By Christine Swan

Last weekend, I travelled to Lille once again to soak up the remnants of sixteenth century life that my ancestors would have known, but also as a relaxing break, half way through what has been, a very tiring academic term.

Lille is very reachable within a day. From London St Pancras, you arrive after about eighty minutes, barely time for a couple of coffees and a light lunch. It was “half term Friday”, so the station was quite busy. I was one of very few alighting at Lille as the train was continuing on to Brussels and the Netherlands.

Goodness me the weather was dreadful! As the automatic doors to the station opened, I stepped outside to sort my luggage only to see my suitcase gracefully sail away on the gusting wind and driving rain. I chased after it, deciding that an umbrella was a truly silly idea. I was the victor of my pursuit, and headed for my hotel, with my suitcase under my control. Another lady was less successful when her case lost a wheel while crossing the road. She managed to cross without irritating too many drivers and was still able to laugh about it as she met her relative on the other side of the road.

After checking into my hotel, I promptly fell straight to sleep. When I awoke, it was quite dark, and still raining heavily with a gusting wind. I made a coffee and decided to settle to watch TV rather than face the elements.

A rainy night over the Gare de Lille Europe

The following morning was bright and sunny making the prospect of a walk far more inviting. I was aware that there was a protest due to be taking place later in the day, but I was also aware that the weather was going to deteriorate later in the day too. Therefore, I set out early to enjoy the peace and sunshine.

Lille Grand Place in the sunshine

I was aware of a large build up of gendarmes around the station. After the disquiet of the previous week, the authorities looked very prepared. The sound of cordless screwdrivers filled the air. Shops were already boarded up, or were in the process of being. Some smaller retailers had made the decision to leave their premises unboarded – a brave move I pondered. Most other people were also wandering about bemused. This wasn’t the Lille that any of us recognised who just wanted to shop on a Saturday morning.

Boarded up shop windows

I stopped for a coffee but the weather began to change and the time drew close to start of the authorised protest so I headed back to my hotel. Apart from the police helicopter circling, there was no other evidence of disruption from my viewpoint. I left the rest of the day to the rain and delighted in watching French game shows that tested my language skills.

I last visited Lille eighteen months ago and was determined to visit parts that I missed last time. My Despaigne ancestors lived there before Jean, my twelfth great grandfather, his wife Jacquemine, and five children, fled France for England, probably after the St Bartholomew’s Day massacre of 1572. Their youngest child, Francois, was just ten years old, and their oldest, Agathe, was twenty. My eleventh great grandfather, Gervois, would have been about eighteen years of age. None of the children were babies, but the journey was risky. If they headed to Dunkirk, this would have been the more swift route, some forty seven miles across country, probably paying their way to friendly guides who would have supported their journey. This part of their journey most probably would have taken two or three days. Once at the port, they would have hidden on board a boat bound, most likely for Dover. Crossing the Channel would have taken between four to twelve hours, depending on tide and weather. The entire family then travelled to Canterbury, which they made their home. For this final part of the journey, this may have been as short as half a day if carried out by cart or on horseback, but an exhausting trek if they had walked. They would have arrived in Canterbury, tired, in a strange country that spoke a different language, but, they were safe. Jean, and his family would never return to France again.

Gervois Despaigne died on 18th August 1594, in Canterbury, aged fifty.

But I did return, twelve generations later. When the weather improved I sought out some of the sites that I had not seen on my first visit. Close to the station of Lille Europe, is the Porte de Roubaix, which dates from about 1620. After Jean Despaigne and his family left Lille, this region was controlled by the Spanish Netherlands, cementing the fact that there was no prospect of return. This was part of the city defences and remnants of the city wall can also be seen, much as they can in my home city of Worcester.

Porte de Roubaix at night

Porte de Roubaix viewed from the city side

The Porte de Paris is later and dates from about 1685 after the city of Lille was captured by Louis XIV, the Sun King, and once again became French territory. It is a very grand structure, complete with a drawbridge, and statuary, including a representation of the Sun King himself in all his glory.

The Porte de Paris

I also visited parts of Lille’s more recent past, including the impressive Hotel de Ville and Beffroi which date from the Art Deco period but has a style based on traditional French architecture and Flemish influence.

The Hotel de Ville and Beffroi

I continued walking and headed back to Vieux Lille. I tried to bring home the characteristic colours of terracotta, gold and slate grey, that can be seen on many of Lille’s buildings. I memorised the stepped Flemish roofs and diagonal brickwork patterns of gable ends. I remembered Jean and his family leaving their home for the final time. Unlike them, I have the freedom to return whenever I want.

The Despaigne family name became established in Canterbury, and strongly associated with the Church. They continued their trade of weaving and later generations moved to Stepney, including my eighth great grandmother Esther.

My ride home

All photographs taken by the Author.

Written from the heart, rather than from AI