Following Grandfather's footsteps - Normandy Beaches

It’s amazing how the best laid plans go wrong…

Part 1 – the dull bit.

My business partner, James, his mate Chris and I had hatched a plan over a post-work pint one evening to head for Normandy on the bikes. Despite tens of thousands of miles in the UK, neither of us had ever managed to escape to continental Europe. So we decided to ride down to Portsmouth, get the Brittany Ferries Fastcat and do some exploring.

All the better, we’d be visiting Pegasus Bridge and the Ranville area, where James’ Grandfather had fought in the last war. He was with 13th (2nd/4th Battalion The South Lancashire Regiment) Parachute Battalion under Lt. Col. P. J. Luard.

Account of attack on the positions held by 13th Battalion (Lancashire) The Parachute Regiment, by 2nd Bn. 858 Gren Regt., 10 June 44. Known as the 'Battle of Ranville'.

At 0300 hrs 10 June, Capt Kerr came in to Battalion Headquarters to report to the Commanding Officer that there had been some machine gun fire from the same woods and that he suspected an attack. The Intelligence Officer, Lieut L.H.U. Golding, was sent to HQ 5 Para Bde with this information and a request for a F.O.O. to be attached to the Battalion. Capt Kerr was told to remain in observation, report all movement and on no account to open fire and so disclose his positions. The request for a F.O.O. was granted by Brigade who were doubtful about the attack, which was considered to be most unlikely.

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from: http://www.pegasusarchive.org/normandy/war_13thBatt.htm

James’ Grandfather was Lieut Golding; apparently the resemblance between the two is striking. Sadly, I can’t comment as he died some years before I met his Grandaughter and ended up, very, very fortunately, in such a remarkable family.

Whilst James had never really talked to his Grandmother (known to absolutely everyone – family or not – as Nan) about what her husband had done in the War, she and I had sat for many hours in her back garden, over innumerable cups of tea and slices of home-made cake talking about it. James is 26, and neither of his parents were around in WWII – it’s somehow more remote for him. I’m 40, and my father fought in Burmah and Ma drove ambulances in Dover and Ramsgate, so it feels very, very much closer to me. I was keen to see where Grandfather had fought with (so Nan told me) some distinction.

I’d already asked you lot where you’d recommend in Cherbourg, and the short answer was ‘er, nowhere – go and stay with Adrian and Karen at the Normandy Beaches in Arromanches.” The recommendations really glowed, so I e-mailed Adrian and booked us in. The plan was starting to get a bit of substance to it.

As ever, with both of us running the business, everything else was somewhat last minute. Breakdown cover? Suppose we’d better have some – so I get on the phone to see who’ll cover me on a ’91 Airhead R100GS. The short answer is ‘practically no-one’ – it falls into some sort of no-bike’s land where it’s not enough to be classic and be looked after, but is old enough to be an old nail that will go wrong at the slightest provocation. Arse. It’s Thursday and we’re off tomorrow morning!

A quick post on here sees GSers firing over names of companies who might help. I start calling round, meeting wall after wall of ‘puter says no’, but eventually get cover on a recommendation of one of the operators at Britannia Rescue. That’s the GS sorted. Jim doesn’t give a stuff – his Honda CBR600 isn’t going to break down, even two-up with Chris on the back.

We then realise the only ferry to be had is an 0700 from Portsmouth, so we need somewhere to stay. Another post on here gets several recommendations, and we book into the Holiday Inn on Gunwharf Quays. Looks smart – and ought to be at the price.

All that needs done now is prep the bike (a bit anyway – just to show willing) and ride to Portsmouth. So I wander out to check the old girl over. Tyre pressures fine. Bit more oil. Lights? Ah – pilot bulb gone. I thought I should probably get a spare of each, so rang the long-suffering Matt at North Oxford Garages, and he sorted me out a set to collect en route.

Finally, we’d managed to clear the desks (at least enough to see that they WERE desks) and headed to Oxford to pick up Jim’s bike and Bampton for mine. I grab the bike file from the cabinet and gather insurance certificate, registration certificate and MoT. Everything else I can buy over there if I need it. I’m just looking over the MoT certificate when I realise it’s the wrong year – phew! Back to the file to find this year’s. Ah. The MoT was more expired than Gordon Brown’s Prime Ministerial honeymoon. It’s now 7pm, so the chances of another MoT are slim.

