Day 3 - 9 May - Angeiras to Póvoa de Varzim

As The Drifters famously sang:

Oh, when the sun beats down and burns the tar up on the roof
And your shoes get so hot you wish your tired feet were fire proof
Walking the boardwalks, down by the sea, yeah
In a bar with my buds and a Super Bock is where I'll be

Today we had one of those days where, had you plotted it on a graph, it would have started with a very obvious trend in the right direction and continued in similar vein, throughout the day, with only the occasional blip every now and then. 

I awoke at seven o’clock to the sound of intermittent rain drops on the roof of Clampett cabin albeit the rain clouds were already dissipating, soon to be replaced by hints of the blue sky to follow. With only a modest ten mile day ahead of us, there was no need for urgency and it was gone ten o’clock by the time we meandered away from the camp site. We strolled back down to the coastal path, turned right and then stopped for coffee and egg & cheese on toast at the first bar we came to in Labrugue.

The Atlantic coastline is simply spectacular with soft sand beaches, more rocky structures than you can shake a stick at and the ocean surf pounding everything that gets in its way. All of this is viewed from the boardwalk pathways which accounted for, I would guess, around eighty percent (?) of today’s total ten miles. 

Spectacular or not, all this walking is thirsty work and not much more than a mile beyond our breakfast venue, the need for rehydration was met in Vila Chã at Bar Terra Nova with a cold bottle of Super Bock. Decent beer in Portugal is proving to be a bit of a challenge and there could be a case to answer with the trading standards people insofar as use of the word “super” is concerned but needs must. 

One of the blips I mentioned above occurred here. 

We weren’t making the best of progress. We carried on along the boardwalks for another three miles and stopped for more refreshment at Bar Areal, just south of Azurara. “Mick, did we pay for that last round at Terra Nova”? Oh bugger. We hadn’t done. What we had done was an inadvertent runner. We made doubly sure we paid up at Areal and will now have to see how we can make good our bad with Terra Nova.

We progressed on to Vila do Conde, a beautiful town, hugging the river back to the coastal path instead of taking the more direct route to Póvoa de Varzim. The weather, still blue sky and sunny, was nonetheless now accompanied by a strong wind off the sea which began to batter us a bit and restricted our ability to get anywhere fast. You often hear it on weather forecasts when they say “the temperature will be 20 degrees but it will feel like 15”. Today, it was a case of the mileage will be 10 but it will feel like 15. With only one mile left to Póvoa, we stopped at Café Lagoas for more refreshment and an opportunity to discuss what could be behind this strange phenomenon. 

One final push saw us eventually arrive at our destination, in the heart of Póvoa, and very nice it was too. It was five o’clock. How could ten miles take us six and a half hours? It’s a mystery to be sure.

Having checked-in to our accommodation and freshened up all necessary bits and pieces, we were out again by six thirty and found a little town centre bar, in the sunshine, where we discussed plans for the following day. Andrea was flagging a bit although she is a borderline narcoleptic in my opinion. Anyway, the sun disappeared behind the town centre buildings so we moved on to find our next place-in-the-sun venue which turned out to be a little bar, right opposite Póvoa‘s very own little fortress, called A Taskinha. I very nearly missed it but this little bar was serving draught Cerveza Alhambra which just happens to be my favourite draught beer when in Spain. Sorted!

What more could you want? Well, actually, food would be nice as we were all very hungry. Mrs C and I may have been on the Alhambra beer but Andrea, our little narcoleptic companion who rarely touches alcohol, had discovered an antidote to her condition in the shape of a glass of white wine. The sun went down. Taskinha had Alhambra beer, white wine……….. and a restaurant! 

It would have been rude not to.

On the rare occasions when Andrea does indulge in a drop of the hard stuff, the transformation is akin to watching Dr Bruce Banner get angry and turn into the incredible Hulk. Except with Andrea she doesn’t go green or burst out of her trousers. Instead she turns into the world’s most animated impressionist and a wickedly good one at that. I will say no more other than I love it when Andrea gets on the wine. 

After a splendid three-course meal (not a pilgrim offering) for all of forty five euros per couple (including our initial beers when sat outside), the proprietor treated us to a cold liqueur made from honey, white brandy and lemon which tasted a bit like grappa. And then he treated us to another one. I don’t think he realised that plying Andrea with this stuff was akin to playing with fire but fortunately the narcolepsy was kicking in and we managed to get her out before she managed to assail any passing dwarves.

This was a very definite high on which to end another splendid day on Camino. What may tomorrow bring? We’ll have to see.

Day 2 - 8 May - Porto to Angeiras

As Musical Youth famously sang:

Pass the Douro ‘pon the left hand side.

It was a typical first night away from home in a strange room (dormitory) in a strange bed (bunk) with a strange pillow (breeze block). One room. Six people. Add in a bit of snoring, stomach gurgling and farting (just me) and it all made for a night of not much sleep. Oscar and Annie vacated the room at just before four in the morning, probably to get away from me to be honest, which at least meant that the four of us now had the room to ourselves by the time we were stirring around two hours later.

