THE REASON WHY..

Just recently in one of my posts here I mentioned that we were entering the most dismal time of the year and I cited Halloween, Bonfire Night and the `festive period` as giving cause for  my foreboding.   You may have noticed however, that I did not include Remembrance Day in that list and the reason is obvious - it is a special day, one never forgotten especially by ex Servicemen and it deserves to be held with all due respect and dignity.

And I suppose that in all the hullabaloo about Halloween and the rest of it, it is easy to overlook the reasons why Poppy Day really is so special.  So here`s a little history that I hope might put the day in its proper context.

On 7th November, 1920, in the strictest secrecy, four unidentified bodies of British soldiers were exhumed from temporary cemeteries, one at Ypres, one at Arras, one at Asine and one from the Somme.  None of the soldiers who did the digging were told why.  The bodies were taken by field ambulance to General Headquarters at St.-Pol-Sur-Ter Noise and once there, they were draped with the union flag.  Sentries were posted and Brigadier General Wyatt, along with Colonel Gell, selected one of the bodies at random, following which the  three remaining bodies were reburied.  A French Honour Guard was selected and stood guard by the coffin of the chosen soldier overnight.

On the morning of 8th November a specially designed coffin made of oak from the grounds of Hampton Court arrived and the Unknown Warrior was placed inside.  A crusader sword and a shield was placed on top  with the shield being inscribed, "A British Warrior who fell in the GREAT WAR 1914-1918 for King and Country."

On the 9th November the Unknown Warrior was taken by horse drawn carriage through Guards of Honour to the quayside, to the sound of tolling bells and bugle calls. There he was saluted by Marshall Foche and taken aboard HMS Verdun, bund for Dover.  The coffin stood on deck covered by wreaths and surrounded by the French Honour Guard.

Arriving at Dover the Unknown Warrior was met with a 19-gun salute - something normally only reserved for Field Marshals.  A special train had been arranged to convey the coffin to Victoria Station, where it remained overnight and on the morning of 11th November the Unknown Warrior was finally taken to Westminster Abbey.

The concept of the Unknown Warrior was the idea of David Railton, a Padre who had served on the front line during the Great War and the union flag he had used as an altar cloth whilst serving at the front line was the same one which had been draped over the coffin.  It was his intention that each of the relatives of the 517,773 combatants whose bodies had not been identified might believe that the Unknown Warrior might well be their lost father, husband, brother or son.

That is the reason why the poppies are worn and why, on 11th November each year, we remember them.

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A few years ago I remember being on the top of Pentire Point on the north Cornwall coast and happening to discover this plaque which marked the spot where the poet Laurence Binyon composed, "For the Fallen" which was first published in The Times in September 1914.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: 

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.

AT THE GOING DOWN OF THE SUN...

Here`s a photo I took on a recent pilgrimage to the North Cornwall Coast Path.  It`s the stretch between Lundy Bay and Pentire Point and the promontory at the top of the photo is known as The Rumps, with the island, known as The Mouls or Puffin Island, just out to sea.   Apart from the majestic scenery, this bit of the coast path is memorable for a more poignant reason.

Just around the corner from Pentire Point at the top left of the picture, there`s a rather small and obscure plaque which marks the spot where Robert Lawrence Binyon (1869-1943) is alleged to have written his immortal poem, `For the Fallen.`   I say `alleged` because there`s another spot on the coast path, further down near Portreath which also claims the distinction.

Having come across the Pentire plaque and spent a few quiet moments of contemplation, I would merely suggest that the grandeur of Pentire Point must surely have been the greater and more dramatic influence for Binyon`s poem which, of course, includes the stanza that we all know and revere so well:-

They shall not grow old as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

THIS TIME NEXT WEEK....

(With apologies to Sir John Betjeman)

I know so well this turfy mile.

These clumps of sea-pink withered brown.

The breezy cliff, the awkward style.

The sandy path that takes me down

To crackling layers of broken slate

Where black and flat sea-woodlice crawl

And isolated rock pools wait

Wash from the highest tides of all.

I know the roughly blasted track

That skirts a small and smelly bay

And over squelching bladderwrack

Leads to the beach at Greenaway.

AT TIMES LIKE THIS...

