As the cross-Channel ferry noses into Ouistreham, I have a perfect view westward along the D-Day beaches. The excitement of arrival is heightened by the fact that this is the first time I have travelled to the Continent since Covid struck. Not since the age of 17 have I been absent from what the English call ‘Europe’ for so long — although of course, living in England, I have been in Europe all the time. My first objective on this trip is to see the new British Normandy Memorial at Ver-sur-Mer, the very place where my father landed with the first wave of the 6th Green Howards shortly after H-hour, 7.25 a.m., on D-Day in 1944. Located atop a high coastal bluff, the memorial commands a spectacular view of the Normandy beaches. Flanking a central monument is a giant rectangle of pale limestone columns, like a cloister but open to the skies, the columns connected by timber beams on top, as in a pergola. On these columns are engraved the names of 22,442 people from more than 30 countries who gave their lives while serving under British command in the Normandy campaign, from 6 June 1944 until the liberation of Paris at the end of August. I am deeply moved to find the names of two of my father’s comrades who were killed doing the same perilous job as he did, being forward observation officers for the artillery. The Normandy memorial is a thing of beauty. It reminds us of deeper ties that no little contemporary spat over Australian submarines or Channel Island fish can break. You can contribute to its upkeep via britishnormandymemorial.org.
From Normandy, I drive to Brussels. The only thing that tells me I have crossed the frontier into Belgium is my GPS, which flashes up new speed limits.
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