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beach dotted with bathers, beach chairs and umbrellas.
    â€˜Not yet. You’re looking at Blackpool Sands, just north of Slapton. It’s a beach club now, but this area was requisitioned during the war, too.’
    After a few moments, I drove on. The road, shaded by overhanging branches, narrowed even further. I took one turn a little too fast for comfort, and Cathy yipped like a terrier as branches slapped the passenger’s side door.
    â€˜Ooops, sorry,’ I apologized, tapping the brakes. ‘I hope I didn’t scratch the paint.’
    â€˜Scratches, smatches,’ Cathy said. ‘That’s what insurance is for.’
    Eventually we popped out of the trees and over the headland, beginning the long, winding descent to Slapton Sands. Below us the sea, the beach, the road, and the Ley – a reed-dotted, freshwater lagoon – formed parallel ribbons of aquamarine, beige, slate and blue which eventually yielded to the patchwork yellows and greens of the fields in the surrounding countryside. In the bright afternoon sun, the effect was stunning. I slowed to a crawl.
    Cathy rolled down her window to admire the view. ‘I can see why the Allies chose this area for the rehearsal.’ She propped both arms on the windowsill and rested her chin on them. ‘It looks just like all the aerial photos I’ve ever seen of Utah Beach in France. I can’t wait to walk on it.’
    â€˜Soon. But first, I want to show you the memorial.’ We drove to the north end of the beach, where I swung left into the car park, slotted the rental car into one of the marked spaces, turned off the ignition, and climbed out.
    Cathy followed me on to the beach. ‘I thought this was supposed to be Slapton Sands ,’ she complained, tiptoeing carefully over the rocky ground in her sling-back sandals, eyes on her feet. ‘This looks like gravel to me.’
    â€˜The Brits call it shingle,’ I explained as she caught up to me.
    Arms spread wide for balance, Cathy tottered along at my side as we made our way along the wide swath of pebbles that ranged in size from marbles to golf balls. Before long, we were standing before a chunky granite obelisk perhaps twenty feet high incised with confident black lettering.
    Cathy pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head. ‘This memorial was presented by the United States Army authorities,’ she read aloud, ‘to the people of the South Hams who generously left their homes and their lands to provide a battle practice area for the successful assault in Normandy in June 1944. Their action resulted in the saving of many hundreds of lives. Blah blah blah. I think it’s fishy,’ she added, turning to face me, blinking back tears, arms folded across her chest like a petulant child. ‘This ugly thing was put up in 1954, but does it mention anywhere the guys like my dad who died here? It does not. All these people did was lose their homes for a couple of months. It’s sad that they were forced to clear out and all that, but at least they got to come back to them eventually. My dad’s out there somewhere.’ She swept her arm in a wide arc, indicating the fields on the hills behind us, rising up gracefully over the Ley. ‘Or maybe there,’ she added, tugging her sunglasses down to cover her eyes and turning her face out to sea.
    I stepped away, putting some distance between us, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
    After a few minutes Cathy announced, ‘I’m ready to see the tank, now.’
    I fished the car keys out of my pocket. ‘Let’s go then.’
    We crunched our way along the shingle back to the car park, then drove another five miles to Torcross at the southern end of the beach.
    Finding the Sherman tank wasn’t difficult. Hard to hide a thirty-two-ton hulk of metal in a tiny village. After being dragged out of the sea, the tank had been installed on a concrete slab atop a plinth of smooth