Remembrance

The symbolic wearing of a poppy in remembrance of those who died for our freedom has always been a part of my life. My mother would watch the Remembrance Day service on the television every year in tears and I, who cannot stem tears in any situation, would do the same. My grandfather was a stalwart of the British legion and, having been in an ambulance blown up during the second world war, instilled in us all this belief in respec,t and I would wish to see this continue. A couple of years ago we went over to France and Belgium to visit the war cemetries where I knew that I had family members remembered. These were men I never knew - a great uncle on my mother's side and a great great uncle on my father's side, both killed in the Great War. Tyne Cot was a moving experience but that small corner of a foreign field that is Auberchicourt moved me beyond belief. Albert was the youngest of the nine brothers and sisters in my Great Grandfather's family. He died on the 27th March 1918 and is laid to rest in Northern France. I don't know if anyone before me had visited his grave. I suspect not. It was beautiful.