Normandy

An email arrived last August from a name I didn't recognise. Teamwork across the Channel was the title, albeit in Esperanto. 

It was from somebody called Bertrano, the president of a local Esperanto club in Normandy. He thought that his club would be asked to hold the national conference in 2026, and wanted to give the event a local flavour. His reason for contacting me was that the inaugural president of the World Esperanto Association was buried in that part of France, and that he'd found a mention of my name associated with him online. “I'm casting a bottle into the Channel”, started his message. Did I know anybody capable of presenting something about the man, Harold Bolingbroke Mudie. And that was how I ended up as a presenter at this year's French Esperanto Congress, meaning that I would be heading off to Hérouville-Saint-Clair, just outside Caen.

I'd decided that I would drive, which would allow me to bring some books for the associations in France and Belgium to sell, with me coming home with some of their stock. And so I was up relatively early to begin the long drive down to Ashford in Kent, where I – and the car – would board Le Shuttle in order to cross under the English Channel.

Things seemed to be going well. Check-in for my train closed at 10:30, and I joined the queue at a shade past 10. It seemed to take a while to actually get through the gates. What I hadn't realised until it was my turn at the front is that the gates were staying down to allow the line which all the cars joined afterwards to reduce. Still, all was going well: the machine confirmed my departure time but, owing to being ahead of schedule, asked me whether I'd like to switch for an earlier departure time. That made sense to me, so I happily agreed. And then I queued. And queued.

The following Monday was a public holiday. Seemingly people have nothing better to do on the preceding Friday than spend all day travelling, and so Le Shuttle was heavily oversubscribed. I can't remember what time my original train was supposed to leave but later noted to Clare that I had only just made it as far as passport control at the time it was set to depart. You might well imagine that I was particularly aggrieved at having been offered a ticket for an earlier train when the conditions meant that I stood no chance of catching it; I missed my original, too, in spite of having arrived about 100 minutes before time.

It turned out that the stress wasn't relevant; we were being guided on to whatever train was currently available, irrespective of whether it was ours. That makes sense, on the basis that I don't think anybody could have made it to their own one. And so I found myself leaving a voicemail to our catsitter explaining that I can't type a response to her because I am – get this – driving into a train.

The journey was utterly unremarkable; at only 35 minutes in length, there isn't a waiting room or other facilities besides a toilet. You just spend your time in your car, and then when the time comes, you drive off, and are soon on a French road.

I had about 350 km to travel still, and was now a couple of hours behind schedule. That should've been reason enough to get on with things but I'm a creature of habit, and the site of the first World Esperanto Congress, from all the way back in 1905, was a few miles down the road. Of course I was going to take the diversion.

Boulogne-sur-mer

Driving to Boulogne was straightforward, although I found myself ignoring my satnav at the end because I was in search of parking. After a little bit of aimless wandering, I found a space and a ticket machine, paid up, and headed off in the direction of the the town. 

I wouldn't have expected palm trees on the north coast of France ... and it seemed an unlikely place for an obelisk, too.

Particularly a decidedly authentic-looking one, bearing in mind its coating of hieroglyphics.

It was erected in honour of Auguste Mariette (1821-1881), a local Egyptologist. And behind it are the town walls.

So I walked through the arches. At this point, it was around 3pm and I hadn't eaten, so I didn't take up the invitation to walk on the Charles Dickens ramparts. Yes, that Charles Dickens: he used to enjoy holiday here, and would take daily walks here.

On the other side was a narrow street. I felt in luck: there were plenty of restaurants and most of them appeared to still be open. 

Alas, several walks up and down couldn't work around the fact that Boulogne is a seaside town, and seafood was the central feature of all of these restaurants. And so I carried on, down to the main square, and got some food opposite the town hall.

And then I was off to see the main event: the venue of the first World Esperanto Congress.

“Fail to plan, plan to fail.” How was I supposed to know that the Théâtre Monsigny isn't actually within Boulogne itself? As a matter of fact, I'd parked a few minutes' walk away. So off I went.

This wouldn't be the last time I'd rue my lack of preparation regarding Boulogne. But for now I needed to get to Hérouville-Saint-Clair. And it seemed that it would take me a few hours more than I thought, when the local traffic meant that I'd covered perhaps five or six miles in an hour. And then I had a thought: I'd tell my satnav that it was now had permission to take me on toll roads. That it did, and progress was soon made. I arrived at my hotel with the sun still shining, although was far too tire to consider going out for a meal, so had a few pints in the hotel.

More Esperanto Photo-ops!

The French Congress went well, as did my talk. It was a busy programme, and lots of effort got put into it by a whole host of local Esperantists and their partners. And there was a nice bonus, too: as small as Hérouville is, it has an Esperanto Square!

