This town exists for the dead, not the living
-Rebecca Yarros, Great and Precious Things
Have you ever been somewhere that seems somehow completely frozen in time? I feel as if this sensation is a bit harder to come by in Canada, at least in the more developed areas. I’m not sure if this is because of Canada’s late entrance onto the scene as a nation, or at least the Nation of Canada as we know it. Or, perhaps, I just haven’t seen enough of the country as a whole which is likely true. As Hank from Corner Gas emphasizes, “It’s a VAST country, VAST.”
At any rate, this is a sensation I’ve more consistently felt when travelling through Europe and I imagine it would be even more profound in some places in Africa and the Middle East where remnants of impossibly ancient civilizations remain.
Devastatingly, where I felt this sense of frozen time most viscerally in France was not amongst any venerable old buildings, though there were many of those, but rather in the depths of The Somme. And despite how raw we still were from attempting to comprehend the horrors of Dieppe…This is where we were headed next.
Before even reaching the final stay for our trip, we knew almost immediately once we had crossed over into the region known as The Somme. Wherever we looked the ground was deeply scarred by the countless now-silent bombs that once rained unceasingly on the region. And any land left even somewhat untouched by these pockmarks and trenches was taken up by innumerable graves of fallen soldiers – many of them left unnamed or altogether frozen in their status of missing in action.
The effect was somehow simultaneously heartbreaking and numbing – as if my soul simply didn’t have the capacity to understand the scale of loss. The longer we drove, the more nervous I became about what was to come.
It was impossible to stop and pay our respects at every single grouping of graves. There were simply too many. However, we did promise to visit at least a few of the Canadian ones. It was truly the very least we could do despite our emotional exhaustion.
Thankfully, our mental health was given a boost almost immediately upon arriving at our next refuge from the rawness of the landscape: Avril William’s beautiful guesthouse. Delightfully referred to as Ocean Villas by her British regulars (due to its location in Auchonvillers), we were immediately buoyed by the warm welcome and decidedly cozy appearance of her abode.
From the outside, the place materializes as if from a dream in the form of a quaint English cottage. When you walk inside the tea rooms, you’re greeted by exposed beams, ample seating for relaxed conversation and, amazingly, hundreds of patches decorating every surface representing police forces, fire departments and army units from around the world. The place has become part of a pilgrimage of sorts for people hoping to learn about their ancestors’ parts in the war. A safe haven from which to strike out into the chaos of The Somme and to which you know you can return to contemplate all you have seen over a steaming pot of tea.
Dad and I were certainly looking forward to settling in to our room but we were in no rush to retire immediately having spent so much of the day in the car. We lounged in the tea room instead chatting with Avril herself over much-needed cups of tea and planning how we would approach this last leg of our journey the next day.
Thankfully, Avril had just the thing for us to start with. Behind her guesthouse apparently were the remnants of actual trenches used by the allies during the war. Not cordoned off or reconstructed in some museum but just…there…ripe for exploration.
Not only this but we could also access the cellars of her beloved guesthouse which once acted as a makeshift medical centre for wounded soldiers complete with graffiti composed by the convalescents themselves. How could we resist?
Our morning plans decided, Dad and I gratefully headed up to bed, weary from yet another day filled to the brim with more inherited sorrows than we knew how to hold.
And yet, what did I take to bed with me? A book of soldiers who died in the Great War, including pages and pages of my own family names – relation unknown.
After all, we had entered a realm that exists for the dead – and the dead would lead the way forward.
Thankfully, I was able to drift off in the embrace of the cozy guesthouse – a reminder that even when sleeping in the midst of The Somme…
Life is Beautiful
xo Erin
Erin of the Hills 