3 Art Galleries and a library (Part 3) - Hockley and the Jewellery quarter

This is part 3 of this blog series and my photographic exploration of Birmingham.

Part 1 and 2 can be found here

• Part 1
• Part 2

Out of the woods

One of my reasons for spending the day in Birmingham was to visit a small photographic exhibition call "Out of the woods of thought" in the Argentea gallery, based in an area called called Hockley which is about 15 minutes out from the city centre.

While Birmingham has a fine new metro system, I decided to walk it and quickly found that Birmingham's renewal has extended only so far. In the past, one of Birmingham's issues was its unconditional love affair with the motor car. Until recently, Birmingham was the hub of motor manufacture in the UK, and it reciprocated this affection by making Birmingham one of the most car accommodating cities in the UK

This resulted in an endless array of over passes and underpasses, ending up with UK's finest  monument to motor transport, spaghetti junction. It also meant that in the past public transport was barely tolerated, rail in particular. Its not that Birmingham eschewed the need for public transport, it just it was slightly embarrassed that not everyone could or wanted to own their own car. As a result. while in other cities, train stations were massive cathedrals of steel and glass, Birmingham's main station, New Street, utilised the same architectly pattern as used in WW2 German U-boat pens.  Even today, despite the new shopping center and investment, Birmingham's main station and consequently the 1st site many visitors will get of the city consists of dark troglodyte tunnels smelling of oil and diesel.

I was reminded of this as my short walk consisted of finding my way past bustling dual carriage ways the building of which had disjointed the natural flow and pathways of the city.

Finally we arrived at St Paul's square where the Argentea gallery was situated. St Pauls's square is an elegant Georgian built cluster of shops and giant church. This provides a snapshot of the Birmingham  that existed before the industrial revolution shaped what the city is now. The church itself is often seen in photographs of the city, especially in autumn, where the natural framing by trees and the autumn leaves, combine to create a natural postcard. However I did not have much time to stay outside since now the weather was starting to close in, so after taking a few shots I went into the gallery.

Old Birmingham against the new

The Argentea gallery

I had seen this exhibition advertised on social media, and two things about it intrigued me.

Firstly the theme "out of the woods of thought". For me taking images in woodlands is a love-hate relationship, There is nothing so stimulating than wandering woodland, however I find my brain struggles to separate image from the chaos of branches and leaves. Therefore I hoped that the exhibition would give me some ideas how to improve. 

The 2nd reason was the Solargraphy images by  Al Brydon. If you don't know Solargraphs, they are ultra long exposure images that track the sun against a background. Generally they are as low tech as you can make a camera, consisting of a tin can and a piece of  photographic developing paper. I have tried a few myself, and although you need 6 months or more to give them a go, I find them intriguing and rewarding. However I have never even considered they may have some commercial value, so i was intrigued to see how they were represented in a gallery setting.

The exhibition consisted of 9 artists, and the theme was well represented with each one having a different but consistent view off the theme. What I love about exhibitions like these is the chance to form a narrative; A form of expression that single images rarely allow you to do.

Below for me, are some of the highlights

Brian Stevens "Beachy Head" was a great example of photo story telling. The images themselves do not stand out and at first glance seem to have little to do with woodland, instead they are shots taken on Beachy Head, a set of chalk cliffs in Sussex, renowned for their beauty and apparently the suicide capital of the UK. In the exhibition book, the photos are accompanied with facebook entries from rescue teams documenting each event in human tragedy. In some way the gallery missed a trick by not presenting these with the images on the wall. The facebook entries but a whole new complexion on the misty cliff tops and red telephone boxes .

Dans Le Noir

"Dans Le Noir" (Translation "In the dark"), is a set of IR images taken of the WW2 fortifications in Normandy printed on silk by Lynda Laird. I enjoy taking IR images myself, but these had an interesting treatment, with the foliage a bright red against the stark concrete. You could not help contrasting the red with the blood of men thrown against these monuments to violence.

Mametz Wood

Mametz Wood is a set of B&W images of woodland by Rob Hudson, but with the exposure turned down to the point where the objects become shapes etched out of the landscape. It's an interesting and effective treatment, and eschews the colour we might expect from such a subject. Printing must be challenging however due to the restricted tonality

The Floods

Joseph Wrights "The floods" were a more traditional view of woodland, albeit his view was of flooded land, which gave an air of mysticism and malevolence to the land. I must admit I was quite taken by these images, partly because they reminded me a lot about an image I once put into competition.

The image below, did not do well and the judge in question described it as "disturbing". At the time I was felt aggrieved , but thinking about it, if arts whole point is to generate strong emotion, then the photo was quite successful. One of the inspirations I took away was to visit the area again   to take images of a similar theme

My "disturbing" image

I was also much taken with J.M.Golding "Transitional Landscapes", which  are landscapes generated from squares of photographic film to create a landscape captured in both sections of area and time.

