Remembrance Today

At two in the almost sunny Sunday afternoon the congregation gathered to pay their respects to the war dead.  Amongst them were many men, and a few women, who endured active service and saw their colleagues and friends suffer and sometimes die in action.

Before 1914 the wars Britain became involved in were far from home.  Colonial wars, Crimea, South Africa, and early in the 19th century fighting Napoleon in Portugal and Spain, before the end at Waterloo.  The public were not concerned much apart from the shortage of some goods, such as Brandy during Napoleon's time, and anyway smuggling was popular.  Soldiers travelled the world, fought and died far from home, as sailors had done for generations.  The public were involved only at a distance.

For many years people had realised war with Germany was likely.  Patriotism was at a high, even though History was badly taught, and the wide spread of newspapers, from which most people were informed, were at best propaganda, and at worst deliberately false.  

Being a soldier was a respectable occupation.  Since the middle of the 19th century the military mind affected all parts of society, so much so that William Booth's outreach in the east end of London took the name 'Salvation Army,' and not long afterwards the copycats at the Anglican church joined in with the 'Church Army.'   

The army had been reformed under the Haldane reorganisation, led by General Haig.  Now we had 25 Front Line regiments, of two battalions each.  One was stationed at home, the other abroad.  Also the various militia were reformed into the Territorial Force, ostensibly for Home Defence only.  These did however, allow men to play soldiers, learn the basics of warfare, and, in a time of few holidays, gave them suitable exercise at weekends and on general annual manoeuvres.  With a possible war looming did some men enlist in the Territorials in preparation for this?  

As any General knows, you plan for a war, prepare carefully, train your men, and off you go, and watch your plan disintegrate in the resulting stramash.  All things change once war is entered upon.  The UK found this to be true in 1914.  British opinion was led to expect a short war, a few months only they said.  This was considered likely elsewhere, even the Kaiser believed his men would be home by Christmas.  It was easy to forget that the Boer War, such a short time before, had taken some four years before it ended.  How dismayed were the politicians at the first war Cabinet meeting when Field Marshall Kitchener informed them the war would take at least three years and he must raise another hundred thousand men.  They did not believe him! The Generals understood what could happen if a war of movement was halted, no politician appears to have considered this a possibility. Nonetheless, when war was declared on August 4th men everywhere rushed to the colours, many afraid they would miss the excitement.

Come November 1918 opinions differed somewhat from the days of early excitement.  The surviving men who volunteered then were not the same men in 1918.  The world had changed, the war had been won, something people often forget, but at a great cost, both 'at the front,' and 'at home.'

The most reliable figures I have come across tell me that 704,803 men died in action.  Of these some 338,955 are as yet undiscovered or unidentified.  It is from this great loss that 'remembrance' as we know it springs.

The question "What to do with the bodies," caused much wringing of hands and cursing throughout the land.  Some people, at least those with money, broke the law and brought back their own loved ones, their 'heroes,' rather than follow the final decision to bury men where they fell.  Outrage abundant.  Bodies were collected, I think those doing the job, many soldiers themselves or often Chinese labourers, were paid six shillings a d ay for the often gruesome work.  Scattered bodies, small cemeteries, were collected together in large organised places near where they fell.  These today, run by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission, are peaceful well tended resting places revealing nothing of the conflict that caused their creation.  

In the UK however, many did not have a place in which to commemorate their dead.  So by the middle of the 1920s local war memorials sprang up everywhere.  Large cities and towns created often huge memorials, local towns and villages did their best, even if it was just a plaque in a church.  On these were graven the names of the dead, alongside slogans such as 'Our Glorious Dead,' 'Not Forgotten,' 'They Died so we could be Free,' and the names of battlefields they fought over, 'Mons, Ypres, Loos, Somme, Cambrai, Passchendaele.'  A glance at such memorials tells much about the town or village where they are found, and the great cost to the population of the time.  

The return and burial in Westminster Cathedral of the 'Unknown Warrior' in 1920 was much heralded by many.  Women especially believed, some through dreams and visions, that this was their husband, son, brother.  Thousands lined the streets as he was paraded through the city.

At the same time a Cenotaph, made from wood, was erected in Whitehall.  The empty tomb lying at the top symbolising the missing.  This idea, copied from the ancient Greek fashion, was highly popular and within a year a more solid cenotaph, made I think of Portland Stone, was erected.

