I am now in Antwerp enjoying a rest day, where I have been reinforced by The general. It has been quite a trip so far, and I have been too tired to blog each day. I will try to catch up over the next few days.
The plan for 6 June was to ride out to Omaha beach and work my way back along the coast to Ouistreham. However, after a late night, I set off later than planned towards the coast and so decided en route to cut out Bayeux, which I understand was quite busy that morning, and Omaha Beach, and head directly for Arromanches. On the way I was passed by a large group of Canadian cyclists, wearing “Operation Overlord” shirts, who had ridden from Juno Beach that morning. I stopped a chatted to them beside a cemetery at Bazenville, the first British military cemetery built during the invasion – on 8 June. It contained the bodies of 630 British soldiers, 21 Canadians, I Australian, 1 Pole and 326 Germans.
There was quite a crowd in Arromanches, for the veterans’ parade. On the main street, people were gathering to witness the parade. By the military museum, as one very elderly D-Day veteran (of course, they all are now) was being wheeled past to his position at the start of the parade, a younger man in Highland regimental garb bounded towards him, shook his hand warmly and pressed a bottle of something into his other hand. Up the hill by the Sherman Tank, tv film crews were preparing to film the parade. Higher still, a crowd was listening to renditions of “We’ll meet again” by the D-Day Darlings. I did not stay to watch the parade, but pressed on following the coast East and stopping frequently to read the monuments and memorials to the many unimaginable acts of heroism that had taken place on 6 June 1944 and the days after. High up on a hill overlooking Gold Beach was a stunning new statue, being guarded by. Belgian veteran holding a Union Jack, that had been unveiled by Theresa May and Emmanuel Macron that morning. (See the pictures I posted earlier). I headed back to Caen along the canal, passing Pegasus Bridge again. There was raucous crowd of folks in Dad’s Army costumes who had ridden vintage bikes from The Pink Pub in Bognor Regis to the bridge via Portsmouth and Cherbourg. Back in Caen, A swift Italian meal was followed by an early night. Sleep was interrupted by revellers outside until the early hours, the noise of heavy rain falling and the pain and stiffness in my thighs.
I eventually drifted off to sleep early hours.
The Trick Cyclist 