Now, the GS is packed (one bag – plenty of room for a few bottles of Montbazilliac and Loupiac and fags for Pip), the GPS is hard-wired in. Everything’s ready except some arsy bit of bureaucratic arse-paper. I swear a little, before realising that the glass is VERY much, as ever, more than half-full – I was just being too dim to see it.



There’s no point in having two if you don’t use ‘em, is there? The RS is insured, taxed AND MoTed. All I need to do is fit the GPS, kick the tyres a bit and check the oil and I’m sorted. No breakdown cover, but – ah – it’s bound to be fine.

Then the phone rings. It’s Karen from the Normandy Beaches – our B&B. She’s trying to sort out what seems like a double booking. I say it’ll be fine – life’s too short to worry about stuff like that. Spare sofa – that’ll do. Looks like I’m not the only one with things going a bit Pete.

So, as it starts to get dark I start fitting the GPS mount to the RS. Easy. Not. There’s no bloody where to put it, except on one of the frame spars. It’ll do with a few wraps of duct-tape. After forty minutes of fiddling, it’s all ready to go. Sling the bag in the (very much smaller) panniers and turn the key. Of course, she starts perfectly and I’m off – I’ve never done this before – I’m going to France on the bike. I know you lot have done it and many, many miles further away, but for me it’s new, exciting and bloody good fun.

I stop at a petrol station just outside Abingdon. “You going far?” the lad behind the counter asks, almost as if briefed. “Nah,” I reply with a barely suppressed grin, “Only France.”

Portsmouth next stop…



I get to sleep with this view.

Part II

It’s a mirror-flat crossing, and as Chris is in the Navy, he tells us what’s what in Portsmouth Docks. It’s fascinating. I never realised there was an escape practice tower for submarines!

Time for a coffee, a pain au chocolat and a lean on the railings at the back.



We landed in France just after 8am French time. First things first.



We get stopped by the Gendarmes at the gate of the ferry port. One wants a chat about my RS as his mate looks on. He’s always fancied one and what do I think. I tell him to buy a good ‘un as restoring one is expensive. “But worth it,” he says, waving us off. The roads are completely empty. I decide in about an eighth of a second that I like riding in France. A lot. But it always feels like home to me anyway…

We ride along the coast and arrive at Arromanches. It’s early, but the tourist tat’s already out, making a living for someone.



We can’t find the Normandy Beaches, Karen and Adrian’s place so I give them a call. This really sets the tone for the rest of the stay – “Yes,” says Karen, “I know exactly where you are, just ride up here, down there and I’ll be waiting for you. Give me two minutes to get the kettle on.” We were phenomenally well looked-after from that point on.

We get the bikes settled in and sit down for a cuppa with Karen to plan what we’re going to see.

The Mulberry Harbour, and a good lunch

After a cuppa and a chat with Karen we decide the best plan is lunch and a wander round the Mulberry Harbour in the bay at Arromanches and a couple of museums. So we wander into the village to see what looks good to eat. Then, we’re planning to head off to Caen and get some miles in, just for the ride.

As ever, the best-laid plans go all to hell when there’s lunch involved. The problem is oysters. I LOVE oysters with a passion. But you can’t have oysters without a bottle of muscadet. And you can’t really have a bottle of muscadet without having another one. So any plans for riding go out of the window, as do several dozen oyster shells.

At about 3.30pm, we decide it’s time to get a café, a p’tit calva, settle the bill and wander down to the beach to clear our heads.

The Mulberry Harbour is incredible – in terms of its construction, the way it was deployed, the role it played and the fact that it’s still there.







Jim and Chris take a better look.



Hollow concrete construction.

We looked at some of the kit that was still around. This gun’s been sat in the sea air for years, but look at the elevation scale – it’s still perfect. BMW can’t even build a forkbrace that doesn’t corrode…



It’s a shame that someone’s stuffed a wine bottle down the barrel, but I sort of like the juxtaposition.



The Mulberry Harbours were an amazing feat of creative thinking, engineering and logistics.

The actual proposer of the idea of the Mulberry Harbour is disputed, but among those who are known to have proposed something along these lines is Hugh Iorys Hughes, a Welsh civil engineer who submitted initial plans on the idea to the War Office, Professor J. D. Bernal, and Vice-Admiral John Hughes-Hallett.
At a meeting following the Dieppe Raid, Hughes-Hallett declared that if a port could not be captured, then one should be taken across the Channel. This was met with derision at the time, but in a subsequent meeting with Churchill, the Prime Minister declared he had surmised a similar scenario using some Danish Islands and sinking old ships for a bridgehead for an invasion in World War I. The concept of Mulberry Harbours began to take shape when Hughes-Hallett moved to be Naval Chief of Staff to the Overlord planners.