As the memorials closer to home began to appear in city, town and village, the locals turned out to 'remember' their was dead.  Many an Honour Guard on duty at the opening or remembrance ceremonies could well remember and speak of the situation of those named on the memorial.  Often not willing to discuss this publicly in front of the families.  Many names were of course their brothers.

Occasionally in the following years some were able to travel to distant parts to stand alongside their dead.  The majority however, were struggling to survive themselves without the 'Homes made for heroes,' that had been promised.  Thousands of ex-servicemen, especially the wounded, were more or less abandoned to their fate.  

The wives, mothers, children of the dead, and possibly those who so eagerly encouraged enlistment in their locale, now had a place where they could annually remember the sacrifice of their own.  An event continued until their own passing.

 Flanders Fields are at the right time ablaze with red poppies.  During the 1920s the idea began in Canada to commemorate the war dead by the wearing of a red poppy each year.  The idea carried on and now is controlled by the 'British Legion,' (In Scotland 'Poppy Scotland.') and is used to raise money to support their work with wounded servicemen.  It remains highly popular, and while some refuse to wear them, others have designed white, blue or black, poppies for reasons of their own, the Poppy is worn by the majority of the population during the two weeks up to the Remembrance Day on November 11th.  

It is something of a shame that it has been highjacked by many for reasons of their own.  Some consider it encourages or supports war, others, mostly the English Brexit fraternity have taken to it in a big way.  This is not to commemorate or remember, for them it reflects a historic past in which 'England' (not Britain) ruled the world.  A society that has seen Irish independence, Scots nearing independence and has nothing of note within itself bar a failed Brexit, desperately uses anything, the poppy included, to give meaning to their lives.        

There are questions these days regarding the meaning of remembrance.  Many voices are heard today claiming 'it was so long ago,' and people who served are now dying off.  "What is the point?"  Such people need to understand how History affects them today as they themselves are a product of these two great conflagrations that rocked the world.  As it is, in the crowd gathered at this memorial were many who knew an uncle or father who left to join the war in the 1940s.  Others have researched their family tree to find out more about grandad or great grandad and his war record.  Relatives of the dead still gather, remembering stories told by aunts and uncles re the one who did not return.  In spite of the time people still remember.  Indeed, since 2014 many more have taken thought to the war dead, and more so when they have relatives who have served, and sometimes died, in one of the UKs more recent actions, Iraq, Afghanistan, or at the 40th centenary of the Falklands Conflict.  The war dead are not just dead in the (to some) distant past, they are family and friends of many gathered at memorials on Sunday.  The two world wars affected each of us living today, at least indirectly, the lesser wars, which will continue until the next global one, affect many of us daily.  We would be foolish to forget those we have lost.

Camulodunum, Charity Shops, Gays in Gents, Hastening Bus Drivers, War Memorials, and Corn Fields and Blue Skies.

I hesitated about going out today yesterday, I was tired physically but my brain was needing a change of scenery.  Just being indoors I begin to go 'stir crazy.'  So, I trooped of early to catch the 10:20 bus.  We left at 10:28, and not just because of the Zimmer users.  I looked forward to green fields, waving corn, and gray skies.  At least the sky was often gray.  

We had not gone far, just about to leave the town border as a woman with pushchair and 3 years old attempted to leave the bus.  The pushchair was easy enough but the kid would not move.  Mum encouraged, demanded, apologised to the passengers, took his toy, but he would not leave the bus.  Screaming ensued, from him, while we all grinned and laughed.  Mum took action, slinging him screaming over her shoulder and forged her way off the bus.  Everyone laughed, almost all of us have either been the mum or the kid, as it were!

Having left 8 minutes late we naturally arrived one minute early!  Considering we faced three road blockages, one from BT Outreach replacing telegraph poles and digging holes, one from routine road works, and one from traffic blocking cars half parked on road and pavement.  Why not on the pavement, there is no-one around, it's a country house, why block a busy road?  

On arrival I hobbled slowly through one or two remaining charity shops.  Some have gone since I was last here about 4 years ago. It amazes me how things change so quickly.  What were charity shops were now doing good, but expensive business.  How can such shops survive here but not in our town?  

The picture?  I have no idea.  She stands there, marching all in black, along the street, why?  What or who does she represent?  I have no idea.

