It picked us up from Ypres train station at 8.30 this morning, when the air was still quite crisp. I felt sorry for the Brussels-based folk who had already been on the road for 2 hours, but the Embassy staff welcomed us onto the bus cheerfully and gave us our information packs. We drove to nearby Messines for the first event of the day, a service at the Messines memorial.
It was decidedly chilly in the shade, so I grabbed a seat on a stone bench in the sun and observed the other New Zealanders as they arrived. It was a small group, no more than 60 people, but there was a real mixture, from the jandal-wearing blokes with flags tied round their shoulders like capes and their girlfriends with trendy hoodies (particularly liked the one with all the colours in Maori), to the older tourists in matching polar fleeces (sample conversation – “What are you doing? You can’t zip it up like that!” “You don’t know what I’m trying to do!”) and the middle-aged, professional folk who obviously live locally, and have access to a wardrobe more suitable for memorial services.
The day had been programmed like clockwork, and we were ahead of schedule. I sat in the sun, in the small clearing in the trees where the memorial stone. The only sounds were birdsong and the scrunching of feet on gravel. If I squinted slightly, to blur the particular shapes of the leaves, I could have been in New Zealand.
Then something broke the hush – a trill that came from no bird. And again. Was the service going to open with a waiata? But it fell silent. The skirl of bagpipes sprang up, and the assorted dignitaries came up the path. The Last Post was played, and a Reverend read a few suitable words. Then the New Zealand Ambassador stepped forward with a wreath inscribed “From the Government and People of New Zealand”. I felt a lump form in my throat. He walked forward and I just had time to read the words etched in stone at the base of the memorial before the wreath covered them: “From the uttermost ends of the earth”.
The local representatives also placed their wreaths, and then the soldier from the NZ Armed Forces. They each walked up the few steps, placed the wreath in position, and stood for a moment, before bowing slightly to the memorial and returning to their place.
When the last wreath was placed, a lone voice began to sing “E Ihowa Atua”… the first verse of the national anthem, in Maori. The official singer, a New Zealand soprano, has a beautiful voice, but in the intimacy of the setting, people couldn’t resist joining in. I vaguely know the Maori words, so I tried to sing along – but something was stopping me. I had tears streaming down my face.
I’ve been to a few ANZAC Day services in my time. I’ve been to the dawn ceremony in the Auckland Domain, and an 11am ceremony on the walls of Le Quesnoy, the town liberated by New Zealanders one week before the Armistice was signed in 1918. I’ve even inadvertently had a ring-side seat for the brass band playing in Kawhia (outside our B&B first thing in the morning!). But the sense of awe and sacrifice never dims. In fact, it probably increases over the years, as I travel more and see how much the two World Wars marked this part of the world.
And I think the longer I am in France, the more acutely I feel the full extent of the thousands of kilometres that separate me from home. I can imagine very easily how strange and exciting, not to mention terrifying, it would have been for young soldiers to come and fight so far away.
If you want a more personal account of this, I really recommend “A Sovereign in my Pocket”, which contains extracts of the diary of one Archibald K Greves, Bombardier. Published by the France New Zealand Association, it should be compulsory reading in Kiwi and French schools about wartime experience for the ordinary soldier.
After all that, a cup of coffee was very welcome, and so we repaired to the nearby Peace Village, where coffee and croissants was served, and speeches were made. Messines is twinned with Featherston, and so gifts were exchanged to pay tribute to the ties between the two towns. How strange to hear such Kiwi accents where I am used to only speaking French.
After the reception, we proceeded, under police escort no less, back to Ypres for the official wreath-laying at the Menin Gate. This ceremony was combined with Australia, and also because of the easier access, it was crowded. There were two army bands rather than a lone piper, but I have to say I preferred the intimacy of the first ceremony. And our national anthem is much more appropriate for this sort of do, much more humble. Advance Australia Fair is the sort of thing that sounds great over a PA before kick-off, but our soprano from this morning reprising her acapella Maori verses under the great arch sent chills down my spine.
We didn’t just go to Ypres for ANZAC day of course, and I’ll give you a quick run-down on the last few days. I arrived Friday morning in Lille and met Emma and Miles who had come over from London. They had booked us into the Novotel right by the train station, which is clean and modern – and has an electric kettle and teabags in each room! New Zealanders who have travelled in France will know how revolutionary this is. They didn’t have a little carton of free milk, but we’re working on it…
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| Because I don't have enough photos of Lille... |
Saturday morning we weren’t feeling so hungry, but had a little room picnic for breakfast before we picked up the rental car. We navigated our way out of Lille with minimal hassle and headed for Armentières. Just in case you’ve been under a rock for the last 4 years, Armentières is the town I lived in for 8 months in 1996/97. I had never been overseas by myself and never lived outside of Wellington. Boy was I in for a shock. (See “Bienvenue Chez Les Ch’tis/Welcome to the Sticks” and you’ll get the general idea). So now, 15 years later, it was very special to take Emma and Miles there and show them somewhere that was so important in my history.
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| For anyone who has ever received a letter written from this laundry |
Coming from New Zealand, I still have an urge to giggle when I drive over a national boundary. I can barely restrain myself from getting out of the car and hopping over the marker stone – Look! Now I’m in France! Now I’m in Belgium! It always surprises me that there is no barrier, no fanfare. All of a sudden the licence plates change, and the postboxes change from yellow to red – and you’re in Belgium.
We got to Ypres and discovered that we had really lucked out with the B&B. Right in the middle of town, in a lovely old house with wooden floors and high ceilings, and beautifully done. We went up to the Menin Gate for the Last Post, but could barely see anything due to the hordes of people. Easter will do that I think. We ate at another grandma’s house restaurant, so much for a light meal! My head tells me to order salad, but my heart is saying “go for the rabbit and bacon in a beer sauce!”. Oh darn. If only it wasn’t so tasty!
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| Bookshelves! My kind of place!! |
Sunday we took a trip out to Poperinge, which was far enough behind the main lines to be the R&R centre for the Allied forces from 1915 onwards. On the way we stopped into the St Sixtus abbey to taste their world-famous Trappist beer. Turns out you can’t buy any to take away, unless you ring up at least a week in advance on their “beer phone”. But you can taste it on tap. And their dark beer is rich as sin and just as complex. I had one sip, because beer at 11.30 am is for me A Bad Idea (tm). It was so good, I nearly changed my rule.
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| Don't even think of asking for a six-pack. |
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| From April 2011 - Madrid |
And those are the highlights. Crikey, it feels good to be blogging again. Don’t hold your breath for more though! Busy time coming up at work, so I might fall off the grid for the next few weeks…