Finally Al Brydon's Solargraphs. One of the things about Solargraph's is that you have very little control on the outcome. All you can do is place it somewhere you hope will create interesting results and will lie undisturbed for 6 months. In some ways it is the very antithesis of digital photography. Can an image generated by random effect have value and be called art?  If there is a creative process it is in the way the images were printed. Solargraphs are produced on 5x7 inch B&W photographic print paper, however these were much bigger with wonderful rich blue hues. In doing so Al has made something beautiful from the random and chaotic

While I was there the gallery owner gave a little talk to the assembled students. Apparently she set up the gallery when she stopped being a lawyer after her child was born. She did and arts degree and a masters then setup the gallery. She said the advantage of Birmingham and her location is that she can afford far more space here. In terms of exhibits, she exhibits photos that are in that middle ground of abstract but commercial. She does not have enough time to look at portfolios so her exhibitors are found via social media.

Its certainly great to see a gallery specializing in exhibiting some of the fantastic creative photography out there and if anyone is in the area I would heartily recommend going there and I'll keeping an eye on future exhibits.

For me, I came away with a lots of inspiration and ideas plus a touch of frustration. I do often find club and competition photography limiting and would much prefer a wider canvas consisting of multiple pictures against a theme, but unfortunately their is little outlet for that.

Apart from the images themselves, the other noticeable thing was the quality of the printing. Total control over the output is one of my biggest issues, and I know sometime printing is something I will have to master.

The exhibition continues till the 21st December 2018

The Jewellery Quarter and the necropolis

As I left the gallery I realized I still had 4 hours to fill, so I decided to walk into Hockley to visit a location I had spied when I was in the area a year before. It was at this point when the rain decided to stop mucking about and started to pour down in truly biblical proportions. I wasn't really setup for this sort of weather and quickly my feet and trousers started to soak through as I trudged through the Hockley streets

Hockley's is better known as  the jewellery quarter. It is a throwback to when Birmingham city was a myriad of small industries making it the workshop of Britain and the wider empire. These have mostly moved into out of town anonymous square boxes, but Hockley still retains much of the Victorian look and feel, which in the city centre has been largely buried under 5 metres of concrete. 

The area still contains a large number of jewellery workshops and retailers. I bought our wedding and engagement ring from here and I an still somewhat proud that it was sourced from an area of such history rather than some jewellery conglomerate. Saying that the area, like many places have suffered from the rise of online shopping and is not as thriving as was when I got married. The area itself has a lot of charm, and there are serious attempts as renewing the area. I hope it succeeds because it has a lot going for it, especially since it is in great contrast to the concrete jungle other parts of Birmingham have become. 

This time however I did not head for the center of the Jewellery quarter, but the graveyards next to the Metro System. I had spied them when visiting the excellent Jewelry quarter museum a year ago and noted then they looked interesting photographic locations. However I got a little lost on the way and rather than ending up in Warstone Lane cemetary as planned  with its array of Victorian catacombs, I found myself in next door Key Hill cemetary instead.

However I was not disappointed by its suitability for photography. These cemeteries are no longer active, but the array of tombs and stones between the continually encroaching trees make a fantastic photographic location and it is surprising  more people have not taken advantage of it

There is a fantastic gothic feel to the place and would of spent more time there. Unfortunately for me the weather was absolutely disgusting and I was getting cold and wet. Also without cover to change lenses etc, I decided I had to give up and find some shelter. 

However it is definitely somewhere I want to visit again on a better day. 

So soaked, cold and a bit tired I headed to the Metro, and the city center to locate somewhere to dry out

3 art galleries and a library (Part 2) - Digbeth Street Art

Art Gallery No 1.

This is the 2nd part of my blog re-discovering Birmingham

My 1st look at Birmingham was to go look at the Digbeth street art.

Birmingham has changed a lot since I was young. The Bull ring has been pulled down and replaced with a chrome and bubble wrap cathedral. Instead of having to risk life and limb crossing the mad petrol fueled chariots storming up New street, the streets have been pedestrianized. However peer underneath the veneer and you you will still find parts of the original city based on industry and engineering.

Digbeth is an area adjoining the new chrome and glass retail palaces. However it is a huge contrast. Instead of glitzy shops and covered arcades, you get lockups and small workshops, a local open air market and the coach station. You could never call it pretty, but it is authentic and in recent years it has started to get a reputation for its alternative culture and street art.

Digbeth Viaducts

At one time street art was defined as vandalism and much money was spent dissuading such things. However there has been a reappraisal in recent years and a realization that done well it can be an asset to an area and the skill and quality of the work should be applauded (Obviously nothing to do with  Banksy, and the money the art world could make from street art).

You can even do tours of street art in areas like London, but you don't have to go that far since Digbeth are has started to be recognized in the same way. Therefore with the help of the Digbeth Art Walk map to explore it for myself

While I had brought my camera with me, the biting winds and sheer laziness meant I couldn't be bothered to get it out and used my phone instead. The walk is pretty easy to follow and you meander through the railway viaduct that splits the area, until you reach thea place called the Custard Factory, which has become the hub of the area. Apparently you often find fashion photographers using the wall as urban chic backdrops to photograph their supermodels . Obviously it was to cold and too early for such shenanigans  so apart from various people going to work I had the place to myself

I couldn't help myself thinking how much my mother would of loved this area. My mother was always was always a bit of a rebel. Unfortunately growing up in the 50's, suburbia  rebellion just wasn't done so she grew up as a housewife until doing a Art degree as a mature student. She then spent most of her life generating art work on a project documenting characters on TV. When she died there were masses of sketches and doodle, which apart from a couple of pieces were nerver published. In the same way, street art is art for art sake. Although some of the artists get recognition, generally it is done because its cool, and the chances are the work will be overwritten in a few years by someone else.
  

