The cost of war is incalculable for soldiers and all who loved them.   D. Smith's  grave in the Canadian Forces cemetery in Dieppe,

is the last home for him and 825 other comrades killed on August 22, 1942.   

Vacation?

Was it a vacation? Some holidays may focus on lying on the beach and soaking up sun and surf.  Others may centre on one or two places where sights and sounds entice further exploration. This period of our lives was a time to remember, to reconnect, to renew.

On the Continent

We flew to Amsterdam’s Schiphol and returned home from London’s Heathrow.  Between those two flights we were in five different countries. Admittedly our family roots made Wales and Zeeland the preferred regions in the UK and The Netherlands, respectively; but we also drove into Germany, Belgium, and France in pursuit of disparate roots.

War's Legacy

Honouring our Canadian heritage, we decided to visit two sacred sites witnessing to the huge cost of diplomacy’s end.  The pristine military cemetery at Holten is a silent witness to the campaign to liberate the Dutch nation (into which I had just been born) from the brutal yoke of Nazi Germany. The post D-Day bloody battles fought north of the great rivers finally resulted in the end of the great famine that killed thousands of big-city citizens. And thousands more in uniform and Dutch resisters paid dearly to gain the articles of capitulation that Canada’s General Charles Foulkes required his German counterparts to  sign on May 5^th, 1945.

The other site was Dieppe on the Normandy coast.  On August 22, 1942, 821 Canadians from across the country were killed in a badly planned assault on the heavily guarded beaches of Dieppe.  Over 1500 Canadians became prisoners of war, impatiently awaiting the D-Day (June 6, 1944) turn of fortune. Carefully maintained cemeteries in both countries speak of grateful nations and of terrible loss, suffering, grief, and sorrow. 

Family Connecting

In my birth land, we took time to visit with cousins.  This time we invited them to visit with us since we had so often been welcomed in their homes on previous Europe trips. We rented a bungalow near Hilversum and hosted two cousins and partners for lunch. The day before we had coffee with another cousin-in-law who the day before had been knocked off his bike (Holland, you know!). We found that our generation of cousins is becoming less mobile – age has a way of getting in the way of flexibility and mobility. 

The next week we focused on the southern part of the country. We stayed at the farm where my mother was born and a cousin, Jan, with two sons continue to work the land.  The pigsty had some years before been redeemed from animal care to B&B people care.  We comfortably occupied the space within sight of the great protective dikes that keep the Scheldt River from drowning the land, flowing instead into the North Sea.  Unexpectedly, we arrived just in time to be part of the funeral service for Jan’s wife, Janny. We wondered whether this might make a lunch together redundant.

Not so! Six days later, Jan and his family with almost all the other cousins came back for a family lunch in a nearby village restaurant. Seventeen of us – cousins and partners – ate, drank, and were happy remembering times past, losses experienced, and joys celebrated. 

Side trips had us visiting a cousin & spouse near Bonn on Germany’s Rhine; staying with a dear friend in Kortrijk, near the infamous Menin Gate in Ieper/Ypres commemorating a million soldiers’ sacrifice; and my birthplace, Middelburg where a trip to the provincial Archives taught me about researching family roots.  It also revealed for me and others the horrors of the Slave Trade in the 18^th Century.   Middelburg had served for a few years as a transit slave trade harbour on the way to Surinam and other colonial  haunts to enrich Dutch and other European burgers.

A big disappointment for us was our failure to visit another dear friend in Lausanne, Switzerland. We had planned to travel there and elsewhere with a 4-day, $650 Eurail Pass and then to train across France to the ferry taking us to the UK. We’d used the Pass system before when it was just a booklet for the conductor to legitimize. This time technology had taken over.  For us digital novices it was a disaster – far too much to explain – but thoroughly frustrating and disappointing.  We gave up on the Pass.  Eurail refused to give us a refund even though we did not travel a inch on the Pass.  We promised our Swiss friend “another time.”  We do not recommend the Eurail Pass if you’re part of the pre-digital generation.  It was a nightmare made complicated by the fact that there are two companies with roles not clarified:   Eurail (which seems to be the principal firm; and Rail Europe which seems to be the sales and distribution firm (more willing to be helpful than Eurail, in our experience).

United Kingdom Bound

By a combination of rental car and train tickets, we did finally get to the ferry sailing from Dieppe to Newhaven. There, we rented our third car (automatic transmission with GPS!!) and drove left!!

(No, not politically - we doubt our presence influenced the British election results of July 3/4). 

Past Stonehenge, we headed west to Glastonbury (preceding the great music feast days later) and its abbey ruins, on to the Cheddar Gorge and the Brecon Beacons, charmed by the growing number of sheep and lambs adjacent to our several country inns. Rain had made the hills abound in green grass for the hungry woolies. 

