Felsted War Memorial

I decided that a trip up the old railway on the bike was in order, just to loosen the muscles from the previous effort on the bike. The short ride, against the wind as always,was enjoyable and I pottered on eventually reaching Felsted, a small village some six miles on. Here I stopped to take a few pics of the war memorial. I am intrigued by such memorials. They stand in almost every town and villages throughout the UK and for the most part are ignored. So much so that some are in a poor state of repair. Erected after the Great War, with names from the second war added later, the stories behind the names stand in opposition to the places these monoliths are often found. A trench oozing with mud, bodies, often incomplete, of the dead and the wounded lying on the bottom, shells exploding all around, bullets splattering the parapet, screams and groans of the injured or those engaged in killing, such images are far removed from memorials stationed in parks and churchyards or overlooking a green and pleasant place. Many have elaborate statues attached, angels with huge wings, soldiers with heads bowed over upturned rifles, big breasted women with arms reaching to the skies, (never fat old mothers you notice) but most a simple stone or cross with names of local lads who 'did their duty' and never returned. At Felsted I noticed some time back that they had built a 'Memorial Hall,' with this simple cross outside bearing the names of the fallen and I thought this a good practical idea. Whether this was an excuse to build a much needed hall or a true memorial I know not at this time, but the idea works for me!    

This village and surrounding hamlets were not large and almost half the population were employed on the many farms. Therefore to lose 45 men, often more than one from the same family, was a great loss. The shock of such events effected the home front as much as the fighting did the men in France. With 300,000 men still unaccounted for under the battlefields it is no surprise that the need for a place to mourn, individually and together, was great. This memorial reveals the differing attitudes to the war in 1939. The generals were not going to get bogged down again and only 12 names are recorded here. There is also one from the Kosovo campaign of more recent time. It is indeed right that men who fell in later wars are remembered also surely.

This made the aching muscles worthwhile. It is strange to be out on the bike again, not to strange to be pedalling along thinking I was doing well and be overtaken by a regular user of the trail racing past at high speed. "One day,"  I lied to the Lycra clad red helmet, already a shrinking dot half a mile ahead, "I will be back to that fitness level!" As I turned for home I made an effort to ignore such vows. Instead I concentrated on avoiding the children being taken out by mum and dad along the trail, the ageing, usually unsmiling, joggers, and more cyclists who would consider my 12 mile trip a daily routine. I would tell them that in the past it was mine also, but not only would I not be believed I was concentrating on just keeping alive. With the wind at my back and the majority of the trip downhill it was at least much more fun going home than coming out! Ah nature, I suppose it was the years I spent in Edinburgh, and then in London that make me enjoy it so much. The common folk here are so used to this they do not appreciate what is around them. I do, gladly. Now,  where is matron with my muscle rub......?