This is a photo I took last October when we were staying at Trebetherick on Cornwall`s north coast.   It`s a tranquil scene, quiet weather, an almost deserted beach and just a glimpse of Pentire Point to tempt the more adventurous.  What could be better for getting away from it all and allowing yourself to be both captivated and captured by the elements of nature, the absence of pressure and the demands of time?

And I see today that Prime Minister Dave Cameron has had to leave Polzeath, Trebetherick and Daymer Bay behind and return to London to be seen to be directing the UK`s response to the latest in a string of appalling events in the Middle East.   Now, he must have wanted the job and he got it and for some years now he has been involved with a seemingly endless list of crises, some financial, some political, some diplomatic, some simply borne of the world in which we live.  

No wonder he likes to get away with his family and where better to unwind than on the Cornish coast which is clearly one of his favourite destinations.  It might be rubbing it in to announce that at the end of next week we`ll be heading for the same area, doing the coast path walks and just enjoying being where we like to be, doing what we like doing. And of course I have the benefit of knowing that it`s highly unlikely that my visit there will be interrupted by being recalled to sort out some great issue of state.

I never thought I would admit to this, but at times like this I might just feel a little sorry for our Prime Minister having to leave his family and the tranquillity of Trebetherick behind and I wonder if he ever thinks whether all the trappings of office are worth it and whether he would rather be watching the sun go down over Stepper Point with John Betjeman`s words lulling in his ear:-

And in the shadowless unclouded glare

Deep blue above us fades to whiteness where

A misty sea-line meets the wash of air.

It may be a forlorn hope that the trials of the world might subside enough to allow our Prime Minister to resume where he was forced to leave off....but I hope so, not just for his sake but also the rest of us.

IN NAME ONLY...

Like most communities up and down the land, here in Dibley the Parish Council are planning to mark the centenary of World War 1.   And in common with most other communities, we have our very own memorial outside the village church in memory of those service personnel who died in that dreadful conflict.   However, there are possibly six names missing from the war memorial and the Parish Council is attempting to establish a definite link with the village and to seek relatives to obtain their permission for names to be added.  

It`s then proposed to produce a booklet giving brief biographies of all residents of the village who are recorded by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission as having perished in the Great War.  This initiative would then be followed by producing a brief history of the village during the conflict and, finally, to include on the war memorial the names of local residents who have died as a result of service in any of this country`s conflicts since the end of the Second World War.

Now for good reason I may have been a tad critical of the Parish Council in the past but this initiative is well founded, wholly admirable and heartfelt and I hope it gets the support it needs to make it succeed.

Now all of this has the effect of making us reflect yet again on the appalling events that beset the world 100 years ago and at this distance it`s impossible to really imagine how things must have been.   But perhaps at least a flavour of those times may have been captured by my old school friend, the late William Scammell, in his poem `Remembering the Great War:-

Opaque and resonant as sacred texts
the names alone sound out a litany;
Passchendaele; Ypres, the Somme, Verdun.....

Some dropped perfect but for a sweet
smudge of gas - others, dispersing, spanned
earth in the wildest hug.

Men flashed hissing to their elements
like spit gobbed on a stove.  One officer
in nomansland apologised to his troops

behind for lasting in such loud slow screams.
Four men unwound their lives to staunch
his uproar - failed, like the concerted knuckles

hammered round his teeth.  Gowned neutrally
for christening, deaths, history thumbs
its cheap editions, weltering in echoes.

I think of Sassoon`s tall heart, contracting

fiercest love for his own men, one of whom
shot him from excess of zeal;  of Graves`s

stretched contempts.  The fires they grazed rot down
in village squares.  On memory`s floor words rut
and root, nosing blind and ghastly at the tongue.

Bill`s poem, like those of so many others, gives us a chilling glimpse of the almost indescribable horror that we, 100 years on, are struggling to comprehend.   And it has long occurred to me as surprising that it is still referred to as The Great War, but perhaps in name only, for in reality it was - and should be remembered as - the Most God-awful Horrific War there has ever been.

NOT SUCH LIGHT RELIEF AFTER ALL..