We were out of the place shortly after seven and grabbed a coffee and toast at the nearby Snack Bar O Banquinho before taking the metro into Porto. From Trinidade station we walked to Porto Cathedral, the official starting point of the (Porto) Portuguese Camino. 

The weather forecast had promised us a cloudy day but cloudy in Porto bears little resemblance to cloudy in Burnley. In fact, cloudy in Porto equates to summer in Burnley. Lovely.

Having collected our Credencials (pilgrim passport) from the cathedral, we walked the steps and narrow passages down to the banks of the River Douro and headed West towards the Atlantic. The high banks on both sides of the river and the road bridges they carry make for some spectacular scenery, so much so that we stopped to admire the view at the small Bar Douro Chique where the first beer of the day went down splendidly. Chique (as in chic) by name but not by nature unfortunately as the toilets set the lowest bar of lowest bars with a score of “nil points” in the how-nice-are-the-toilets stakes. 

Bar Douro Chique toilets aside, Porto is an attractive city and the four mile walk along the river was delightful, as were the next three miles tracking the Atlantic whilst we still remained in Porto’s outer reaches. The town of Matosinhos marks a temporary change of scenery with its fishing industry infrastructure and numerous fish restaurants. A bit tatty in appearance but it smells great.

Once out of Matosinhos, the spectacular seascape and beaches take over and the whole effect is enhanced by the fact that your are walking on boardwalks, so much so that you hardly even notice the huge oil refinery on your right hand side. 

Porto’s cloudy weather continued to delight, leading to two more refreshment stops having been taken by the time we arrived at the Angeiras camp site, it being our destination for the night and where we had booked a holiday cabin. After a long, long time waiting to check-in to the site, we were provided with the key to cabin no. 230. After a long, long time trying to locate the bloody thing amongst all the nice white cabins, it turned out that our cabin is in fact a candidate for a blue plaque having previously belonged to the Clampett family of Beverly Hillbillies fame.

No matter. The camp site itself has facilities including a large swimming pool, bar and restaurant, albeit only two of which we made use of. We enjoyed a very passable meal from the restaurant’s pilgrim-menu offering with entertainment provided by the small, elderly Portuguese waiter who appeared to have learnt his trade from Mrs Overall or perhaps Manuel from Fawlty Towers. Delivery of four bowls of soup on one tray was a particularly fraught moment but we survived without mishap although his juggling skills later proved rusty when attempting the difficult challenge of removing my empty bowl and spoon.

Over final cocktails in the bar, a discussion ensued around the most appropriate undercarriage wear for blokes whilst on Camino. I am firmly (pun intended) in the boxer shorts camp but I acknowledge that they might come up short in the emergency swimming trunks category. Perhaps the next day or so will provide opportunity for further research and discussion in this respect.

We departed the bar at around nine o’clock and Mrs C entertained us with her impression of falling off a chair. It had been a long day.

In other news, Ashley has had a quiet day albeit his owner (no names remember - confidentiality is key) is now also the proud owner of a new set of panda eyes. Remember, always apply Factor 50 to your face when walking in the Porto cloud.

All in all, it has been a wonderful first full day on our Portuguese Camino. Time for bed.

Day 1 - 7 May - Burnley to Porto

As The Four Seasons famously sang:

Walk like a man, talk like a man. Walk like a man my son. We hope it isn’t long, ‘til Ashley’s been and gone. So walk like a man my son.

Fail to prepare, then prepare to fail. This auspicious weekend of the King’s coronation saw the culmination of seventy plus years of preparation on the part of Prince Charles, monarch-in-waiting, to fulfil his destiny to become King. He may be the winner of the longevity-in-preparation award but anyone who has embarked upon the Camino de Santiago will know a thing or two about preparation also. And I’d bet that Charles has never had to pack his own rucksack, certainly not with the often conflicting objectives that it pass through airport security, fit into a space not more than 45 x 30 x 20cm and hold your worldly belongings for whatever period of time your Camino adventure demands. So stick that in your royal pipe with your sausage fingers and smoke it Charlie-boy.

Having met up with Mick and Andrea at Manchester airport this afternoon, we spent a fun half an hour endeavouring to prove that our respective rucksacks would indeed fit into one of EasyJet's bag-sizer contraptions, our having located a redundant one in a quieter part of the airport. And they all did, just about, courtesy of my wearing-extra-clothes-expertise and Mick’s ability to wear two pairs of trousers.

In the event, once the departure gate was called, all passengers were efficiently herded onto the plane without any baggage sizing taking place and, by the time our seat belts were buckled, my Michelin Man costume was safely back in the rucksack.

Preparation is the key but not everything goes to plan, even when one has prepared well. When you book your flights and make various arrangements several months ahead, you have no way of knowing exactly the state of health that you, or indeed ones fellow travellers, may be experiencing at the time of travel. One may have a bit of a sniffle, or a bad case of conjunctivitis, or even an Ashley (as in Ashley Giles). Or a Nobby (as in Nobby Stiles). Rhymes with Giles. Or Stiles. Yes, one of our party has an Ashley. And when you have an Ashley, then the real challenge comes after you have passed through airport security. With only one, see-through plastic bag allowed for toiletries, the challenge is to make very sure that you don’t inadvertently, later in the day, confuse your tube of Preparation H with the Ralgex Deep Heat in the same bag. Do not fail to prepare.

