Ninety years

A couple of years ago, when the BBC focused their Remembrance coverage on the groups of young men who signed up during WW1, such as the "Hull Pals", I did a bit of research to find out if my Grandad was one of them.  Quite a surprise to find he enlisted in the East Lancashire Fusiliers, then, on the wrong side of the Pennines!

I don't know much about his war story except that he was in France and was invalided out; as a result of shrapnel wounds to his left arm, I think.  Certainly, he wore his silver war badge with pride long after it was all over.

This morning, on the 90th anniversary of the Armistice, I was in a meeting.  At 11 o'clock precisely, we stopped for two minutes along with so many others.  Outside, the sun was shining over the lovely Oxfordshire countryside and the bell in the church next door tolled.

As I drove home later this afternoon, I stopped to pick up a bit of shopping in a farm shop.  I watched as the sun went down behind the Union Jack, thinking that it seemed a rather appropriate image to take home with me tonight.