More than 100 years after his death on 28^th January 1917 at Hébuterne on the Somme front, we went at last to visit my Great Grandfather’s grave nearby, outside the small village of Couin.  The chateau there was divisional HQ where he was probably based as he had been seconded from his regiment, the Royall Scots Greys, to the Staff.  He was shot by a German sniper while inspecting a trench.  His only son, my Grandfather was also killed by a sniper in WWII and is buried in a small CWGC graveyard at Uden, near Arnhem in the Netherlands.  At least, I suppose, they both lived long enough to be married and have a child. Two of my husband's relatives, a cousin and a great uncle died on the same day, 1st December 1917, both won MCs posthumously. They were 22 and 24.  Next to one of them lies his fellow Coldstream officer who won both the MC and the VC. On the other side, Patrick Shaw Stewart, the poet who wrote 'I saw a man this morning'.  

All those who believe we should break away now from the friendly embrace of our closest allies in Europe should realise the sacrifices they and we made and the seed that was propagated in the horror of repeated war to flower in an enduring economic friendship. If that friendship is littered with day to day pettifogging regulation, so much the better. We can squabble over detail as friends will do but we need never stand on our own when faced with greater threat, whether from chlorinated American chicken or Chinese expansionism. 

‘This happy breed of men, this little world, this precious stone set in the silver sea’. Visits to the splendid new history centre at Agincourt and the wooden viewing tower overlooking the field of the Battle of Crécy, bring out the half-remembered Shakespeare but our little world etc etc hasn’t got too much going for it these days.  We have to be part of a greater whole unless we are inspired by some of the worst of our politicians to become a chillier version of Singapore.  The Agincourt centre is a treat for all ages although the excellent electronically illustrated commentary on the battle leaves its audience a little uncertain as to the final victor. The excessive competitive chivalry of the French knights, that was largely responsible for their defeat both at Agincourt and seventy years earlier at Crécy, was not dwelt on too heavily.  On the other hand, the unusual slaughter of potentially ransomable prisoners by the English, when threatened by further French assaults, played out in filmed silhouette on giant screens round the room.  Hooray for French patriotism and we did win after all. 

It is easy to forget what an enormous country France is and, pottering about Picardy and the Pays de Calais for four days we seemed to cover vast amounts of ground that are little more than a small blemish on the map of the whole country.  We drove through miles of cultivated land, lavishly dotted with wind turbines.  There is space for so much on these flat lands of past trench warfare and battle that rise to those famously named woods and ridges, the high ground fought over again and again during WWI.  Everywhere there are cemeteries, not much bigger than a tennis court or a football pitch most of them. Young men, 19, 20, 22, French, English, German, New Zealanders, Canadians and Germans, all buried among immaculate green lawns and flower beds.  Sometimes a Chinese member of a Labour battalion, Indians and those who fought from other Commonwealth countries, and, always, the nameless, buried here and there among their fellows. They are all remembered on the vast memorial arch at Thiepval where there is another immaculate new museum to add flesh and blood narrative to the tragedy of the monument to so many who lie in unnamed graves.

We stayed for 3 nights in the Petit Chateau B&B in the small village of Willeman, near Hesdin, in an area of tidy villages and the smallholdings catered for in the agricultural co-operatives on village outskirts.  The mostly 20^th century houses in this regularly embattled and devastated region cluster round their spired churches, some of which, dramatically fortified, date back as far as the Hundred Years War. The Petit Chateau, up a quiet lane, just outside the woods and wall surrounding the Chateau of Willeman, is run by Madeleine, who is English, with Xavier, her French partner. They have two comfortable double rooms in their converted garage surrounded by the garden with breakfast including the flakiest possible croissants, in the conservatory of the main house and the option of a delicious dinner if ordered in advance. 

Willemans is well under two hours drive from the Eurotunnel and from there we could easily visit graveyards and major sites of the region. and allow ourselves to be distracted from our route  by a sight of distant ruin, an intriguing road sign or a previously unvisited monument or memorial. We set off  to find  what turned out to be the ruined towers of the Abbaye of Mont St Eloi when we spotted them from the main Arras road.  The great Abbaye was reputedly founded in the 7th century but its ruination came during the French Revolution.  The towers that were its only standing remains were subject to heavy German shelling in 1915 when they were used by French troops to observe German movements on Vimy Ridge.  The French position was given away by the birds that still roost among the old stones.

We were easily distracted too, in distinctly autumnal weather, by thoughts of a good lunch with a lot of beer or rosé in a promising road side restaurant or one, identified by Michelin or Google, in the centre of a  town. At Arras, near the glorious Grand Place, we ate classic baveuse omelette aux cepes and rather a lot of fried potatoes. At Amiens, lured by the cathedral, the largest gothic building in France, we failed to find a table in the most popular nearby restaurant and were rapidly frozen out by the attitude of the only waitress at the next.  We fell on our feet at last on the edge of the cathedral square at a family run brasserie where 'Maman' was moving so fast with the orders that her feet barely touched the ground.

The massive cathedral of St Omer is known for its spectacular organ and astrolabe clock.  On a gloomy afternoon the interior was more obviously dominated by the burning candles and scented lilies filling the chapel of the 13th century statue of Notre Dame des Miracles, it's walls covered with votive inscriptions and sculpture. Outside the side wall of the chapel the ancient monolithic tomb of St Erkembode is covered with  more pathetic offerings.  An Irish monk who became Bishop of the enormous diocese of Therouanne, he was constantly on the move.  Pilgrims to his shrine left their shoes in recognition of his and their own travels but these have been replaced as offerings by the small shoes of disabled children whose patron saint, for long forgotten reasons, he has become.

On our way back to Calais, we took a side road toward Cap Gris Nez and the small seaside town of Ambleteuse where the grey Channel waves beat against a fort built by Vauban in the 17th century and James II landed to go into exile in December 1689.  On a wet Monday our of season the town was  shut and shuttered apart from a trail of elderly local pensioners to the only open restaurant, the Fort des Cap.  There, excellent service, warmth, moules frites and the freshest fish sent us well fed on our return journey to Folkestone and more grim political news on Radio 4.