Far be it from me to divulge the identity of Ashley’s owner but it isn’t me and if it had been one of the girls they probably wouldn’t have told me anyway. Anyway, we can but hope that Ashley behaves himself on tomorrow’s fifteen miles.

Is there anything more symbolic of the British elite than cucumber sandwiches? Personally, I can’t abide cucumber. What is it good for, absolutely nothing. What is it good for, absolutely nothing. It repeats on me, you see. So I avoid it at all costs. With a landing time at Porto scheduled for half past eight, I wasn’t confident that we would find anything to eat anywhere close to our near-to-the-airport hostel, so I opted for an EasyJet meal deal consisting sandwich, cup of tea and pan-au-chocolate for a not unreasonable price of £8.95. And with it being the coronation weekend, what more appropriate sandwich offering than the coronation chicken? 

Probably something without cucumber in it, as it happens. 

Bloody hell, why do sandwich-makers insist on putting cucumber in their sarnies? I’m not part of the British elite. I am one of the great un-washed and if I wanted cucumber in my sandwich I would choose something “with cucumber” in the description. It became necessary therefore to inspect the remaining, one-bite-gone, sandwich for more of the offending article which also, as it transpired, offered opportunity to play the find-the-pieces-of-chicken game. Hmmm. 

A cup of tea (?) you might also ask. Yes, after consecutive nights on the ale, I felt it best to be circumspect on the beer front, hence no beer at the airport or on the plane.

Once landed and safely through customs, the four of us walked the half mile or so to our pre-booked hostel, arriving at around nine o’clock. Two fellow travellers were sat in the reception area drinking bottles of beer which augured well for a modest nightcap once we were settled in. The nice young chap at reception showed us to the three bunk-bed (six-bed) dorm and gave me the key code for the dorm door which was #90000. I don’t have the best of track records with door entry codes so I felt it best to have a little practice whilst Mrs C and the others were in the dorm. Nope. Six attempts. Six fails. Our two dorm-buddies appeared, a nice young Spanish couple called Oscar and Annie, both of whom spoke good English. I introduced myself and told them that the door entry code wasn’t working, showing them the little slip of paper on which #90000 was written. Annie took the slip of paper from my hand, turned it through one hundred and eighty degrees and returned it to me. As it turned out I had a lot more success with 00006#. Oh, how we all laughed.

A quick sort-out of respective rucksacks and we then popped back downstairs for a well-deserved………….cup of tea. Yes, they had beer. Yes, only of the non-alcoholic variety. What’s the point of that?

Back in the dorm by ten o’clock as we had promised Oscar and Annie we would be, because they had an early flight back to northern Spain in the morning. We won’t see them again but if everyone we meet, going forward, is as nice as them then we won’t go far wrong. Tomorrow, the adventure starts for real. Boa noite and Bom Caminho! Let’s hope we’re prepared.

Hostel life.

You'll Never Walk Alone - On the Camino

Two weeks to go before we fly out to Porto and I am relieved to report that nobody within our circle of family and friends has popped their clogs recently. It is, of course, just over a year since my good mate H sadly and unexpectedly passed. Eric, Roger, Wayne and myself marked this first anniversary with a meet-up in Southend-on-Sea, visiting old haunts and downing several beers in honour of the big man. Included within these old haunts should ideally have been our old local, the rather splendidly titled The Aristocrat in Queens Road, but it seems that particular moniker was lost to the sands of time (or the sands of Southend-on-Sea?) many years ago. To be replaced by Pong.

Thirty nine years (since the five of us first started drinking together in The Aristocrat) is a long time and times change. But Pong? 

Hmmm. Fancy a nice romantic meal tonight at Pong darling? Perhaps a few pre-dinner drinks beforehand at that nice new place nearby Bit Shit Innit?

Sadly for Pong’s business owners, the place appeared to be locked up and no longer in operation. Some of my finest achievements took place in that building.

But, thirty nine years on and with more recent finest achievements in mind, the Camino is calling. Mrs C and I have been putting plenty of miles in our legs and we are feeling fit for the challenge, albeit my gout has been toying with me of late. I have all but completed the Spanish language internet course I originally purchased back in 2011 and mi español is mucho mejor que antes. Shame we’re going to Portugal really. And, in a valiant attempt to save spending on unnecessary baggage charges with Easyjet, I have removed the steel reinforcements from the back of my rucksack to ensure that I can squeeze my rucksack with belongings into a size no bigger than 45 x 30 x 20 centimeters. If all goes to plan, that should see me arrive at Manchester airport on 7 May wearing most of the clothes I am taking with me, thus resembling the Michelin Man, but I reckon that my money is better in my pocket than Easyjets and I’ll have plenty of pockets to choose from as I’ll be wearing most of them.

Let’s hope it’s not unseasonably warm in Manchester on 7 May. 

