When I was at school, we supported, year on year, a home for limbless ex-servicemen. We provided the men with cards and Christmas presents and a certain amount of money from our fundraising exploits. Most of the men were veterans from WW1. Being a somewhat reflective and some say morbid child, I often used to wonder where I'd be when the last man to serve in the trenches of WW1 had died. To me it seemed far more momentous than where I'd be when 1999 became 2000, or what age I'd be when I married...
Well here I am. Harry Patch has died. May he rest in peace.
There is just this dreadful feeling that it could all happen again, not in the same way, the map of Europe is very different, but in a subtle, all voted in by our elected representatives way, a feeling we are walking into a nightmare. A feeling that Europe in particular is facing a crisis of monumental proportions on which the souls of millions will ultimately rise or flounder.
So I'm a bit reflective as I look over this stunning, peaceful and hard fought for Wessex countryside....these days with genetically enhanced, super-productive stock, the grain is now much shorter than the poppies that rise up through the fields proclaiming something and nothing, if anyone cares to listen.