewhere but it was far too dangerous to take a shortcut across the treacherous sands, and I definitely didn’t want to end up dying in Newark. Crown Jewels saved for posterity.

Like the Wash most of the land had been reclaimed for farming, the majority arable but some pastoral.

With pastoral claiming special taste in the lamb farmed here, due to grazing on the salt meadows. And the special sheep appear to have captured a spaceship, for all you UFO conspiracy theorists.

Stood upon a bridge over the river Somme, looking landward and seaward, there was no vestige of the appalling events over 100 years ago, where over a million casualties were sustained by the French, German and British forces. The Germans used gas as well. Dirty bastons. We did, and the Froggies did, but only as retaliation against the Germans.

By this time I was struggling. No breakfast and a hot sun, when a chip wagon came into sight. Fish and chips and bottled water. Luxury I tell you!

Cutting inland southward the lanes wove down through lush countryside with ancient barns.

These are brick base but the upper part of the walls are wattle and daub. An ancient method of building where a wooden, interlaced base is daubed with mud, animal dung, straw and other stuff. Incredible to see it here.

My mate Francis, who has never been the safest driver, must have been here. His vehicle has smashed through the wall of this building and just missed the crucifix – or just caught it. In the confusion Jesus obviously took the opportunity to escape but only managed to get one hand free. It’s never easy when you’ve been dead two millennia.

Or maybe the bloke who owned the house caught the driver and hung him up on this cross as a warning to others. It dunt look like Francis but he could be in disguise.

I was desperate now and couldn’t wait to get to my hotel. I arrived in Friville and the Great War memorial was epic.

So was my sleep. I was buggered.

Night night.