There’s nothing like a war memorial to stop me in my tracks. Late this afternoon, en route for Holywell, at the end of the seafront, I drove through Meads, along an unfamiliar road, and happened across a great arch that was once the entrance to St Vincent’s School and later, evidently, a war memorial. Situated in a quiet suburban road, the archway was so visually arresting that I felt compelled to stop and investigate.
The inscription reads: In memory of 49 gallant men who were at school here in their early boyhood and gave their lives in the service of their country during the Great War of 1914-19. At the going down of the sun and in the morning we will remember them. That final line is from the Laurence Binyon poem of course, though the memorial also features the lesser known previous verse:
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
I continued the short drive to the seafront, in a more sombre mood than the one I’d left home in, a few minutes earlier.
The sea was grey and restless today, just like me. Earlier, it had rained but the conditions were now good. I parked and made my way down Crow’s Nest Walk to the Promenade. After my 5-minute warm-up I launched myself into the genteel routine mandated by the NHS C25K app:
– 1.5 mins jogging, 1.5 mins walking
– 3 minutes jogging, 3 minutes walking
– 1.5 mins jogging, 1.5 mins walking
– 3 minutes jogging, 3 minutes walking.
To a horny-soled runner this is an exceedingly benign assignment, but to an ancient fat bloke, it seemed like a moderately stiff test. Not one I ever felt incapable of completing, though after years of corporeal stagnation, still challenging enough to leave me with a distinct sense of having stretched a sinew or two.
As I trudged along the path, tempted to moan about my predicament, I gazed out across the English Channel towards France, and reflected on those names I’d earlier scanned through on the war memorial. It seems certain that all of those local lads would have run along this very path on which I was now treading.
Most will have lived less than a third of the term I’ve been granted so far. ‘They shall not grow old as we that are left grow old’ is a stirring sentiment, but must have been scant consolation to the families and sweethearts left behind. I’m never sure if the line, and the words that follow: ‘Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn’ suggest that growing old is a bad thing, and that at least they were spared that terrible burden. Surely not. Having the opportunity to grow old seems like a priceless privilege to me, especially if you’re still able to jog towards the setting sun.