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So, if we can’t capture a port, we’ll bloody well build our own and tow it over there. Incredible. And if Hughes-Hallett hadn’t believed in his own idea, despite criticism, the end of the war would undoubtedly have been delayed by months.

It not only worked, it exceeded its specifications massively:

By June 9, just 3 days after D-Day, two harbours codenamed Mulberry 'A' and 'B' were constructed at Omaha Beach and Arromanches, respectively. However, a large storm on June 19 destroyed the American harbour at Omaha, leaving only the British harbour which came to be known as Port Winston at Arromanches. While the harbour at Omaha was destroyed sooner than expected (due to it not being securely anchored to the sea bed), Port Winston saw heavy use for 8 months—despite being designed to last only 3 months. In the 100 days after D-Day, it was used to land over 2.5 million men, 500,000 vehicles, and 4 million tonnes of supplies providing much needed reinforcements in France.
A complete Mulberry harbour was constructed out of 600,000 tons of concrete between 33 jetties, and had 10 miles (15 km) of floating roadways to land men and vehicles on the beach. Port Winston is commonly upheld as one of the best examples of military engineering.

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And it’s still there…

There’s a lot to see in Arromanches. And all of it has a story. I doubt these pits in the armour were made by air guns:



The tower you can see in the bottom RHS belongs to a gorgeous house called (unsurprisingly) Les Tourelles. I couldn’t work out whether it was owned by an actress or an author, but either way, they ought to visit it more often – the shutters were closed with ivy growing over them.

I got a real sense of how wide-reaching the war must have been…



There was the Tulsa Winch Co happily making farm equipment, then suddenly they’re deployed to make winches for half-tracks.



We got back to the B&B to find one of the cats was making himself at home. Evidently a cat with taste in motorcycles.



Karen wandered out, declared we looked thirsty and opened the first of many bottles of wine. We spent a very happy evening demolishing wine with Karen and a few of the other riders.

It’s an incredible place. You will leave at least a stone heavier – partly from the phenomenal breakfasts (porridge with cream and whisky, full fry-up, you name it, it’s there), but because Karen won’t let you do a damn thing. Want a drink – she’ll sort it. Cup of tea? No problem. This is one of the few pics of her in one place long enough to photograph:



Yes, that is a Ferret armoured car. Here’s Chris having a go:



Finally, at some ridiculous hour, we tucked the bikes up and headed for bed:

Super report ! Any more?

That knocked reading the sunday papers into a cocked hat, far superior.

We ought to have a "sunday morning report" on the site. Different story each week.

Anyway, i digress, Back to the report Mark.

Steptoe said:

We ought to have a "sunday morning report" on the site. Different story each week.

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You start by finishing yours...

Great stuff mark.


Cos of this site i gave up buying the papers.

Thanks all - really appreciate that. It's been a shitty day and I'm cheering myself up by writing this

Quiet mornings, bunkers, bridges and omelettes

Up early, and before anyone else was about, I walked down to the beach. The early morning is always my favourite part of the day. No-one else around, quiet, the day full of potential.

The beach was almost deserted:



There were a few tractors pulling boats down to the water, a couple of people walking dogs, and that was it.

We decided to actually see some of the things we’d come to see today, rather than another extended lunch. So we headed along the coast road to Ouistreham and the Grand Bunker.



It’s a solid concrete observation and garrison outpost:

Located at a stones throw from the beach and the Ferry terminal, the Atlantic Wall Museum is inside the old German headquarter which was in charge of the batteries covering the entrance of the river Orne and the canal. The 52ft high concrete tower has been fully restaured to make it look how it was on the 6th of june 1944.
You will discover on the Grand Bunker's six floors all its inner rooms, which have been recreated down to the last detail: generator room, gas filters room, casemate with machine gun protecting the entrance, dormitory, medical store, sick bay, armoury, ammunition store, radio transmission room, telephone switchboard, observation post equipped with a powerful range-finder and on the top floor a 360° view over Sword Beach.