Having ensured sufficient water before I left I visited the Gents.  While clean and modern they are also these days a meeting place for gay boys.  I entered not long after what I assumed to be a normal man but found him standing right next to a another with several spaces empty.  I noisily, very noisily, used a not so clean cubicle.  A perversion, legalised for the privacy of your own home, now appears to be standard in this Gents as it is in so many others.  If such activity is legal how come they are gathering in such places?  Have they no clubs to meet in, no cafe's, why use this place in an underhand manner.  The man I followed had left as I made for the door, but the early arrival was still there.   I was tempted to say something but would only have caused offence.  At least offence I may not be too unhappy to cause.  However, I refrained and moved on.

Having searched more shops, Millets (nice hats with huge prices), Edinburgh Woollen Mill (Based in Hawick, full of old people and charging £210 for a Tweed jacket), and a walk through Waterstones without looking in case I bought something, I took the obligatory War Memorial picture.  This one says so much about the people of the time, the need to glorify a war in which so many died, the need to show off the towns wealth, and the link to fables as History.  I do however admire the statues on offer, though spiders have been making use of them these days.

I considered rummaging through the crowds, sitting in one of the overpriced pubs, or eating at a greasy spoon café, but decided to run for the bus instead.  My knees had seen enough, nothing worth buying had appeared, and I was realising just how weary I had become.  So, obtaining, for £1:19, a bottle of 'Aqua,' a plastic bottle of cold Romanian water I made for the bus stand.  Romanian bottled water with a Latin name?  Well I suppose since Trajan took over what was then called Dacia in the year 106 AD, the Roman influence has been felt there.  The name, or one similar is attested some 400 or so years back but how Roman the people are today after the last couple of hundred years is anyone's guess. 

The water was almost cold, the bus was almost due, my task was to find it.  Once again the bus stops had changed.  Many people stood staring at the timetables while searching for their bus, their stop and soon their bus passes.  I was one of them!  After some time I worked out what 'Ac' meant, wandered slowly in that direction, found the bus waiting but without a driver.  Several waited, glancing at the watches, while the driver, sitting on a seat nearby, ignored them.  

The bus driver on the 10:20 was a happy soul, this one, when he arrived, was not.  Grunting to the boarding passengers he then treated us to a display of sharp braking, caused by going too fast and suddenly finding a stop required.  Consistently racing along when he could, only to sit in a suitable place and wait while the timetable caught up with him, and he even attempted to avoid one man trying to board as he did not wish to miss the green light at the road works.  We spent an hour being thrown forward constantly until we arrived, still breathing bus fumes in spite of all the open windows, at our destination.  We clambered off, but not as fast as the driver, as he headed for home.  At least we know why he was miserable, the end of a long, warm day driving a bus full of the public!

On the way, while bouncing back and forth, I attempted to make use of my little aged Leica.  This wee camera is old, full of dust, and I was looking through a filthy window that has not been cleaned for a while.  The results as you can see are not great.  I was however, glad to see the fields, though quite a few have been turned into expensive houses for the Camulodunum elite.  

On occasions the sun had shone, the clouds gathered, and after I got home the rain fell.  I let it, I was too tired to care.  I have to realise I am not fit, I and not 32 as I claim, and I canny do too much at the same time.  I must pace my wizened body better.  Last night I ate everything that lay around, finished the Brandy, and slept well.  Today I eat and sleep, while clearing up all those things on the laptop that are outdated or useless links that have long since died.  

In truth yesterday was a disappointing day.  The town itself was quieter than usual, I think they have stopped buses running through the main streets, the shops same as always, most people quite sociable, and half the bus drivers happy at work.  Imagine, not only did I walk through Waterstones without buying, I avoided the other bookshops, the charity books also, and came away with nothing.  I really was too tired!

A Trip to Waterstones

 

Decided this morning to take action against the 'stir crazy' feeling that has developed around here.  I checked the bus times online, decided I was going to miss the 10:09 so noticing there was a different bus at 10:24 strode manfully for that.  It was not to be found.  Instead the No 70 I was looking for is now a No 370.  The 42B at 10:24 no longer appears to exist, according to the timetable on the shelter at the new bus station at any rate, so 370 it was to be.  

The screen informed me the next 370 would be along in 9 minutes.

I believed them.  