We expect this Camino to be very different to last year for a number of reasons, not least of which because there will be four of us, not two. As a generalisation, I am not one for detailed planning. As a generalisation Mick, one half of the Mick and Andrea with whom we will be walking, is one for detailed planning. In between these two somewhat opposite positions, Andrea (the other half of the Mick and Andrea with whom we will be walking) and Mrs C prefer a little bit of certainty in their lives. Thus I have come up with the brilliant wheeze that I will have little or nothing to do with the planning for this Camino which should mean that every day on the Portuguese Camino will, for me, be a mystery whereas the others should be able to start each day with whatever degree of certainty they desire, assuming of course that they have indeed planned it properly. They had better do so - my desire for spontaneity will be relying on them.

When I'm Sixty Four

 

Wonderful times on the Camino last year with the lovely
Mrs C. Our next Camino is in the planning. I will start it 
as a nicer person than I started the last one. 

Six months later and not a day has passed without thoughts of the Camino occupying my mind. My self-published effort, detailing our experiences walking the Camino Frances, has been flying off the Amazon shelves in true Buzz Lightyear style. For those of you unfamiliar with the 1995 film Toy Story, Woody says to Buzz “Buzz, you’re flying” to which Buzz replies “this isn’t flying, this is falling, with style”. So maybe I should have listened to Christopher Hitchens in the first place? Who knows. You, dear reader, can decide.

During the second half of 2022 Mrs C and I filled our Schengen Area boots, wracking up eighty nine of our ninety-days-in-every-one-hundred-and-eighty-days allowance at our apartment in Mar de Cristal. And when back in the UK in November, I travelled down to Essex to meet up with old mates Wayne, Eric and Roger for our first get-together since H’s funeral in Rye last April.

And I’ve had another birthday! Not a big one with a zero in it which, as you know, I am not very good at but I’m still almost (?) early-sixties at the now ripe old age of sixty four. Paul McCartney apparently first penned his famous song in 1956 when he was just fourteen. A musical masterpiece it may be but it’s only once you start getting closer to this particular milestone that the obvious young years of the writer become apparent. Had Paul McCartney waited another fifty years before actually writing those lyrics, then chances are that he would have been looking for words that rhyme with NHS, poo sticks and invasive digits. Bloody hell, no sooner do you escape the world of work and the NHS is wanting to monopolise your newly acquired freedom by testing for this and testing for that, making you do unspeakable things whilst on the toilet and legitimising the direction of digital travel the wrong way up what was previously - and make no mistake about this - very much a one way street. I wouldn’t mind so much if I was actually ill, or even feeling a bit off-colour, but it’s no wonder the NHS has a back-log of seven million people needing treatment when it’s spending all this time on folk who don’t. Yes, preventative maintenance and all that. I get it. But it surely can’t be healthy worrying the bejeezus out of people in the first place who, just because they now have a six in front of their age, appear to be regarded as prime candidates for the knackers yard. 

As the Beatles famously sang:

When I get older losing my hair

Many years from now

Will they have me at the doctor’s surgery

Giving me poo sticks, checking my wee

Will they boldly go where the sun doesn’t shine

Because of my PSA score

Whatever’s behind it, they’re determined to find it

When I’m sixty four

H was sixty four when he died and Eric, Roger and myself have all hit this same landmark in the last few months. Wayne is a couple of years older than the rest of us but he only looks sixty four so he is an honorary member of the sixty four club as well; he just has a bit more experience of being sixty four, that’s all. Anyway, what with the whole country seemingly infected by the post-pandemic-response blues, resultant cost-of-living crisis, impending further erosion of civil liberties and erstwhile UK Health Secretary Matt Hancock finishing third in I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here, it strikes me that entering a new year at the age of sixty four demands one thing and one thing only. Mrs C and I are going to walk another Camino.  

Not all addictions are bad for you and there is little doubt that the Camino is addictive. Such is the addictive nature of the Camino experience that I have even abandoned a deep-rooted enmity towards Facebook and registered, albeit under a pseudonym, an account solely that I may follow and participate in various Camino-related Facebook groups. Hmm. I have to confess disappointment in myself in this respect. But addictive behaviour is addictive behaviour (I will, clearly, never make a philosopher) and whilst such addictive behaviour can assume various manifestations, it seems that I am not alone even in my own small circle of we’ve-done-the-Camino friends. And so it is that next May, if all goes to plan, Mrs C and I will fly to Porto with our good friends Mick and Andrea in our quest to complete the Portuguese Camino to Santiago de Compostela.

This will be very different.

As per Orisson tradition, after the meal everyone introduced themselves. All very nice and lovely. Almost, almost a bit too nice and lovely for my liking. Everyone was nicer than me, that’s for sure.

And so I blogged at the end of the first day of our Camino adventure in late April last year. Maybe two years of Covid-related frustration played its part in that less than generous comment but five weeks and nearly five hundred miles later, the Camino had worked its magic on me. Maybe it was the simplicity of life on the road, or the camaraderie amongst fellow pilgrims, or the generosity of welcome from the Spanish people, the sense of achievement, or even the beer? Maybe it was all of these things or none of these things, I haven’t been able to determine. But the nearest thing I have found to an answer is love. And so the penultimate paragraph of the book reads;

Writing this book has allowed me to relive every day that Mrs C and I spent on the Camino and to recall the whole experience in great detail. Every bar we frequented, every bed we slept in and every fellow pilgrim we met along the way. Had I needed any reminding, it also corroborated the whole wonderful experience. Perhaps love is indeed the answer to the question?