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It was finally taken by two men and one officer:

On 9 june, lieutenant Bob Orrell of Royal Engineers, 91Field Company R.E., 3rd Beach Group, 3rd Canadien Div., 2nd British Army, was given orders to invest the large Bunker. Accompagnied by three men, he placed two explosive charges one after the other to blow up armour-placed door. Altoghether it took them four hours to break it open! The garnison of two officers and fifty men then surrenderedand the liberation of Ouistreham was complete

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Apparently, once Orrell had detonated the charges, he and the men cautiously moved into the bunker. A voice came from upstairs in perfect English “Come on up Tommy, we surrender.” Apparently Orrell replied “Bugger off – you come down here!”, and he was amazed when fifty two men meekly trooped down, handed over their weapons and surrendered.

Here’s the door Orrell and his men blew – it’s a testament to German engineering that the top hinge still works perfectly:



The place is huge – six floors of solid concrete. I wonder if the soldier involved got hell for leaving his footprint in the wet concrete as it was laid:



On the top floor, you can see the ferryport at the mouth of the Orne.



There’s also the original rangefinding kit still in place and still working:





We rode on to Ranville and Pegasus Bridge, and stopped for lunch at Café Gondrée. That was the best omelette I’ve ever had anywhere. Jim seemed to enjoy his too.



There are still old German tanks lying around the place



And we watched the new bridge rise while we ate:





Great place – so much memorabilia inside it would take days to read it all. And Mme Gondrée-Pritchard treated us like royalty, despite looking thoroughly disreputable and turning up in bike kit. Well worth a visit – and try the omelettes.

After lunch, we rode the three minutes over the bridge to the Pegasus Bridge museum… Those three minutes would have been rather different in 1944…

Museums and living history

Major Howard led the British troops towards the bridge. German Private Romer saw twenty- two British Airborne troops charging towards him. With a sudden outbreak of common sense, Romer ran back towards the west end of the bridge, shouting “Paratroopers!” as he passed the other sentry. One of the British troopers emptied a full magazine into the remaining sentry as grenades were tossed into the machine-gun pillbox. No one was left alive inside. As this was happening British Sappers were already searching for explosives and cutting wires. The other German soldiers manning the bunkers and machine-gun positions awoke at the sound of the gunshots and the explosion. Now fully aware the Germans emerged and opened fire on the airborne troops. A grenade and combined gunfire wiped out the two machine gun nests. The German Sergeant Hickman had managed to creep up to the bridge just in time to see #1 platoon charging over. The sight of the fully equipped British soldiers frightened him. Hickman opened fire on the British with the Schmeisser he was carrying. In his haste Hickman only managed to spray bullets over the British heads. Now out of ammunition he reasoned that he had to let his commander know what had happened and with that he made his escape.

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Taking Pegausus Bridge was absolutely pivotal for the allied assault. Viewed from the luxury of today, we know the ending. The troops landing in the early hours of the morning on 5/6 June didn’t. Listening to their story in the Museum just by the bridge brought home their courage. They were dropped by parachute or flew in in gliders to a place they’d never seen to take a bridge they’d never crossed in a country many of them had never visited. Just finding their way was a job enough.



The museum gave a very real sense of the human aspect of the action. The letters home from the troops were full of stories of quite incredible courage, told as though they were no more than a trip to the shops for a paper.

The bridge that spans the river now is new – this is the old one:





It’s nothing remarkable as bridges go. But what happened here certainly WAS remarkable.



We looked around the museum in silence. This was an action that Jim’s grandfather had been part of, and Luard’s 13th was mentioned in many of the documents and memorabilia around the building.



As we stood at the desk to pay for our tickets, a Veteran who’d fought in the action too was asking for a ticket. He must have been in his late 70s, but he was tall, straight and proud of the regimental crest on his immaculate blazer. He had his two grandsons with him.

As he walked up to the desk, the lady behind it looked up and beamed. She said “You are a Veteran, yes?” He replied that he was. “There’s no charge then, Sir. You’re very welcome.” He beamed back as he showed his two teenage grandsons through into the museum.

Chris, Jim and I must have spent three hours just looking around and thinking about what it must have been like to be there on that June day.



We got back to the bikes, had a cigarette, and rode on to Ranville, where Jim’s Grandfather was mentioned.

Blink and you’d miss Ranville.

But it was the first town in France to be liberated. It fell to the British on 6 June 1944 at 2:30 a.m. and was captured by the 13th (Lancashire) Battalion The Parachute Regiment, Jim’s Grandfather’s Regiment, under Luard.

It’s a town that remembers its history though:





Nan, Jim’s Grandmother, had told us there was a plaque in the Church to the 13th, so we parked the bikes and went in search.