I was right to do so, 9 minutes later the bus pulled into the bay, the wrong bay, but into a bay.  Not quite the 'Zimmer' bus as of old I note this one.  This lot were more the ten different coloured pills a day lot I think.  Anyway, we clambered aboard and slowly the bus made its way out of the terminus and wound round a new route to the far off city. 

 

 

It being almost three years since I last ventured out this way I was as happy as a kid going on holiday.  I expected to see change, and change there was.  Many new housing developments have arisen.  With a Tory controlled council it is no suprise to note these are all houses costing from £400,000 and rising, so as to bring in more Tory voters.  I must admit a sense of growing discontent about this.  Not that I can ever buy, but to purchase a one bed flat here requires about £18,000 deposit, and even then the mortgage people may not accept you.  An actual cheap house may be found at the £300,000 mark, but unless you have one to sell, who can afford this?  

 

Fifty or so minutes later we landed in town and I hastened slowly towards the Cathedral.  There is nothing much else but shops in this town, and I wanted only one of them.  I actually wished to look at the bookstall in here, and on this quiet  day I found a lack of books, a mere smattering on the shelves.  The Diocese office keeps the best ones in their bookshop.  I was not going there.

 

I sat opposite this window, much brighter in reality than in this poor picture, the first time I have really noticed it.   Somewhat Victorian to me.  Just looking at it now I noticed a wee man high up on the left side.  A closer look indicates this is Andrew, according to the cross he holds, and maybe next time I am in I will look again, and with the better camera.  

I departed soon after I had mused sufficiently, hesitating when mistaken for an employee by a young lady entering the building.  Have I sunk so low I actually look like an Anglican now?

 

 

Waterstones was the shop I was heading to.  Here, my £20 gift voucher in hand, I perused each shelf, each table, and almost the Costa coffee shop before I noticed the prices, and, eventually making my purchase and discovering I had £10 on my Waterstones card also.  This I will keep until the next time, probably next week and visit the Camoludunum shop.  

In spite of the masses of books available I was a bit disappointed.  None of them jumped out at me this time, however, after wandering around, almost shoving an unwilling to move woman from one table, and stopping a more polite one from moving at another, I managed to find three books to bring home to the bookshelves.  As always it is a bit of a gamble, will these actually be worth someone else's money?  Will I enjoy them?  Will I find time to read them in between sloth and stuffing my face?     

 

 

The trouble is, I only have one more book token to use, but there are several books I consider I ought to consider.  Maybe I need to drop hints with the family again...?

 

Ridiculous as it sounds I almost went the wrong way heading back to the bus.  Tsk!  I intended to pass throught the market and check out one or two stalls.  On the correct route I passed this.  At first I thought it was the 'Wicker Man,' but it turns out to be a war memorial.

The memorial itself commemorates the Boer War, a massive block elsewhere remembers the Great War, but this one always has a presentation of sorts in November.  Not sure what that is made from but it is well done.

I passed through the very large indoor market, obtaining a variety of meat from the butcher and accidentally purchasing two large slabs of cheese from the cheese stall.  The nurse will not be pleased.  It is a log time since I have been here, these two stalls have not changed, and many of the other stalls remain in place, including the one selling aged cameras at inflated prices.

 

Somewhat surprised at my energy I went to the bus station.  At the stop the numbers indicated had changed.  I queried this with a driver hesitating to begin his shift.  He informed me how things had been revised, where my stop now was, and we both laughed when I asked why there was now a Number 70, as well as a Number 370 bus on the same routes.  "I have no idea," he said holding wide his arms.  We both laughed at the managers and clever people high up who direct things but never see them in action on the ground.

I checked the bus stop.  Lots of old pill pushers stood there.  The indicator claimed the No 70 was coming in 34 minutes, the C1 (what's that?) in 1 minute.  I went to the 'Tesco Express,' bought an overpriced bottle of water, returned to the stop to find only a couple waiting.  The C1 went off to the Hospital taking the pill pushers with it.  Now the indicator said No 370 in 6 minutes.  I sat of the two rails that form a poor seat and the No 370 drew in behind me!  

Catching a bus takes lots of patience, exercise, sarcasm and hope in this area I find.   Still, I was heading home.

 

What delight to see old houses (costing a million) blue sky, green grass, growing crops and hedges filled with birds flapping about.  Though to be honest it was mostly Crows I heard murmering.  It was good to be out, especially as the day passed quickly with no troubles.  Within three hours I had returned, eaten lunch and began to stiffen up.  A good day, which I will pay for tomorrow.