Our next Camino is already in the planning. I will start it as a nicer person than I started the last one. For those of you planning your first Camino, I will be one of the nice people you meet on your first night. Don’t fight it. Resistance is futile.

The Accrington Pals

It should have been a good five days of football. Accrington Stanley at home to Boreham Wood on Tuesday night in a delayed FA Cup third round tie, Burnley at home to West Brom in the Championship on the Friday night and the real deal on Saturday afternoon with my team Sheffield Wednesday at home to Fleetwood Town in League One. In the event, I had to settle for one out of three as Accrington got postponed due to a frozen pitch and a vehicle fire on the M62 put paid to our journey to Sheffield.

I have previously written why Accrington Stanley should be every football fan's second favourite club. Practising what I preach, I had taken advantage of a very generous (i.e. remarkably cheap) corporate hospitality package for the match against Boreham Wood but the match was postponed and I was unable to attend the rearranged match the following Tuesday.

The League One match between Accrington Stanley and Sheffield Wednesday took place on November 12th and was preceded by the club's annual Remembrance Day tribute where the Royal British Legion and Accrington Pipe Band led out the teams ahead of the laying of wreaths, followed by a minute's silence. In Accrington, as is no doubt the case elsewhere around the country, the bravery and sacrifice of the town's Pals Regiment lends extra poignancy to the occasion. I am embarrassed to admit that prior to attending the match, I knew little to nothing about the Pals and this was something I felt I wanted to learn more about. So I did just that. 

The Accrington Pals Memorial, located in the Sheffield Memorial 
Park, near the Serre Road cemeteries in northern France.

Along with Mrs C and good friends Mick and Andrea, an early start on the Sunday following my aborted trip to Hillsborough saw us cross the channel and into France by early afternoon. Andrea was having trouble with her trousers but as she and Mrs C were sitting in the back and I was driving, I decided against speculation as to why the waistband felt a little more generous than usual. Another hour on the road and we arrived at Cement House Cemetery in Langemark-Poelkapella, Belgium where my Great Uncle Frank is buried. Frank was my Grandad's older brother and thus my Dad's uncle, albeit he died eleven years before my Dad was born. He was killed in action on 4 February 1918 with two other members of his 14th Battalion, Gloucestershire Regiment, alongside whom he now rests. They share the cemetery with over three and a half thousand other Commonwealth servicemen of the First World War, approximately two thirds of whom remain unidentified.

From Cement House Cemetery we drove to the much larger Tyne Cot Cemetery, around six miles away, which is the resting place of nearly twelve thousand servicemen. The Tyne Cot Memorial commemorates another nearly thirty five thousand servicemen whose graves remain unknown. As with the smaller Cement House Cemetery, the grave stones stood to attention in well maintained grounds. The weather was cold and grey and lent due sombreness to the occasion. 

All very sobering. As was the state of Andrea’s trousers with her having been tramping across the wet grass resulting in the lower part of the trouser legs getting rather damper than she might usually expect and grubbier also. We drove a further six miles into the Belgian city of Ypres and checked into our hotel accommodation. By now we had all been up for nearly twelve hours so proper refreshment was the objective and this was successfully obtained at the very nearby (almost next door in fact) bar/restaurant Marktcafé Les Halles. Three beers later and we were ready to explore the place although, by now, Andrea had determined that she must in fact be wearing someone else’s trousers, such was their larger disposition, longer legs and rather less pristine than usual appearance. Oh Andrea. I know that we all got up at four o’clock this morning but……….Michael’s trousers?…………you’re wearing Michael’s trousers? Mick just sat there bemused. With hindsight, I’m now wondering whose trousers he ended up wearing. 

Ypres is an ancient, small city with a beautiful city centre which was carefully reconstructed having been destroyed in the war. Good to report that there are plenty of eating and drinking establishments to choose from, even on a Sunday night, and we do take our let’s-explore-the-city responsibilities seriously. Further refreshment was taken at The Times bar and the rather weirdly named (and unpronounceable also) Øl bar before we departed to witness the nightly Last Post ceremony at the Menin Gate.

Whilst in The Times bar, we got chatting to a few members of the Welsh Coast M.C.C. (motorcycle club) from Swansea, some of whom we had seen earlier checking into the same hotel as us. What a nice bunch of guys and gals. They had all been to an event (biking related) in Germany and were now on their way home, via Ypres on their final night so that they could pay their respects to the war dead.

The Menin Gate Memorial to the Missing is a war memorial which spans one of the main entrances to the city centre (indeed we drove through it earlier in the day). It was built in the 1920’s and was dedicated to the British and Commonwealth soldiers who were killed in battles close to the city. It bears the names of more than fifty four thousand men whose graves are unknown. Every night at 8.00 p.m. the traffic is stopped whilst the buglers of the Last Post Association (LPA) sound the Last Post in the road that passes under the memorial. The LPA is a voluntary organisation of local people from Ypres and it remains the intention of that organisation to continue this tribute in perpetuity. The respect and gratitude of the locals for the sacrifices made by soldiers of Great Britain and the Commonwealth, during two world wars, is genuine and heartfelt. That was one of two main takeaways for me from this four-day excursion.

