Sunday 8 November. My Rememberance Day

Standing slightly apart from the group gathered around the war memorial I gazed at the mist shrouded hills. The reds, russets and oranges of the autumn were highlighted by the first frost of the year, rimming with silver the bare purple branches of silver birch, glowing in the early morning sun. The sky above them was a clear and brilliant blue. A thin mist still hung about the dark water of the loch in which was reflected a mirror image of the hills and trees.

A slight but sharp breeze stirred the fallen leaves and worked its chilly way down the collars of the small gathering. I pulled the collar of my long black wool coat higher up around my ears and then buried my hands further in to my pockets, curling my fingers in to the palms of my hands in an effort warm them wishing I’d had time to find my gloves.

The haunting sound of the bagpipes, husky with cold, floated across the loch, almost unbearably moving in this beautiful silent setting. I had tried to hold back the tears that now ran down my cheeks and in to the neck of my jumper but the sound of the Reveille had been my undoing. I swallowed hard round the lump that had formed in my throat.

The solemn laying of the wreaths. Four were carried across the grass to be placed at the foot of the engraved stone pillar by residents of the village. An old lady who had served in the WRNS, her back bent with age held the arm of a younger gentleman. They placed the wreath together and stood heads bent for a moment before returning to their place. The Reverend Douglas Bell had spoken movingly during the brief service. How we were to remember not just those that had fallen in the two world wars but also in present day conflicts.

I stared hard at the hills in front of me and thought. Thankful that my RAF Officer brother had returned home from his various tours of active service in the war zones of Northern Ireland, Bosnia and Iraq, safely and in one piece. Now working for a civilian company in Angola he won’t be called to the atrocities in Afghanistan. I felt guilty for my feelings of grateful relief, a feeling shared I know by my mother, who was standing behind me.

Then with the last notes of the pipes ringing through the hills we stood in silence. Not a sound could be heard. It was as though the birds knew when not to sing. The small flock of brown and black curly horned sheep in the field behind us stood grouped together on a slight rise as though they too were remembering rather than just cold and curious. Clouds of breath hung in front of the small congregation mirroring the mist that cloaked the base of the hills and fogged the surface of the loch.

With a final prayer and blessing Reverend Bell ended the service and moved away from the memorial to greet the congregation as we started to make our way down to the church for morning service.

Relieved to see a few other pink rimmed eyes amongst the ladies, I blew my nose hard and then smiled a hello at my neighbours.

More anon
CKx