 

Great Bardfield

The sun tempted me out suddenly this morning.  I gathered up the details of the War Memorial, printed them off along with other things and decided to to the church and seek pictures of those with queries.  I have been meaning to do this for a long time.

 
I checked the bus times, go ready hurriedly and sped off down the road.  As I neared the bus I realised I had left all the paperwork on my desk!  Too late to go back now when buses run once an hour.  Still, a day out is a day out.

 
At the very least I knew I would see some of the rolling English countryside as we sped along the rolling English roads.  The harvest is almost gathered in, wheat and barley have been cut down, no green leaf veg to be seen here, although there were quite a few fields resting from their labours.  This area appears to have been made for cereal crops it has always been found here.  There were occasional animals in fields, very few since the great disaster some years ago when 'Foot and Mouth' devastated the herds.  Brexit will no doubt devastate what farms we have left.  This country cannot feed itself, we need imports of foodstuffs, someone tell Dominic Raab that, and where they enter the country.

  
When I was doing the war memorial it was interesting to note how people offered the address.  Today we have streets and numbers, although any postman will tell you how foolproof that is, while a hundred years ago houses in the village were known as on the main street, Church End or 'Bridge End.'  A straight forward idea and with everyone knowing everyone numbers were not required, just ask and all you speak to would know the person you sought.  Today this would not be the case and not just because of increased population!  
I hovered over the bridge attempting to work my way back a century, the traffic did not make this easy.  The gentle trot of a horse and carriage or the hammer from a workshop nearby has been replaced by traffic, traffic that is too close to the expensive houses for my liking.  For those with children a village life is ideal, if you fit in, for the rich driving into the city it is an escape from hassle to clean air, well at the rear of the house anyway.  Those content to hide from city life will enjoy such a place, though everyone looked sideways at me as I passed, village life you see.

I was looking at the houses trying to fit my dead men, almost all farm workers, into them.  This one looks like it has been around for a while, still I think three homes appear though it may only be two.  The small sign saying 'Private' on the hedge indicates the road to the rear where the horse and carriages (made by BMW and Benz) await.

These look very Edwardian to me these buildings, ideal to dump your farm labourers in.  Before the Great War there was a lot of trouble re wages in this area.  Men were paid 7/6d or possibly 10/- depending on their work.  Many strikes and occasional hay stacks burnt in the night.  Wages rose up to 15/- for some and possibly new houses also?  

More typical are these updated houses, this area is covered in such as this.  Timber frame and plaster, some with fancy designs embossed on the walls others plain and simple.  Only cost about £300,000 today....

Nice to see so many working Landrovers about the place, they offer a true 'country feel' to the village.  Of course few appeared to have any mud or dirt marks on them possibly the weather was too wet to go to Waitrose?  

This as you will guess, is the 'Cage.'  The lock up for drunks who did not wish to leave the pub, the woman alone, or did wish to punch the farmer, Lord of the Manor or the policeman.  A night in here to sleep it off and we will see what happens in the morning.
The wheelie bin does not belong to the cage!

Essex is a terribly revolutionary blackspot!  The Lords were in the lead in rebelling against King John, Wycliffe's English translation of the bible was popular here, even though it meant being burnt at the stake, Cromwell's Parliamentarians were popular here, and the reformation left many staunch non-denominational church groups in the county.  
By the 19th century each village had a parish church, at least one, possibly two, non-conformist chapels, and many continued until after the war.  This one continued in use until 1977, seating for well over a hundred and for 50 odd in the school hall at the side.  There is a joke regarding 'Primitive Methodists' but I am too nice to use it here, the response is similar with 'Particular Baptists!'  The 'Primitive' comes from the belief by 1800 that Methodists were moving away from their origins and a break away determined to return to Wesley's original ideal.  Within a hundred years they had reuinited again.  From the front it looks an awkward house but it would be nice to look around inside, many such places have been renovated and will serve as good homes for another century or so.

Also nearby are the Quakers.  One family, The Bucks, allowed the creation of a meeting place in their large garden in 1804.  In time people famous in Quaker circles were buried here.  I was impressed by the fact that all stones looked similar, no pretentious tombs as is found in many Victorian graveyards.  It did look a bit regulated but so do the war graves from both wars.  This way all are equal in death as in life, social position meant little.   The most recent tombstone, the white one in the far corner, featured a lady who died at 101 last year, just consider what a world she lived through.

