Tilloy-Les-Cambrai Canadian Cemetery

While staying in Paris I went on a field trip out of the city to visit the grave of my Great-Great Uncle Harold who had fought and died in the first World War. As far as I know, no one from my family has yet been able to visit him and, as I was so close, I felt compelled to go pay my respects.

Here is an adorable school report my brother did on Great-Great Uncle Harold when he was in elementary school (Daniel, you never answered my message asking if I could post this, so here it is).

Two train rides took me from Paris to the small town of Cambrai where I planned to get a local bus to the smaller town, Tilloy-Les-Cambrai, 20 minutes North. Unfortunately, as Cambrai is quite a small town, their public busses do not run on Sundays, and their tourist information centre was also closed. I decided to walk to Tilloy-Les-Cambrai but I had no idea of where to go. I had a screen shot of Google maps showing me how to get from the train station to the bus station and how to get from the bus stop to the cemetery, but no information for the bus route. I wandered around trying to find WiFi so I could google directions, however Cambrai also didn’t seem to have any free WiFi. As I just needed someone to point me in the right direction I entered a small restaurant. Between my broken French and the waitress’ broken English we eventually settled on the fact that I was going to visit my Uncle (I decided it would be easier to say that then to try to explain I was looking for his cemetery). She was adamant that it was too far to walk (even though it was just an hour) but I continued to ask “where? which way?” and she continued to reply “too far”. At this point, the entire restaurant seemed to be listening and giggling slightly at our exchange until an elderly fellow in the back corner downed his glass of wine, jingled his car keys and said “I drive”.

The grey haired man was easily in his 70s, had a happy smile and spoke less English than the waitress. While in any other circumstance I would not get in a car with a stranger, especially one drinking at 10am, Ben seemed to know everyone in the restaurant and I didn’t have another way to get out to Tilloy-Les-Cambrai. During the quick drive to Tilloy-Les-Cambrai Ben and I struggled to make conversation. His understanding was that I was going to visit my Uncle so when we arrived in Tilloy-Les-Cambrai and I asked him to stop on the main street he looked concerned. I could tell he didn’t want to dump me on the side of the road in the worsening rain, but I didn’t have the capability to explain in French that the relative I was visiting was actually deceased. I hopped out, smiled, waved and walked towards the highway.

The Cemetery for Canadian Soldiers is nestled between two highways. One major artery, and a country highway. During my walk it became apparent that people don’t walk to this cemetery. To cross the major highway there is a two lane bridge without a proper sidewalk. I walked between the guardrail and the bridge railing where the wet, moss covered ground made the going slow. Thankfully, shortly after crossing, I finally found the cemetery. At first I wasn’t too impressed with the location, the cars zooming past didn’t provide much of a peaceful atmosphere, but the farm land behind the cemetery changed my mind. Harold had grown up on the family farm and so it seemed fitting that his final resting place was near farmland. I had planned on buying flowers in Cambrai but unfortunately, as it was Sunday, no where seemed to be open. Instead I found a small flower growing on the side of the highway and left it with my Remembrance Day poppy on Harold’s grave.

I admit that although I never met Harold I found myself crying for him standing in the cemetery. Harold was three years younger than me when he died at the age of 20 so far from home. Now he rests surrounded by other 248 other fallen soldiers who also died far too young. I have to say, it was a comfort to see how well the cemetery was maintained. I’m not sure who is responsible for maintaining WWI graves, but I hope they know it’s appreciated.

In what I consider a spectacular act of balance I manage to crouch, hold my umbrella up with my knees, and take a few photos to send home without falling into the wet grass more than once. I stayed with Harold for a while, and although it felt a little silly, I told him about how the family was doing back home. Uncle Harold, I’m sorry I never got to meet you. I’m sure you would have lived a wonderful life if you had returned home; thank you for fighting for us.

With that, it was time to start the return journey. I walked back over the bridge into Tiloy-Les-Cambrai, set my sights on the tall steeple of the church that I knew to be in the centre of Cambrai and started to walk back. The walk really was only just over an hour and when I returned to the city drenched and cold from the rain I still had two and a half hours to kill before my train back to Paris. To warm up, I ate very slowly in an Italian restaurant by the train station while continuing to read Harry Potter. After I spent far too long in the Italian restaurant I moved to a café for tea before I finally moved to the poorly heated train station to pass the final 20 minutes bouncing around to stay warm. While I was waiting on the platform it started to snow which, while pretty, made me even more impatient for the train to arrive. That said, it’s a lot easier to put being cold, wet and tired into perspective after having just visited the grave of a relative who died in the war.

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