The ceremony lasted only a few minutes. It was still bitterly cold, we needed warming up and we struck lucky at brasserie In’t Klein Stadhuis which name sounds like they might have had a few northerners in t’ouse before. For the record I’m just an honorary northerner although my three travelling companions are indeed t’real deal.

After a good night’s sleep, we had a leisurely start to the day before setting off to the French city of Lille. Mrs C and I have travelled through France, to and from Spain, on many occasions and our experience of French cities, towns and villages generally is quite favourable in the nice/ attractive/ quaint stakes but Lille failed on all three counts I’m afraid. Our just about adequate hotel won the prize for least-attractive-entrance-to-a-hotel-ever with the neon entrance lights, welcoming you to Passage 57 Boutiques, having all blown and the passageway itself doubling up as a shelter for a couple of homeless sorts. Anyway, once having checked in we bravely set forth to undertake our let’s-explore-the-city responsibilities and did so for a not unimpressive seven hours thus ensuring a second consecutive good night’s sleep.

The next morning we departed Lille, heading fifty miles south to the area of the Somme. The Battle of the Somme took place over a century ago and thus little wonder that most people know little of the events other than The Somme being synonymous with the first world war in general. Briefly the battle took place, on both sides of the Somme River, over four and a half months in 1916 between the armies of the British Empire and French Republic against the German Empire. The area of the Somme formed part of the Western Front, a four hundred mile stretch of land running from the Belgian coast to the Swiss border, effectively marking the battle lines between the two opposing forces. Following a seven day artillery bombardment of German lines, the Somme offensive commenced on 1 July 1916 but met unexpected and fierce resistance.

Our first port of call was the Thiepval Memorial and Anglo-French Cemetery, the largest of the Commonwealth’s memorials which was built on the site of one of the most heavily defended German positions attacked on that first day. It commemorates by name some seventy two thousand men, graves unknown, who fell in the Somme up to March 1918, including those killed and missing amongst the sixty thousand casualties from the first day of the offensive. The cemetery also contains the graves of three hundred Commonwealth and three hundred French soldiers, most of whom are unidentified.

From Thiepval we drove the short distance to see the Lochnagar Mine, a huge crater left by an underground charge laid by the British in a tunnel mined under a German fortification. The charge was sprung just before half past seven in the morning of 1 July to further weaken German defences immediately prior to commencement of the offensive. From the Lochnagar Mine it was just another six miles to the Serre Road Cemeteries, the resting place of the Accrington Pals.

With Britain’s entrance to the war in 1914 came the urgent need to boost military manpower and thus a “new army” of volunteer soldiers in contrast to the more traditional professional soldiers historically relied upon. To encourage volunteers, the Pals battalions would be composed of men enlisted in local recruiting drives with the promise that they would serve alongside their friends and neighbours. In Accrington, the Mayor offered to raise a full battalion and over eleven hundred men had enlisted within ten days of opening recruitment offices in Accrington, Blackburn, Burnley, Chorley, Church, Clayton-le-Moors, Great Harwood, Oswaldtwistle and Rishton. Initially based at home, the Pals left for Caernarvon, North Wales for training in February 1915 before leaving for Egypt ten months later. They arrived in France in March 1916.

The seven day artillery bombardment of German positions in late June 1916 did not obliterate defensive lines and capabilities as had been intended. Instead, seven hundred Accrington Pals, alongside their comrades the Sheffield Pals, advanced into no-man’s land on 1 July towards the village of Serre where they were swept with machine-gun and shell-fire. Of those seven hundred, two hundred and thirty five were killed and three hundred and fifty wounded in the space of twenty minutes.  

We parked up on Rue de Mailly-Mallet, immediately past the Serre Road Cemetery No.1 and walked the near half a mile along the country lane Ch. de Pals Battalions which leads first to Serre Road Cemetery No.2 and then to Railway Hollow Cemetery to the left and Queen’s Cemetery to the right. Luke Copse British Cemetery is a further two hundred yards along the lane. Each cemetery contains a register box, typically built into the walls of the cemetery. Inside is a register listing the known details of those buried or commemorated at the site together with a plan of the burial plots. We left one of the poppy posters, brought home after the Stanley v Wednesday match, inside the register box at Railway Hollow.

These cemeteries were much smaller, rather more intimate than those we had previously visited. Walled and neat, quiet and reflective, dotted around the immediate agricultural landscape, the village of Serre not much more than half a mile away. It was to be another seven months before that village was finally taken and by when the Germans were already retreating in any event.

The Railway Hollow Cemetery was accessed through the Sheffield Memorial Park and it is here also where the Accrington Pals memorial is to be found. As was the case on Sunday, the skies were overcast at the time of our visit and it was bitterly cold although strangely fitting to the circumstances of our visit. It was all very peaceful, the very least these brave men deserved and it hastened our departure also, not wishing to stray from respectful observation into mawkish tourism.

