Why Maastricht, you may be wondering? Maastricht is the closest town to Margraten, where the Netherlands American Cemetery is located. In 1945, after surviving the Battle of the Bulge, my mother’s older brother, George (and my father’s best friend), was killed by shrapnel. He had been billeted with a Belgian family who later communicated with my grandmother, and we always thought he had been buried in Belgium. But I was able to discover online that his grave was in fact in the Netherlands. I found this very strange until I discovered that the two military cemeteries, one on either side of the border, are only 20 minutes apart by car.
I had wanted to come here for some time and never had the opportunity. I considered that this detour was just that chance, and took it.
The evening before, when I arrived in Maastricht, the weather was sunny and warm and everyone was out on terraces, where I joined them for a simple dinner. My budget hotel, right across from the station, was cute and clean. The morning dawned foggy and cool and after a coffee, I took a bus to the cemetery, where more than 8,000 soldiers are buried. I found his grave and said some prayers.
The men in the visitors’ center gave me all the information they had on him and also informed me that his grave had been adopted, like many others, by local families who took it upon themselves to visit the graves, keep them tidy, etc. I believe I am the only person in my mother’s family to have been able to come, and so I was grateful for the chance to do so.
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Did I mention that I felt lighter? I was by one sunhat, much to my dismay. I checked with the BandB and station in Amsterdam before leaving, no luck. I deliberately planned my return to France with space in between the trains to check the lost and found at each station (note to future travelers – if you lose something you can’t just go to the lost-and-found, at least not in Belgium or France – you have to file a missing object report online first…), unsuccessfully.
So I am on my way, at the close of this detour by train from – Maastricht to Bruxelles-Midi; Bruxelles-Midi to Lille; Lille to Arras.
I have jumped a few stages of Sigeric’s tour, so as not to lose time on the one hand, and because I can’t bear the idea of returning to Tournehem. Arras, six stages later, was chosen because it has a direct train from Lille and does not require trying to arrange a taxi to a village, among other reasons. This leaves me still in the Pas de Calais, only 109 km by road from where I was on the morning of the 29th when I set out from that port city.
While I feel a bit guilty about leaping forward, I reason that (a) I promised myself I wouldn’t be dogmatic about this; and (b) in Sigeric’s time, perhaps he would have been called aside to visit a local bishop or tend to a disciple somewhere and then been deposited forward on his path… Or so I can imagine.
In Arras I had found a BnB very near the station, with a kind lady whose ground floor smelled of tobacco but whose upstairs was smoke-free and colorful, to say the least. She gave me a hand with the chariot and provided an electric kettle and tea and coffee in the room. In the evening I made do with some snacks, did some work and laundry and slept.
Tomorrow, Tally ho! Or maybe it should be Giddyup?
photos below:
