Remembrance Sunday

 

Remembrance Sunday

 

France, Day 3: Poppies Are For Remembrance

I started the day by giggling with Viv in bed again.  It was my favourite part of the holiday.

Viv suggested we write a collaborative poem, a renga.  The theme was obvious: it was Remembrance Day in Britain.  The French celebrate on 6 June as well as 11 November, I learned.  See more here.

Here is the view from Viv’s house:

In one of those fields, on 6 June, 1944, a plane came down, killing all the RAF airmen on board.  The people of Viv’s village erected a memorial to them, at the end of Viv’s road.  The memorial is kept clean and tidy.  Unlike so many British memorials, there is no graffiti, no urinating, no defacing of it.  Viv and Jock took us down just before eleven and we waited for the bell to ring out in the distance, from the village, then laid our poppy and kept the two minute silence.  The Hub and I feel that to be in France on Remembrance Day was both special and moving.  It was an honour.

Viv and Jock then took us out to lunch in Granville, to their favourite restaurant.  I do like to be beside the seaside!  The view was excellent and the food superb.  The French waiters were not the condescending snoots of tv legend, but were patient, helpful and efficient.  The restaurant was small but charming – and full.  The French eat well and linger over their meals: a civilised habit I am going to acquire.  They also take their Yorkshire Terriers along; I like that habit too, as do my own Yorkies, Molly and Toby, I’m sure.  The dog was as well behaved as the many children in the restaurant.  We wouldn’t have noticed them if they hadn’t been pointed out to us as models of how children should behave in a restaurant.  We Brits could learn a lot by taking regular holidays in France.

The food was delicious but you’ll have to go over to Viv’s blog for pictures – once again, I preferred eating to snapshotting.  I had a starter of bacon and lettuce, a main of cod and veg, and vanilla ice cream for afters.  It sounds much more exotic in French and, believe me, it tastes it, too.  I ordered my own dessert: Coupe deux boules; vanille.  Aren’t I clever?  It only took an hour to learn.

We walked lunch off with a stroll around the lovely town of Granville.  We saw a corsair, whose fascinating story you can read at Viv’s blog.  Then it was home again, with afternoon naps for Viv and the Hub (in separate rooms) and a guided tour of the garden for me from Jock.  We had a late, light dinner of quiche and salad but there was room for leftover cake & tart, of course.

I am not a great wine drinker, but that is because I don’t have access to great wine.  I enjoyed a glass with every meal in France (except breakfast; I’m not a lush) and it is possible I have acquired yet another French habit.  Time will tell.  Hic.

 

11.11.11

Image via Wikipedia

At eleven o’clock today, the nation will fall silent for two minutes, to honour those who fought in so many wars. 

It will be at 11 on 11.11.11.

This date and time won’t happen for another hundred years.  The heroes of last century’s wars will be long forgotten.  I’m sad but sure there will be many more to take their place.

Laurence Binyon said it best: 

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.

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Out-Poemed By The Hub!

 

 

Artist Martin Waters is creating a drifting field of poppies through Holy Trinity Parish Church, Hull, during November Remembrance 2011.  He wanted poems to support the installation.  The Hub and I submitted.  I heard nothing but the Hub’s poem was selected. 

I’m thrilled for him. 

No, really.

Honest.

WelldoneHubmutterthroughgrittedteeth.

 

The Proud Hub

 The proud wife:

 

 

Poppy Day

Image via Wikipedia

Poppies Red

Once where poppies streamed this field
Now stained, tainted red from showers of lead

This damp and dire quagmire
Strewn, littered with bodies bled,
Anguished, contorted with no more breath

Whistling bangs, shuddering trenches
Raining reddish mud

Entombed forever in this derelict ground
Maybe one day, a watch, a boot
or a buckle will be found

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The Hub wrote this poem and I love it.

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There is a new post on my sapoems blog.