We had opted to spend our third and final night in St Omer, approximately two thirds of the way back to the channel tunnel so that we might have a prompt start in the morning. Coincidentally, the town is twinned with Ypres in Belgium where we had spent our first night and pleasing to report that it shared a charm more akin to Ypres than to Lille. We commenced our let’s-explore responsibilities in the mid-afternoon, and within fifteen minutes or so had happened upon Place du Maréchal Foch around which there was a good sprinkling of bars and restaurants, not that all of them were open on this cold Tuesday afternoon. We settled on La BF brasserie and bar which was nice and warm and supplied a good range of beers, admittedly all fizzy and expensive as had been our experience throughout the last three days. We then moved across the square to a pub which was like a real, proper pub with a real, proper pub name - the Queen Victoria. Now this was warm and cosy, so much so that by the time we left we were in no mood to walk any further than we had to and so we headed just fifty yards up the Place to find food at restaurant Estaminet De Drie Kalders (the three caves). And then back to the Queen Victoria for final refreshment before retiring to our accommodation. We were chuffed to learn that Accrington Stanley had won their rearranged match against Boreham Wood to set up a fourth round tie against Leeds United. 

We set off for the tunnel at half past eight the following morning and were safely back in Burnley around eight hours later. Nowadays, it is as easy as that. We’re bloody lucky aren’t we. All we have to worry about is the cost of petrol, the outrageous cost of beer in Belgium and France and whose trousers Andrea might be wearing.

If my first main takeaway from this short trip was the level of genuine respect and gratitude that our European neighbours have for the sacrifices of our forebears, then my second main takeaway was the sheer waste and extent of loss of life and that it happened at all. I’m not sure that we have a good track record when it comes to learning from history but learn we must; that is why the annual Remembrance Day tributes remain so valid. There are those who claim that the red poppy somehow glorifies war but they miss the point completely. It reminds us of the horrors of war and thus not a mistake to be repeated. 

The Battle of the Somme brought to an end the experiment of Pals battalions. The impact on towns and communities, such as that which befell Accrington, was simply too devastating when a Pals battalion suffered heavy casualties. We will remember them.

Why Accrington Stanley Should be Every Football Fan's Second Favourite Club

By all that is sacred in football, Accrington Stanley Football Club should not exist in the same universe as my team Sheffield Wednesday. But ever since the (self-styled) Club that Wouldn't Die punched its way out of a football coffin in 1968 a la Beatrix Kiddo in Kill Bill: Volume 2, little ol' Accrington have slowly but surely been re-writing the Laws of the Universe and all footie fans should applaud and support them for doing so.

In fact not only have Stanley re-written the Laws of the Universe, they have re-written the laws of the Laws of the Universe. Basically, there are eight universal laws or principles which govern the entire universe, the first four of which are immutable, i.e. eternal, absolute laws that cannot be changed or transcended. Or so we thought. Alongside the Law of Mentalism, Law of Correspondence and the Law of Vibration, the fourth immutable law was the Law of Treating All Football Fans Like Shite. 

The mutable laws however are transitory meaning that they can be changed or transcended in such a way as to create a better reality. The four original mutable laws were the Law of Polarity, Law of Rhythm, Law of Cause and Effect and the Law of Gender. But in a move which might possibly lead us to wonder if Stanley chairman Andy Holt is, in fact, Master of the Universe, what was the fourth immutable law has now been de-immutabled (I have probably made that word up) big time. This might take a lot of footie fans some while to get their heads around but, not to put too fine a point on it, Accrington Stanley treat the fans - all fans that is - like valued customers and friends. There. I've said it. And it feels good. 

Accrington Stanley has always been a small club. Despite the original Accrington FC being a founder member of the Football League in 1888, the town's football club has always been disadvantaged by its geography, located pretty much half way between East Lancashire big boys Burnley and Blackburn Rovers whose proud footballing histories have enticed many an Accrington resident to forego their local club in favour of its more auspicious neighbours. Anyway, Accrington FC folded in 1896 but not before the original Accrington Stanley was established in 1891 and went on to play in the Football League from 1921 up to March 1962 when financial difficulties (not to mention a controversial intervention by the then Burnley chairman Bob Lord) forced the club's resignation from the League leaving the final few fixtures unfulfilled. Four years later, after plying its trade in the Lancashire Combination league, the final nail in the coffin was applied and the club was disbanded. I am telling you all this simply to make the point that ever since 1876 when the original Accrington FC was formed, the town's football club has constantly been fighting the odds with little in the way of support, facilities or even a glorious history to look back on. But despite the lowering of the football coffin into the ground in 1966, the town's footballing heart continued to beat and, just like Beatrix Kiddo (albeit she did it a lot quicker than Stanley), the would-be corpse re-emerged into the light two years later with a vengeance.  

By the time this particular Sheffield Wednesday fan moved to nearby Burnley in the summer of 2000, Stanley had been promoted to the Northern Premier League whereas Wednesday had just been relegated from the FA Premier League. With four tiers separating the two clubs, they were still existing in different universes back then but, last weekend, the two met in a League 1 match - level terms if not a level playing field. Despite Stanley's rise through the leagues in the forty four years since they did their Beatrix Kiddo impression, the club's potential has continued to be blighted by the seemingly immutable issues of small crowds and poor facilities. But, as we have already identified, Stanley chairman Andy Holt is a dab hand at de-immutabling (another made-up word) that which was previously thought to be immutable and, since taking charge of the club in 2015, he has set about looking to grow the club's supporter base by.........................making friends with the away supporters!

