Wipers and the Lions

Next morning a leisurely breakfast with our fantastic hosts, its a delight to eat, more German I think in its choice, but I find plenty to eat and eventually we have to leave our kind hosts and be on our way

Of course the planned route had changed so I decided to head for Ypres, but said to Jonathan to stop if he saw anything interesting along the way, after all its a holiday and its a shame to pass by something and then read about it later !

So we rode away on a pleasant day and criss crossed Belgium and rode along many tree lined cobbled roads , then we find a main road and build up speed, all around you the echoes of two world wars are ever present, names of battles, names of regiments once famous now long gone, and their colours passed into the annals of history , a sign indicates Hill 62 and Jonathan turns off into a quite lane, neatly clipped grass and a small tarmac car park surround the memorial where we pull up and listen to the ticking of the motorcycles as they cool in the mornings breeze , each in our own thoughts we explore the cemetery at the bottom, conversation is muted and then a young couple join us, he is ex services but definitely a Texan and we chat about our respective countries and realise how much we have in common, I am able to tell him of the Meuse and Argonne where his folk fought so tenaciously and so many still lie, we part from our new friends and ride up the hill itself ,passing young Canadian children enjoying a break from learning, its nice to hear laughter and life and to think that they have travelled so far to see this, it cannot all be sadness otherwise what did their forbears achieve ?

Next to the cemetery is the small museum with trenches and relics of war, we didn't visit as the children were enjoying their break and I felt disinclined to intrude.

The View from Hill 62 Sorrel Wood shows you why it took so many Canadian lives to attack and defend, the memorial spotless and white listing the points of reference and direction from it, Ypres,Hill 60, Messines.

Around us the trees once alien to this land ,but now here in perpetuity give off a warm red glow in the Autumn sun , they are Canadian to the core ,Maple, and I take a rich red leaf from the ground and press it into my map to remind me off this visit

on the marker stone is the following inscription

“Here at Mount Sorrel and on the line from Hooge to St. Eloi the Canadian Corps fought in the defence of Ypres, April – August 1916“

As we leave Jonathan decides to free wheel down, I follow but he being young uses the wrong side of the road to build up speed, me being old and law abiding paddle my machine around the roundabout and put on my helmet, a quick shove and silently I glide away, it then it occurs to me that I may need the back brake in case of gravel, so at 3 mph I put my great hoofs on the footrest, miss and land then on the gear-lever locking the engine up and over we go, I lean in to prevent damaging my nice new helmet !! and await the laughter from my riding partner , luckily he has gone,so I slide away from under the machine and lift it back up, minor damage a bent clutch lever, that I can cope with, and then down the hill I go taking more care, we had hoped to stop for refreshments in the museum as it was midday but it seems they only serve drinks and it being full of Canadian children we decide to go on

Himself laughs about my fall but was more upset that he was not there to help right the bike, of course he would also have taken several pictures and probably dropped it back on top of me while laughing, so no pictures it didn't happen !

Rejoining the main road we head in the direction of Ypres and then ride North of the city to Essex farm Cemetery , here amongst the coaches parked on the busy road we abandon our steeds and explore the memorial to the West Riding Division , it gives a fine view across the salient, although now partially obscured by the busy N38 the cemetery also contains the grave of a young lad from Dorking Rifleman Valentine Joe Strudwick 14th January 1916 ,15 years old when he was killed, rather sobering at my advanced age ,, we wander down to explore the old dugouts, these have been restored and made safe by the Belgians and are probably the largest in number still visible on the Ypres Salient, directly behind them is the canal and just beyond that the line between the British and the German armies , it was in 1915 In this dressing station that a Young Canadian Physician John McCrae composed a poem, In Flanders Fields, A poem that would outlive him and become embedded into our Language and a reference for the Horrors of the Great War

John McCrae did not survive the war and lies in the cemetery at Wimereux, he passed away in January 1918 of Pneumonia , and in that Cemetery you will find a monument erected to him along with his poem, although not bearing arms, the doctors and ambulance drivers were at great risk, both from bombs and bullets as well as infection from the never ending train of men they looked after, The Dugouts are peaceful now and apart from the odd motor vehicle passing no other sounds reach your ears, feeling tired and a little hungry I suggest we head into Ypres and find refreshments in the market square we find a nice cafe and sit down to a filling meal and enjoy the afternoon sun , then we take a walk around the city to explore the Menin gate having only ever seen it at night, the City wall gives a lovely view of the canal and surrounding houses, and as you ascend the steps up from the memorial you cannot help but feel overwhelmed by all the many names that adorn it, afterwards we trot down and examine the Lions, these ancient and much revered Lions are resting on brick pillars roughly where they would have sat on the original City wall.

In 1936 The City of Leper ( Ypres) presented these lions, each holding a coat of arms as a gift to the Australian War Memorial.