Cardydd (Cardiff in English) was our goal – a cousin and her partner awaiting our visit.  They represent our strongest link to the Welsh heritage of the Huws-Jones family.  The elders of the clan have died, and most of the next generation had emigrated. So the diaspora third generation relations have to make special efforts (and trips) to keep the Welsh dragon flag flying and its culture alive.

We worshipped in the Welsh Presbyterian Chapel. We didn’t understand 95% of the spoken words but reveled in the singing and commitment to the Welsh Spirit.  A visit to the impressive Tintern Abbey ruins reminded us of the incredible commitment to faith and community by those medieval Christian monastics. What power Henry VIII had to be able to implement his political, military-backed policy order of 1539 destroying these and other potent witnesses to another Way.

An important goal for our travel was to “climb” Mount Snowdon (Yr Wyddfa in Welsh). We’d done it by foot twice before, but this time we took one of the several cog-wheel trains up and down.  Along with hundreds of other mountain climbers - by train and on foot, the clear day let us survey the principality from the 1,085 metre summit – a majestic view of the land of Glenys’ parents and forebears.

Searching

Family-history sites was also part of our stay in north Wales. In Machynlleth, Pontcymmer, Pentrebroughton near Wrecsam (Wrexham in English), we searched for places where parents or grandparents had lived and worked. We had some hair-raising drives on one-lane country roads to get from one village to another.  Locals must have guessed we were novices since when it came to passing, they backed out of our way to wider spaces!! In Wrecsam, we found the Wrexham Football Club shop to buy souvenirs for one supporter friend and several family opponents of this remarkable team owned by an investor group, including Canadian Ryan Reynolds.

We ended our Wales stay, by overnighting at Gladstone’s Library in Hawarden (pronounced Harden) near Chester. As a graduate of Gladstone High School in Vancouver, I welcomed the opportunity to learn more about this complicated British Prime Minister. His Library, supplemented by more current volumes, offers a trove of books - theological, political and other.  Daily worship led by the Warden, Andrea Russell; educational events focusing on current faith, political, and social issues; a residence to accommodate scholars and others just passing through; and a fine restaurant, appropriately called “Food for Thought" -  for residents and visiting groups, this is a welcoming, quiet and comfortable haven to meditate, pray, think, research, write, and imagine.

Durham County

The east coast colliery towns of Durham County, with now closed mines extending miles under the North Sea, was our next destination. In the first decades of the 20^th century, most of Glenys’ family moved to Easington Colliery.  Some remained to mine coal (with its inherent danger to health and environments) and others subsequently  immigrated to Canada.  With the help of a cousin-in-law, we searched for the grave of a grandfather (who died of “pneumonia,” usually coal-dust generated, or "black lung") to no avail. The search continues!

Durham City & Cathedral

On our last Sunday, we drove into the cathedral city and parked our rental car in the Bishop’s Parking Garage - cars are hardly allowed in the old city.  We were early in order to attend the worship service in the cathedral, set on the heights beside the castle on a dramatic and secure site created by the meandering River Wear.

On the way into the grounds, we came upon “encampment students” from the adjacent University of Durham. Like their counterparts in most western world nations, they were clear about what they were protesting, viz. the State of Israel’s war on Palestine and  calling on the University to divest and boycott.  We marveled at their courage and perseverance for greater justice.  We gave them some money to buy food.  And we applauded the security guards the University had provided to specifically protect these peace & justice motivated students from belligerent opponents!  Would that our universities and authorities could be so committed to truth, justice, and peace for all of Palestine.

Our worship was something of a counterpoint to these motivated students. The genocidal catastrophe Palestinians continue to experience was nowhere to be found in our worship – in the prayers, in the sermon, in the order of service, in the announcements, in the music.  Impressive as the setting and ceremony all was, the worship could have been any time, any place.  The contextual realities were missing.  So, the triumphal patriarchal tradition and ambiguous heritage of Christendom were maintained.

On the way back to the massive parking garage, the little streets on the hill were filled with crowds looking to shop or eat or just explore the high street from medieval times. My eye was caught by a book store window displaying “An Army Like No Other” – How the Israel Defense [sic] Forces Made a Nation, by Jewish scholar Haim Bresheeth-Zabner (2020, Verso, London & NYC. ISBN 978 1 78873 784 5) – a book that has helped me take with a barrel of salt Netanyahu’s frequent comments about the “moral virtues” of the State of Israel's military. His lies exposed, truth is starting to find its way into the popular and decision-makers' minds.

Going Home

Our trip came to an end with a long drive south on the A-1(Motorway) to a little hotel close to the Heathrow airport.  In the morning, we dropped off the rental car, had breakfast in the terminal, and then the long, long walk to board the plane!   But we had been strengthened vacationing!  Our 50^th anniversary trip – delayed by four Covid-disrupting years – was accomplished  safely, with renewed connections, and deeper appreciation for our roots.