And there's a sign explaining that a gingko was planted there in 2024 to celebrate forty years of the local Esperanto club.

The D-Day Experience

Several of us stayed on after the close of the congress for a day of excursions. Our first stop was Pegasus Bridge, the first objective captured in the D-Day landings on 6 June 1944.

It was seized by British airborne troops in a daring glider operation. The bridge helped secure the invasion's eastern flank. 

There were still vehicles in place but everywhere was fenced off.

And then we were off to Sword Beach, the easternmost of the five beaches on which Allied forces landed.

This statue is of “The Mad Piper”, William “Bill” Millin. He was the only kilt-wearing soldier on Sword Beach, and played his pipes whilst under fire to boost morale. 

The customary Allied flags are present:

But the presence of a Norwegian flag and statue of a Norwegian sailor surprised me. I have to admit that I was unaware that Norwegian ships provided naval bombardment, transport, and minesweeping during the invasion.
 

And a quick look at the beach itself. The sky was blue and sand golden but I struggled to associate it with leisure.

The next stop was Juno Beach. It was supposed to be called Jelly Beach, the principle being that the beaches which the British would invade (the third was Gold Beach) could all have fish appended to them. But Jelly was considered too silly.

The reason we came here was to visit the Maison de Queen's Own Rifles of Canada. This was the first building liberated by Canadian forces.

It's a private house but the family open the doors to people who wish to visit. We spent about an hour inside, receiving a presentation from the Lady of the House.

In this windowframe was mounted a gun. You can imagine that the soldiers stood no chance, and that only overwhelming numbers turned around the odds.

At the time this sea wall was notably higher and provided a degree of protection ... but also a further obstacle to surmount.

We took another drive to a restaurant. For efficiency's sake, everybody ate the same, and they all seemed very happy. For my part, there are only so many mussels I can eat.

We spent a bit of time walking around some Casernes ... 

... and the scenery was lovely ...

... before we headed to the American Cemetery at Omaha Beach. The names of the two beaches invaded by the US came about without any thinking: somebody asked two soldiers where they were from. The other person responded “Utah”.

The scale of the sacrifice required was very evident, especially considering that this is a small part.

It was all very impressive. They have a flair for the spectacular.

That was the last stop on our itinerary. All that was left was to hope that we'd all find our way back to the transport, having separated during our visit to the cemetery. All were present and accounted for.

Last-Day Esperanto

My final day was going to be the first one in reverse: for Hérouville-Saint-Clair to Calais, and then Ashford to Nuneaton. I had factored a diversion into my plans, though: there was a particular grave I wished to visit:

I had discovered Harold Bolingbroke Mudie's resting place a decade ago, tracking it down in order to arrange a memorial ceremony on the occasion of the centenary of his death at the age of 35. 

I removed the solitary weed and placed some fresh flowers there. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to spend as much time in the area as I had attended because I needed to make a trip back to Calais: I hadn't realised that there is a bust of Ludwik Zamenhof there, until at the end of my talk somebody asked me whether I'd seen it. Remember what I said about “Fail to plan”? I was kicking myself that I hadn't done a search while I was in Boulogne.

My informant told me that it was by the train station. So that's where I headed.

SNCF Boulogne-Ville is a fair way outside the city, sitting along a busy boulevard with no places to park. I drove around a few times before concluding that I would have to park somewhere else and then jog to the bust. So that's what I did ... and caught no glimpse of a bust or statue of anybody. So that's when I finally decided to look online, coming across a Place Zamenhof somewhere totally different ... and ironically a two-minute walk from where I'd parked on the Friday! 

Place Zamenhof is tiny. I couldn't find any plates confirming its name. There is a train station there, though: a small one, served by regional trains running between Boulogne, Calais and Amien, called Boulogne-Tintelleries.

There's little in the way of decoration besides the grail: the bust of Ludwik Zamenhof!

One of my friends commented that it looks like something some Star Wars figures which came with his Coco Pops back when he was young.

If only I'd thought to check on the Friday. I didn't, though, because our usual rule is that we discover these things by accident. But given that I was there for the Esperanto connection, I should've broken the rule!

I'd got the photo by the skin of my teeth. Timing was coming down to the wire, though, so I ran to the car and drove off towards Calais. I arrived before the deadline but was told that I would have to park for 20 minutes before I could access passport control. Can you guess what happened? I did as I was supposed to but had to get a later train because of the amount of traffic once I'd got through!

The journey itself was as uneventful as before, which can't be said for the hellish motorway network in England. I got home over two hours later than planned. It turned out not to have been a restful few days but I remain grateful for the invitation: I was the only British person there, and I enjoyed my time with my French colleagues and handful of people from other countries.