It symbolised the closeness of the relationship between the City and Australia that developed in the First World war, at the start of that war , the lions stood on plinths either side of the road leading through the rampart walls, thousands of Australians marched between them on their way to the salient in 1917 , more than 13,000 Australians died on Belgian soil fighting for Belgiums freedom, half of them have no known grave- their names are inscribed upon the walls of the Menin gate, and upon memorials across Australia in the cities and town from which they came, since 1991 the restored Lions have graced the entrance to the Australian war memorial in Canberra from the 24th April to November 2017 they again stand where they stood in the First World War on loan from the Australian War memorial in gratitude to the people of Belgium for their commitment in remembering Australias sacrifice

( some months later I was to return with my elderly parents to see the Lions once more before they returned home )

Walking back across the square I admire a nice scooter and think how much easier it would be for travel on a journey such as this, and then the sadness is lifted as a rumbling noise fills the air and a row of shiny American motorcycles all with extreme customization pull up in a row, turning to Jonathan the words Right turn Clyde slip out and we both laugh, they are probably having as much fun on their journey, but their style is not ours, we are but travellers mounted upon motorcycles , they are living the life of the motorcycle, off we rattle and the marvels of technology steer us towards our final visit for the day, Langermarck, however en route we spot a giant dragon at the side of the road and stop to visit, this is the Welsh national memorial park near Pilkelm ridge, few photos and we are on our way again

At Langermarck we find a parking place, dismount then leave all our clobber on the machines and stroll in, German cemeteries are so different from ours, Large oak trees fill the sky, and the graves are sombre and contain many names, as they never bury their comrades alone, always in 2s and 4s and so on, in the cemetery we find a couple of bunkers still solid and forbidding looking facing northwards, read the names and descriptions and you cannot fail to realise that the cream of German youth also found their resting place here, the universities gave up their pupils and teachers, leaving a massive void postwar of scientists, philosophers, mathematicians, doctors, engineers, teachers, all of the men that would have possibly averted the rise of National Socialism by building a stable economy and thwarting the ambitions of Austria's worst ever citizen.

suitably educated we are ready to leave, but himself decides a comfort break is needed and a dash for a nearby field is called for , the first one he planned upon using was directly in line of sight of the farmhouse, that could cause a farmers wife to take aim, I pointed out his error so he dashed across the road to a field with big things growing and soon vanished from sight, what the Farm boy had failed to notice were two big machines on the back of tractors !! I know nothing of agricultural machinery, but a vision of him squatting down bereft of cover or being drawn up the chute and ejected into a trailer had me laughing madly , luckily the visit was short and he avoided the machinery

time was now ticking on and as it was 4.30 I suggest we get a move on to our overnight stop in Brussels our plan being to stop 2 nights and visit the Atomium

So we pile on our vestments for it is getting cooler now and I suggest we use the motorway to save time, expecting it to take an hour and a half , I point out to himself the motorway will get us there quickly and allow a trip into the city and a fine meal , however this does not accord with his thinking as himself wishes to avoid M ways and instead sample the delights of the Belgian rural road network , So taking a back seat I am happy to follow him and see these pleasant roads for myself, but once again fate takes a hand as his navigation system is set for the cab drivers route !

following him out of Langermarck towards Ypres, he suddenly shoots off between fields

I turn, but realise my mistake too late, its a sharp turn back on myself, I am heavily loaded and the road is full of grit

bollocks, I just dont need to damage my bike any more especially as we didn't need to go this way

so I turn into the slide, displaying all the skill and judgement of Guy Martin on mogadon and gently follow the inevitable path down into a bloody great big ditch, actually my involvement is minimal my riding skills are non existent and my balance is poor at best, but my fine little overloaded Italian thoroughbred takes control of the idiot in charge and stays sunny side up and gently slides herself upright , my luck held and I stopped and allowed many bad works to escape my lips

himself meanwhile is sitting at the next junction looking in his mirror wondering where the hell I had gone, luckily just as he saw my helmet level with the tarmac,I managed to find the inner strength or stupidity to ride the beast out of the ditch, it was not stylish and involved much booting and swearing , but once again I avoided any embarrassing pictures, so no one will ever know I fell off twice in the same day, once again much amusement on his part about my unusual riding style

now tired out and just wanting to get there I follow the little black Guzzi across every country road in Belgium, it was quite pleasant and we jogged along at a pace that would not have been unfamiliar to those Great war chums on their Trusty Triumphs, many of these roads my Grandfathers knew well in less pleasant times, and riding along I had time to reflect upon this fact, and to realise how it must have affected the rest of their lives, motorcycling does this, find the sweet spot, let the machine clatter along, the gentle rustle of the tappets, the soft thudding from the silencers and you are able to detach yourself from cares and worries and let your mind run freely to reflect upon life