Having ploughed my way doggedly through Stieg Larsson`s magnificent Millenium Trilogy, I thought I deserved a little light relief, so I bought a copy of Pam Ayres` memoir, `The Necessary Aptitude.`   I have long enjoyed her poems and the engaging delivery with her broad Berkshire accent and I thought it would be interesting to explore her memoir of the years since she was born in the Berkshire village (I think it might be in Oxfordshire now) of Stanford in the Vale.   The Vale is, of course, the Vale of the White Horse, named for the mysterious figure carved on White Horse Hill above Uffington all those centuries ago.

I discovered some things that struck chords with me.  My late mother was born in a small village just outside Swindon and, although she had the good sense to escape from there in her teens, wherever she went afterwards she never lost that same lyrical, sing-song, countryside accent that Pam Ayres has made acceptable, even enviable. 

There are references in Pam`s book to places I know well - as well as the White Horse country, there`s Modbury in Devon, deep in the South Hams, with the Exeter Inn, the steep high street and the first community to impose a total ban on plastic carrier bags.   Then Paderborn in Germany, where all of 50 years ago today I was stationed  seeing out my 731 days of National Service.   But also the memories of childhood in a small rural village in an age before health and safety was even thought of. 

But as I read on it soon became clear that Pam Ayres was - and still is - more than a bit special.   There is a resourcefulness, a willingness to take risks, a strong, adventurous and courageous character which refuses to take no for an answer.   But there is also the other side - that of love and loyalty to family and friends and a deep, deep pride, appreciation and affection for her roots where simple pleasures were thought of as riches  at a time when everyone knew the boundaries.   But it was a determination to extend those boundaries both of geography and of intellect that gave rise to an eventful and varied career that was to provide the backdrop for her acute and perceptive observations of life.

So don`t be influenced by the `persona` you might have seen on television or in theatres around the globe, for underneath that veneer of cheery bumpkinness, of innocence abroad, there lies a wealth of experience, knowledge and perception that find voice in her poems.

And as for the poems themselves, whilst the first impression they may give is of mischievous humour and tongue-in-cheek devilment, what they actually do is say many of the things that we ourselves are unwilling or just  too frightened to admit to.   Here`s a good example:- http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y4oydSZTAns

This is what Roger Lewis had to say when he began his critique of Pam`s recently published memoir :   `When I say that Pam Ayres ought to be the Oxford Professor of Poetry, even the Poet Laureate, I am not being facetious.

Those who thinks she writes doggerel need to think twice. Like Victoria Wood, or the late Sir John Betjeman, Ayres uses simple verse forms - comic ballads or folk song idioms - to make poignant observations about tiresome husbands, gossiping wives, false teeth or battery hens.   I find her work sweet and sour, gentle and sad, and often very moving in its wistful way. Above all, Pam Ayres is comprehensible.`

I agree with all that and, having found out so much more about the national treasure that she has become, it`s clear that the light relief I had in mind when I turned from Lisbeth Salander to Pam Ayres  has turned out to be so much more fulfilling and rewarding.   I suspect many people, myself included, couldn`t tell you the name of the Poet Laureate, but they would if Pam Ayres had got the job.   And poetry would have been so much the richer.

TALENT OVERLOOKED?

So, Carol Ann Duffy has become the very first woman to be appointed Poet Laureate after no less than 341 years of Poet Laureatness. Congratulations go to her for this honour which, it seems, she was a little uncertain of accepting, but did so `because they hadn`t had a woman,` But whilst I`m pleased for this 53 year-old Scottish mother within a lesbian relationship which has since ended, I`m not quite convinced that she was the most deserving.

That said, I like her style - she will be giving the £5750 a year `salary` to the Poets Society, so that it goes back into the business and she has asked for the 600 bottles of sherry that goes with the job to be handed over up front, in stark contrast to outgoing Poet Laureate, Andrew Motion, who has been in the job for ten years and still hasn`t touched a drop.

For all that, I am deeply saddened that Pam ("I wish I`d looked after me teeth") Ayres continues to be overlooked and it`s such a pity that Spike Milligan is no longer with us. His epic poems, such as:-

"There are holes in the sky

Where the rain comes in.

But they`re ever so small,

That`s why rain is thin."

.......or the even more touching

"Said Hamlet to Ophelia,

`I'll draw a sketch of thee,

What kind of pencil shall I use?

2B or not 2B?`"

- would surely have made him a strong candidate and I think that, for all her talent, Carol Ann might struggle to emulate work like that. No wonder the picture above shows her about to thump me round the head with one of her tomes.