Great Bardfield War Memorial

    
However I came for a war memorial and here it is in the central position in the village.  All roads pass by, none could be forgotten, all 18 names, plus two from the later war, stand where they can be seen.  I wonder what people thought as time passed by.  One family lost two sons and four went, others went and little information is forthcoming about them.  Imaging the attitudes of those who returned having seen Paris possibly, parts of France and Flanders, been in a war, possibly at the front, now they return to the farm and the old order?   Interesting times in the village, especially as all were privates and no officers from here died, if indeed any went!

  
In the inter-war years the painters moved in.  Bawden and friends spent much time drawing and painting in the area.  The light was good, the pace slow, and many works were created offering a glimpse into village life.  I have no idea what the farmers labourers freezing in the fields thought of the well wrapped up rich bloke with the sketch pad but I might be able to guess.  
One of the labourers was also artistic.  Straw plaiting had grown in the 19th century and Fred Mizen became so good at this, in spite of an eye wound he got in the war, in 1951 he created two enormous Lions and Unicorns for the Exhibition at Battersea.   Many of these creations are found in the museum where kids can try straw plaiting with string, they like it.  

I popped into a somewhat confusing Co-op store to buy a bottle of water (57p), the staff were excellent and the sudden queue disappeared quickly, and I crossed the road heading for the main object of the day the large church and the graveyard to do a search for a dead man.  On the way I passed this ancient fountain donated by Henry Smith in 1860.  This at a time when decent clean water was not always available.  However I wondered if it was drinkable today.  It looked clear enough but was it just coming out of the river to the side?
On my way back home I stood at the nearby bus stop watching two men fill several large plastic water containers, several gallon types, with this water.  It looked like this was their normal work. I wondered where they were taking it, who they were and was it drinkable?  I am now looking for a break out of disease in north Essex to see where they went!

  
By the time I sat down in St Mary the Virgin I was knackered and losing interest.  Insufficient breakfast was showing fast.  I have been here before around 20 years ago and realised this was now a very High Church type of place.  You see prayer kneelers in the pews but no bibles.  No books on sale to indicate what is on offer.  I can see why so many non denominational churches arose here.  
The place is somewhat darker than the pictures reveal, the light at the main end is OK but back here little gets in.

The windows are interesting, mostly memorials to people but not all.  St Cedd was one of the first proper missionaries to Essex, I think he came from Lindisfarne from amongst the Scots monks who came with Columba from Ireland.  Life gets confusing in the centuries after the Romans left!

These churches are full of interesting things, some can be explained having been once important in times past, others appear to be making the most of a gap!  

Sick man that I am I thought this my best picture today.

I shuffled around the churchyard, not an easy thing to do with so many humps and unexpected bumps in such places, I was looking for the men on my list.  I ought to add this was the list stupid lugs had left behind on his desk.  This meant I could not be sure which name I was looking for, I could guess but this was not a good idea.  Also the older stones were often unclear, rotting away from lack of care and I was getting tired now.

 
I was surprised to see this man and his wife here, I thought all the Crittall's were buried closer to Braintree.  John was the last family member to run Crittall's as a going concern, when he retired in 1974 it went to other companies and through many variations continues still.  He like all the family appear to have been popular, his wife was an adventurous woman although I never got to read the book in the museum as people kept coming in to annoy me.  

Though I never found the man I was looking for I did find the parents of two others, the Cornell's had 12 children altogether, one died, yet mum managed to live until 79, just imaging the life she had!  It is women like her that make me angry with feminists.  They demand so much while spending their lives at a laptop while millions of women like this one had such tough lives, in many places they still do and the middle class feminist is not helping them!  
The round metal grave marker is typical of this area.  Only a couple here but many Essex graveyards have them, fashion or cheapness I wonder?
I also found a man called Evans I have not heard off.  I wonder who he is?

The sun was high and it was time to shuffle of down the road for the bus.  The hills rolled along while here and there workmen brought in the harvest and large bales of hay looked set to roll of down the rolling hills.  Farm work remains one of the most dangerous employments in the country.  Sadly I cared as much as the Alpacas we passed appeared to care as I was tired and they were well fed and sheared I believe.   The bus rolled into town and I hobbled home desperate for food,  then spent the rest of the day doing this!