It’s not a terribly remarkable church either, but the sunlight was treating the stained glass like a projector:



After about ten minutes of looking, on the south side of the Church we found the plaque. Very, very simple. “Luard’s Own. They win or die.”



And they had. The cemetery is just next to the Church.

The churchyard was used for immediate burials, and some soldiers from 6th (Airborne) were laid to rest at this location as the fighting for the Eastern Flank continued. After the Second World War the site was chosen to regroup burials from this part of the battlefield, and graves were brought in from a number of areas, including: Amfreville, Colleville-sur-Orne, Houlgate, Colombelles and Villers-sur-Mer. The cemetery was finally closed in 1946. A very high proportion of the dead here are men from 6th (Airborne) Division.

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I can’t say that any of us left Ranville dry-eyed.

Bayeux and bollocks

We rode from Ranville, down the N13, to Bayeux – one of my favourite places. Unfortunately, we’d missed the Marche Gourmand – the pig is one of my favourite animals. Pigs AND Bayeux was just irresistible. Yummm – degustations.



But Bayeux is still beautiful, no matter how you look at it.



Someone had even left a chair out so we could admire the south side of the cathedral:



Notre Dame is an absolute stunner. Romanesque, lots of gnarly bits, and gorgeous glass. I have a bit of a thing for organs (fnarr), and Notre Dame has TWO Cavaillé-Coll instruments – which is a real treat. I was thoroughly disappointed that the cathedral was closed when we arrived, but I heard some music and pressed my ear to the West door to listen. Heaven. Sounded like the organist was giving Sunday’s voluntary a work out.



By now it was definitely supper time. In the UK, to eat well you need to pay well. In France, a civilized country, you don’t. Rapport qualite prix is what it’s all about. So we strolled in, be-leathered, into this lovely Bistro right by the Cathedral. Over here, it would a WHSmiths or some nasty tat-shop. In Bayeux, it was food heaven.



27 Euro bought us this:



and this:



and this:



Sorry. The fish and cheese courses didn’t hang around long enough to be photographed. But they were very, very, VERY good.

Again, being France, we were very warmly welcomed, our lids were carefully stowed for us along with our leathers, solicitous enquiries were made after the safety of our bikes and would we like to park them at the front of the restaurant. My days in the UK are distinctly numbered…

It was dark by the time we’d finished eating, talking over the day and what had happened. Rugby match? Was there one on?



We paid what seemed like a very reasonable bill and headed back to the bikes…



And back through the mist on the tops of the cliffs to the Normandy Beaches to watch the tail end of the match. We watched it with the rest of the riders at the B&B, plus a few French friends. Carlos had only two words of English – “****eeng bollocks”. He said that quite a lot during the last ten minutes of the game.

Home again

It was Sunday. An absolute stunner of a day.



Karen said she’d lead us for a ride up to the port. Ha ha ha. If I’d known she was that quick on her GS550 Suzuki I’d have politely declined and set the GPS (although, without a power cable (and I’d forgotten the adaptor) it was running low) and hoped.

Off like a rat up a pipe. As ever, I rode my own, pedestrian ride and got there a bit after everyone else.



The old tank was running like a well-oiled Rolex, but a little more reliably. I parked her up and sat on the wall and looked at the sea as she ticked happily beside me.



We rode through Ouistreham, onto the ferry and home. Just a weekend, but I’m still turning the memories and thoughts over in my head and will be for a while. Sometimes I get the feeling, looking at the past, that I don’t know I’m born.

Fantastic report We did just about excactly the same tour in May this year, the cathedral in Bayeux is spectacular inside, worth a run over there on its own.

Nice trip and good report

Did Normandy back in Feb this year and went to alot of the same places. nice part of the world with lots of history and easy to get too.

If you enjoy doing this sort of thing you might like to consider this lot. We need more GS'ers in it.

www.rblr.co.uk

ride safe Alex

Brilliant report Mark, thank you so much for sharing it with us.

An interesting read there Mike. Thanks for posting.

Aidan1150 said:

An interesting read there Mike. Thanks for posting.

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Yeh Mike, great read. We're like brothers me and Mike.

Steptoe said:

Yeh Mike, great read. We're like brothers me and Mike.

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Mike Read was your brother? You kept that quiet...


Good post, Mark. Really interesting

Aidan1150 said:

An interesting read there Mike.

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Sorry Mark.