18.
Blighty.
The white cliffs were just visible in the gathering darkness as we sailed towards the harbour at Dover. The sight of those cliffs must have been very welcoming for the British soldiers returning home a century ago, either wounded or for a spot of leave before returning to the hell of France or Flanders. I felt differently though; even though my journey had almost come to an end, it still didn’t feel like home.
Home was the rolling hills and deep valleys of Yorkshire about 250 miles to the north and, just like the previous 3,200 or so miles, there was still only one way that I was going to be able to get there. Ye gods, I wasn’t finished yet, despite “finishing” the day before!
As my original plan had been to get the ferry to Hull, I wasn’t carrying any maps of southern England. Fortunately, I’d got chatting to a couple of cyclists who had left their car parked near Dover. So when the ferry docked at the port, I just followed them because I didn’t have a clue where to go.
After that, I was left with the slight problem of finding somewhere to sleep. Whilst I was figuring that problem out, I decided to have a pint to celebrate my return to Blighty. A proper English pub might make me believe that I was getting nearer to home, as it all still felt a bit foreign to me! The White Horse on Castle Hill Road looked like a good bet, as it was fairly quiet for a Saturday night. After a couple of pints, I asked the landlord if he knew of anywhere that I could camp without getting bothered by anybody. He suggested the grounds of the ruined church next door to the pub, so I headed there.
St James the Apostle church was originally built by the Normans in the late 10th century. After surviving the previous 9 centuries, it suffered bomb damage during WW1, before being more or less destroyed during the blitz on Dover during the early years of WW2. Its weakened tower finally collapsed in May 1951, after which it was partially demolished and made into a tidy ruin.
Many a year had probably passed since the ruins had been of much use to anybody, bar historians and tourists taking photos. That night it offered me the sanctuary which I badly needed, although it wasn’t a good night’s sleep, as I knew that I was still in a vulnerable position, despite being back in England (probably more so.)
My plans the following day were to head north to central London where I would leave my last poppy at the Cenotaph on Whitehall, before heading to Sidcup in south east London to stay the night at Terrence and Karin’s house. You’d have thought that I would have got used to things not entirely going to plan by that point in my journey, but I still found it bloody annoying!
I left Dover at about 5am, as I knew that a long day was ahead of me. After getting lost a couple of times, it looked like I was finally getting somewhere, until I saw a “Welcome to Dover” sign. I couldn’t bloody believe that I had somehow just done a 15 mile loop!
Before leaving Dover for a second time, I bought a map book of South East England from a petrol station, as I didn’t have a clue where I was or where I was bloody going and I needed what little battery remained on my phone to ring Karin later in the day. I still ended up getting lost several times and even now, to this day, I don’t have a clue which way I went (except knowing that it was the long way!) It’s strange that I somehow managed to find my way across the European continent without getting too badly lost, but as soon as I reached England the homing pigeon in my brain decided that it’d had enough and decided to go to sleep!
Ashford in Kent was like a bloody maze and I went around it several times before eventually finding the correct road that took me northeast towards Maidstone and eventually Greater London. Because I had got lost so many times, I knew that there was no chance I’d be able to reach the Cenotaph before nightfall. Karin and some of her friends were going to meet me at the Cenotaph, so I sent her a text to let her know I wasn’t going to make it that day. I then headed to their place at Sidcup, arriving very late at about 9pm.
Now I’m the first to admit that I’m a bit daft at times. In my mind, the south east of England is a built up, sprawling urban mass. In reality I was surprised at the amount of green space there actually was on my ride up from the coast. It was the same when I got to their house in Sidcup. I’d always wondered how anybody could live in Greater London, but I was pleasantly surprised. It wasn’t as bad as I used to imagine. No, what I mean is, it was really good and my perception of the hell of having to live anywhere below Sheffield had been shattered forever!
Their house and garden were really nice, but what made it for me, when I eventually turned up, was the welcome that they gave me. Thank you!
After a shower and a meal, they tried to get me to stay in their spare room but I politely declined for two reasons. The first was that I didn’t want to take the piss; they’d showed more kindness than I’d ever expected. The second reason was that I wasn’t sure if I could sleep inside, as the last time had been in Croatia ages ago. No, I slept in their summerhouse and it was great.
As the following day was a Monday, they couldn’t go to the Cenotaph with me because of work commitments but it didn’t matter in the end, as I’m not exactly a fan of being the centre of attention. So off I rode towards the metropolitan madness of Central London where I was quite surprised about the lack of traffic on the roads. Although saying that, the closest that I came to getting knocked off my bike during my journey happened that morning. Somewhere south of the river, a daft lorry driver overtook me before immediately turning left. If I hadn’t been paying attention, I’d have ended up under his wheels. Fortunately I was concentrating and just had to turn left with him, whilst calling the driver a bloody idiot, whose response was just a single finger gesture. Grrrr!
A bit further on, I got hopelessly lost and had to resort to following several compass bearings to get me to Parliament Square. It really was an urban jungle! Once I’d finally located the Cenotaph, I accosted a Canadian tourist and asked him to take a few photos of me leaving the poppy. It felt strange to be leaving the last of 2,015 poppies in such a busy place, but I was glad that there was nobody there to make a fuss.
It felt slightly surreal to be there in all the hustle and bustle of London, as my journey had tended to avoid the large towns and cities. I was craving the peace and quiet again, so I quickly headed north, anxious to get back home to some normality.
As for the journey north, I’m still not sure which route I took. I know that I was roughly following the route of the Great North Road, but after spending 10 minutes riding at the side of the A1, I decided to use the smaller B-roads. I spent the first night camped in a country park kind of place, somewhere to the north of Letchworth Garden City.
The next day wasn’t fun as the battery on my phone went and I was left following my compass north through a maze of small B-roads, I knew even less about where the heck I was than the previous day, eventually camping in another country park near to who-knows-where?
Finally, late on the third day of travelling north, I rode through the border into Yorkshire, camping in some woods next to the M18 motorway a bit south of Doncaster. At last I knew where I was!
The following morning I cycled to the City of Leeds where I decided to follow the canal towpath in order to avoid the busy roads.
Whilst sat on a bench next to the canal in the city centre, my mind drifted back to the Verdun battlefields and the only way that I could comprehend the scale of the death that took place there. All of the office workers must have been on their lunch breaks as the surrounding area was very busy, my mind tried to imagine that all of the men weren’t there any more so that I could recreate my thoughts at the Douaumont French cemetery. After a few minutes of people watching, I remember thinking; “No Phil, just get home before you start blubbing again!” Some things are best left in our minds, as the truth is just too awful to comprehend.
My route followed the canal for about 10 miles until I turned off and headed towards the last hill of my journey, the place where I spent many happy days as a child, Baildon Moor. It felt slightly surreal to be back there at the end of my journey, but I had one last place to visit before I could head home.
In the village of Baildon, half way down the hill, is the location of the local war memorial. Nearly every hamlet, village, town and city in the British Isles has one and as a young Air cadet I used to stand there on the morning of November 11th, not quite sure about what we were remembering? This has changed somewhat now. In the present and the future my mind will be thinking of the millions of dead who lie under European soil, not just our own dead, but everybody who had the misfortune to live and ultimately die during those four and a bit years a century ago. Even after returning home over two years ago, there hasn’t been many times when their “memory” hasn’t haunted me...