Have you ever met a football club chairman? Well, if you go to Stanley then there's a pretty good chance that you'll meet Andy Holt. Along with managing director David Burgess, the two of them spend much of the match day chatting to supporters both home and away. From a distance, with their long coats and flat caps they could be a couple of Peaky Blinders but they turn out to be much friendlier. They set the tone for what you can expect from all the matchday staff. It is unbelieveably welcoming.

Coley's Bar - where home and away fans mix freely

Last Saturday's game saw Stanley's biggest gate of the season with not far shy of five thousand fans in
attendance, over half of whom supporting the away team.The previous two home league matches against Bolton Wanderers and Derby County saw similarly large away followings. However, the home match previous, admittedly a mid-week fixture, against Cheltenham Town was attended by less than two thousand fans in total. Small home crowds continue to blight but poor facilities do not. Earlier this year, the club opened its new hospitality and conference venue where, on match days, home and away fans can mix freely, enjoying Bowland Brewery's Hen Harrier golden ale at £3.50 a pint. With the benefit of prior knowledge about all this I parked up in Coley's (the main bar, named after Stanley's manager John Coleman) at quarter past twelve and settled down to the Hen Harrier and Manchester City versus Brentwood on the big screens. Just as well that the ale was modestly priced as I had met three German guys in a Burnley pub the previous night who were on their annual football weekend trip to England. They had been planning to take in the Preston v Millwall match but I persuaded them to come to Accy instead to see the mighty Wednesday and promised them that I'd buy them all a pint if I saw them in Coley's. Well, a promise is a promise even if made whilst under the influence so I found myself back at the bar for a second time before I was even halfway through my first pint. 

Union Berlin fans Alex, Franz and Frankie 
with their Burnley minder Jack (second left)

Franz, Alex and Frankie are all fans of Union Berlin FC who, until a couple of weeks back, were sitting atop the German Bundesliga. Consecutive heavy away defeats have since dropped them down to fifth place but the club has enjoyed a remarkable rise over the years on relatively meagre resources and the fans play an integral part in the success and identity of the club. The Union Berlin story is for another day perhaps but is nonetheless a model well worth mimicking. I'm not sure that their Stadion An der Alten Försterei ground would have the spare capacity for two and a half thousand Wednesday fans but even if it did, I don't believe that we could be looked after as well as Accrington Stanley looked after us. And this (I believe) is the key for Andy Holt at the moment. Accrington Stanley FC, to survive and prosper, needs to maximise its income streams and if that means looking after the away fans as well as you would look after your own fans, then so be it. As an away fan, not being treated like shite is very, very much appreciated and that is why Accrington Stanley is my second favourite club.

So then, what used to be one of the immutable Laws of the Universe is now, certainly in Accrington, most definitely mutable. But if mutable means that it can be changed or transcended to create a better reality, could it also be changed or transcended back to create a worse one? Personally, I'm sick and tired of governing authorities, football or otherwise, effecting regulations against the majority for the sins of the minority and I don't doubt that there will be those in authority, in and around Accrington, just waiting for an excuse to reintroduce the Law of Treating All Football Fans Like Shite given half a chance so we fans need to do our bit.

Long term, Stanley need to grow their home supporter base. The club works hard in the community and dishes out free replica kits to local school kids in an effort to catch them young. But patience isn't always a virtue in football and realistically the club needs to continue punching above its weight just to maintain League 1 status. To not do so would lead to loss of revenue without the Sheffield Wednesdays and Derby Countys of this world coming to town. Which is why Accrington Stanley should be every football fan's second favourite club.

If you are unfortunate enough to be a supporter of a Premiership or Championship club (I'm only jealous) then the upcoming World F*Cup is about to deprive you of your footie for the next few weeks but League 1 (and below) carries on regardless. In which case, why not go and sample Stanley's facilities, mix with home and away fans and enjoy Hen Harrier at £3.50 a pint. Put simply, see what it's like to go to a football ground other than your home team stadium and not be treated like shite. Because, Master of the Universe or not, Andy Holt needs a few more home fans (honorary or otherwise). Lots of away fans may be good for maximising income streams but is it disadvantaging the home team's prospects? Maybe. Maybe not. But trust me, a visit to Accrington Stanley is well worth it whoever you support.

At the end of the day and particularly with my living so close to the club, I was relieved that Wednesday had emerged as worthy winners albeit by the only goal of the match. I celebrated with three more pints of the Hen Harrier in Coley's whilst enjoying the Oasis tribute singer and watching the Newcastle versus Chelsea late game on the big screens. Wednesday will always be my team but, like every other footie fan, I am allowed to have a second favourite team.  

Accrington Stanley - who are they? They are a great little club. And possibly, just possibly, they might actually be re-writing the rules of the universe for which all footie fans should be grateful. Good luck with that one about gender though Andy.