It’s a cold wet night in Normandy. Today has been about one thing, riding motorbikes and doing it quickly. Time to let off steam after the intense emotions of the last couple of days, but also time to reflect on what has gone before.

I said at the beginning of this little odyssey that this was a personal pilgrimage to stand where my two Grandfathers had been nearly 100 years ago. In the roundness of the statement, I feel that I have achieved my goal, but at the same time I seem to have uncovered much more that I will need time to ponder and study. The existence of the book detailing the history of Siege Battery 94 and accompanying map were a godsend and we were able to pretty much pin point the exact position of the guns at each location.
This is “the sunken lane between Ovillers and the Bapaume Road”.

I know that it’s just the corner of a field in North East France, but it’s where men fought and died alongside my Grandfather William and so to me, it’s sacred ground. In the next photo, near Thiepval, the guns stood by the small farm in the middle of the picture, same emotion here as well.>

We moved East from Albert to Mametz, where Grandfather Charles and his fellow field gunners supported the 38th Welsh Division as they made their assault on Mametz Wood losing 4000 men in five days. Today the wood is peaceful and alive with the new life of spring. Shell craters still lie in the undergrowth, a tangible reminder of the wood’s bloody history. On the ridge facing the wood, from where the Welsh soldiers started their attack, stands probably the most striking memorial on the whole Somme battlefield.

Y Ddraig Goch, The Red Dragon, stands defiant facing Mametz Wood, it’s claw tearing at barbed wire atop a three metre plinth. Awe inspiring and strikingly simple. It made me very proud, yet at the same time very sad.

Thank you all for riding along with me on this, very different, trip. I have needed to do this pilgrimage for a long time. No more cemetery, or memorial photos for now, but maybe I’ll share some further thoughts in the future. Please do two things for me, eh?

Remember them, the ordinary soldiers, who became extraordinary men and who died by their millions. Remember them, not just once a year but all year, because the poem is true; “For our tomorrows, they gave their today.”

Thank you, Dookes.

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