"We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields." - John McCrae

            With a place steeped in such poignant history, it is no wonder Flanders Fields serves as an inspiration for epic films like 1917 and All Quiet on the Western Front. The scores of novels, poems, and multitudes of literary artworks tell the tales of lives lost, loves departed, and victories won. The epicenter of World War One, Ypres (Ieper in Dutch), and the surrounding countryside provide a somber backdrop for such heroic narratives.

           Baa-ing sheep dapple the rolling landscape and pastoral fields, the chartreuse grass and new buds nod to the early months of spring. Farms with their crops ready to be harvested and the occasional tractor rumbling through make a picturesque scene away from the city's crowds. It is a far cry from the mud-drenched marshes, mowed-down trees, and man-made craters formed from underground mining explosions created by warfare. These deadly craters were once impossible to ascend, soldiers fearing them as much as quicksand. No longer a war-torn terrain, the land has healed but not without some remaining scars. This place marked in history is known for its frontlines during the "Great War" and is absolutely worth the trek for a visit.

            The two of us haul our bikes on the train to Courtrai (Kortrijk) from the bustling city of Brussels. We securely position our facemasks over our nose and mouth and tuck disinfectant gel into our back pockets as the train jerks forward. My husband and I decided to take a last-minute ramble to escape the city for the weekend with our soon-to-be-expired free train passes (These were given out last September to Belgium residents to promote local tourism). We share a compartment with three other Belgian cyclists (socially distanced), who are parting the train before us at Oudenaarde, unmistakably on a very different type of bike ride than ourselves. My husband, French by origin, translates that the semi-pros are comparing 'power output.' This, of course, is foreign to my ears due to my amateur knowledge of cycling. Power output? What was that? Clad in sleek black spandex, racing jerseys, and clip-in shoes, these young men look ready for high-speeds. On the other hand, we sport khaki hiking trousers, neon-colored rain jackets, and overnight panniers strapped to our tipsy mountain bikes. My husband and I appear to be vagabond wanderers next to these well-toned athletes.

            "Welcome to Flanders," my husband grins after we depart the train station. He is eager to try out some of his Duolingo Dutch. We speed through Courtrai, allowing a quick meandering glance at some of its medieval and gothic architecture. Visiting the city is a roundabout stop since the train line directly to Ypres is under repair. The belfry, Saint Martin's gothic church, and the Broel Towers along the river Lys add to the aesthetic charm of this medieval town. The unexpected beauty of the city is much appreciated before our thirty-five-kilometer ride. 

            From Courtrai, we venture on sideroads and well-paved cycling paths out to the farmlands of Flanders Fields. Along with its charming houses and sporadic outcroppings of trees, country farms govern most of the journey. But as we draw nearer to our destination, small monuments and stands begin to appear on the roadside. The first homage to the fallen is a memorial of the "ladies from hell," as the German's once called them. With their tartan kilts, the German soldiers greatly feared the Scots. Black Watch Corner should not be overlooked; a bronze warrior stands tall, kilt and gun poised for battle. It marks the day, November 10th, 1914, when the Allies halted the German advance. The name 'Black Watch' sparks a personal memory from my university years. I had seen a play sharing its name, written by Gregory Burke. Imparting the memory with my husband, I recall the valiant tales of men who dedicated their lives to war as the bagpipes blared and the drums shook the dark theater seats.   

            From this corner, the well-marked historical plaques increase. Our path takes us past Hill 62, a Canadian memorial, which provides us with our first preview of Ypres at a distance. The town's church steeple and clock tower point skyward, beacons that signal our trek is almost over. Sanctuary Wood Cemetery is next on the list, situated next to some of the best-preserved trenches. Unfortunately, the Sanctuary Wood Museum is closed due to the Covid-19 pandemic. Still, the cemetery offers a peek into the devastation of the war: rows of gleaming white stone stare back at us, their names "Known unto God."

            Upon entering Ypres, we ride past a popular pond created in the thirteenth century, titled Zillebekevijver. As a native English speaker, I dare not pronounce this name aloud. I assume this challenge in diction was precisely why the British soldiers often renamed the Flemish villages in the area: Ieper became "Wipers," Wytschaete became "White Sheet," and Ploegsteert became "Plug Street." After my husband corrects my pronunciation of the town for the tenth time, I consider calling Ypres "Wipers." The last stretch is beside the moat. We catch a glimpse of Vauban's seventeenth-century ramparts, which survived the centuries, making our grand entrance into Ypres through the triumphal arch of Menin Gate, the memorial for the missing British and Commonwealth soldiers.

            Following a visit to the In Flanders Fields Museum, we are surprised to learn that Ypres- this stunning medieval village, with soaring clock towers and intricately bowed-glass windows- is not admittedly medieval. In fact, its architecture is 'new' by comparison to other Belgian villages. The battle-front years of bombing and shellfire leveled all that once stood before 1917. I can only replay the nail-biting scene in the war film 1917, when the main character, Lance Corporal William Schofield, scrambles through a dilapidated town on fire to understand what it might have been like during those terrible years. Pictures in the museum depict a crumbling clock tower, more akin to a castle ruin than the awe-worthy Cloth Hall it is today. After the war, Churchill aspired to leave the town as a grand memorial, but the townspeople simply wanted their old town back. So here we stand, bikes propped at our hips, in a replica of what was before the war; the average tourist would never know it isn't "real."

            Back in the Flanders Fields, quiet country roads and canals are ideal for novice and expert cyclists alike. There is even a paved bike path, once an old rail system built between Ypres and Roeselare, otherwise known as "The Road to Passchendaele" that leads from Tyne Cot, the largest Commonwealth cemetery in the world, to The Memorial Museum Passchendaele 1917. The cemetery's crescent layout is an ominous presence decked in white and Greco-Roman design. More names cover the curved marble wall of men lost to the soil around us, regiment after regiment, name upon name.

            About two kilometers from this harrowing resting place is the estate of The Memorial Museum Passchendaele 1917 in Zonnebeke. With few early risers, we have the museum grounds to ourselves. The Tudor-style "chateau" is a beautiful building, with a restored lake providing a focal point for the estate. Friendly staff occupy the majestic interior, who are more than happy to offer assistance and answer any questions. They supply us with audio guides; the entertaining voice recording takes us on an immersive journey through the bloody battle that occurred on these lands.

            The museum is surprisingly modern. The audio guides are synced with each section of the tour, and screens display interviews of soldiers recounting their past lives. For a part of the tour, we descend under the building to a reconstructed wooden dug-out, full of cramped rooms, bunks, and flickering lanterns. Take away the dry, fresh timber scent and flashing exit signs, it is easy to imagine oneself underground in oppressive, make-shift halls with shellfire overhead, just meters away.

            At the end of the self-guided tour, we are directed outside to a reconstruction of German and English trenches. The reconstructed trenches even used the original roofs called "elephants" (portable shelters with ribbed, half-moon tops) from the war. The narrow pathways wind and twist through the earth, challenging the visitor's sense of orientation. In the trenches, fitted with wooden planks and barbed wire, I make my husband pose for one too many photos. 

            To complete our visit in Zonnebeke, we climb the church's belfry. The admission is included with The Memorial Museum and just requires a polite inquiry after completing the main tour. The ascent, with its many spiraling stairs, is not for the faint-hearted. Thankfully, an installation on each mezzanine floor offers an occasional respite. Here, the church's history, as well as its deconstruction and reconstruction, can be found. A bit of vertigo overwhelms my wits while I pass the four great bells: Jan, Maria, Edward, and Godelieve. The final platform above these bells features panoramic maps informing the spectator of each hill and forest from a birds-eye view. The host at the museum enthusiastically explained that on a clear day, one could see the sea. No luck for us today. However, the skies are blue, permitting a spectacular vista of the west Flemish landscape. Despite knowing the bells are about to ring, I am so focused on deciphering the pictorial map in the belfry, I still jump when a loud "bong" resonates through the airy room.

            The highlight of our trip has to be our bed and breakfast: a newly renovated farm situated between Ypres and Passchendaele. After a long day of cycling and fighting against the battering wind, a warm cup of tea and a hot shower is paradise. The evening concludes with a delicious three-course meal and tales of the land. As we sit around a roaring fire, our bellies full and windblown cheeks warm with drink, our host, Samuel* proudly presents his scrupulous research. In his garden, buried beneath the turnips and rutabaga, is a German trench which the Allies later used to break through the German lines during the third battle of Ypres (The Battle of Passchendaele), one of the deadliest mêlées in the war. The journalist turned archaeologist speaks of his historical finds, his own family saga, and their involvement in the war. These stories then lead to accounts of the B&B's past guests, who seemed to have built an attachment to this place and its owner, returning again and again.

            My favorite tale is of a man who came to the farm to retrace the steps of his grandfather, a British soldier, who was part of the allied attack on Westhoek. He survived the assault with a bullet through his shoulder. One hundred years later, his grandson returned. He, Samuel, and Samuel's son rose in dawn's early hours, the exact time the Allies prowled up that German trench (Jaffa Drive), to walk the stretch to the German front.

            Hearing these stories re-told about the men who fought all those years ago creates a lasting bond between place and person. It is what makes this weekend trip more than an escape from a busy city but a pilgrimage of sorts, where long-lost relatives of those fallen can find peace. Especially during these troubled pandemic times where we must keep our distances from others, we lose that sense of place and comfort, travel and discovery. We live in a different kind of war, with medical staff instead of soldiers at the front lines. Who will tell their stories, their victories, and defeats in the years to come? The tales of World War One carry on through the generations- through the people we encounter and the corners they mark with monuments. It is the folded page of a book in time, these warriors buried on a field, not lost but remembered by those who wish to listen.

*Name was changed for privacy