To be honest by the time I had reached the custard factory area the biting cold wind and my need for sustenance made me head back to the city centre.  I guess I had covered about 1/3rd of the trip, but it was well worth it, and will definitely go back when it is a bit warmer and I have more time. 

On the way back I paused at Digbeth market.  While only small, the market is a hub for locals and I suspect a great location for street photography. Unfortunately I had to eschew ed my longer lenses, and have not so far perfected the art of surreptitious camera usage, so I contented myself with trying to take images of the local starlings.

Digbeth Market

I love starlings, and while naturally a bird of the fields,  they have always had a natural population in Birmingham. Long before murmaration become a  word I understood, i remember the vast flocks coming to roost on the Midland bank building (now a Apple store) just outside New Street station.

In the market a number were taking advantage of the cover and the plethora of free food on offer much to the annoyance of street holders.

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Starling All you can eat Buffet

Moving to the centre I realised that I had forgotten that the German market was on( November is not Christmas!!!). The German market consists of a large number of stalls selling purportedly German produce to the local denizens. While popular with those outside the city,  this annual event produces mixed feelings due to the disruption caused and the detriment of local independent traders. I must admit I have some sympathy with that view. While I love Germany as a country, it all feels  a bit and hollow. Its a bit like going to a "English" pub in a foreign country. It always feels that during the re-location the spirit and the whole reason for their existence has been lost. Combine that with the fact hidden behind the Germanic facade,  it is really just an excuse to sell overpriced alcohol and tat, and the fact any attempt to communicate via "Guten Morgen, Mein Herr", is just of likely to elicit "what?" than "Wie kann ich dir heute helfen?" you wonder what is the point.

We often joke with nour American colleagues of living close to UK's Islamic state :) (Not)

Tat - but German Tat

There has been a movement to create a market of independent traders instea and I do wonder whether an alternative markets in a place like the custard factory celebrating local independent tradesman would be a great opportunity to highlight the area and celebrate Birmingham's trading spirit.

After negotiating the German Market, I stopped briefly at Birmingham cathedral. It sounds grand, Birmingham Cathedral, but befitting a city that was just to busy to build large ecclesiastical edifices you could quite easily walk past it, thinking it is just a large parish church.

Inside Birmingham's Cathedral

Anyway now was time for Art Gallery No 2.

3 art galleries and a library (Part 1)

This is what Art was in 1970's Birmingham. King Kong was greatly loved by many in the city, but the council could not work out why anyone should spend so much on art. It ended up instead on some garage forecourt, dressed as father Christmas. The knees and the body associated with it are mine, together with my mother and a French exchange student

Technically I'm a Brummie.

I say technically, because I was actually born in the black country, an area of industrial Britain, which has much in common with Birmingham, but is fiercely protective of its separate identity .

We moved into what is now Birmingham when I was 4, and I lived most of my formative years there, until moving onto university. It wasn't however Birmingham when we moved, but the Conservative caliphate of Royal Sutton Coldfield (Emphasis on the Royal). It was a largish town on the edge of Birmingham consisting of large bustling town, the huge area of open parkland called Sutton Park, multiple hidden private roads containing the mansions of the rich and famous, and us. At the time it felt like joining a exclusive club. Every year, as residents, we received car stickers that allowed us free entry into the park (and bizarrely permission to collect Holly), while the common folk of Birmingham, just over the border, were made to pay like the plebs they were :)

That all stopped in 1972, when the conservative members of the local  council (that is to say the entire council) decided to merge with Birmingham. So no more car stickers and overnight I became a Brummie. (Why is still a bit of a mystery, and I have never met anyone who lived there at the time who thought it was a good idea. The best explanation was that at a stroke, the conservatives added a block of tory Councillors onto the otherwise left leaning Birmingham council).

During my childhood and adolesence, although only 30 minutes away by train, Birmingham itself felt distant and disconnected from me. We may go in once, twice a year to Birmingham and therefore was a big event. Birmingham of the 70's and 80's it had to be said was not exactly a great place to go. The centre was dominated by the Bull Ring shopping centre, plonked on top of the architectural disaster that was New Street train station. My memories of it are of a labyrinth of dim passages, spreading out in a haphazard way. It is said when they knocked it down to build the present shopping center,  they found Japanese soldiers hiding since the 2nd world war, who found better cover than jungles and could pop into top shop once in a while for some camouflage chic..

Our visits had a bit of a ritual assocated with it. It usually started with a trip to Habitat. Habitat was a store famous for selling designer furniture. This was before IKEA came along and showed that you could furniture could be well designed and low price. We never bought anything there, instead we just went in to stare at the masses of white formica.

The other shop we ended up in was Mikado, a shop which for some reason specialized in selling Japanese objects. Never sure how it ended up in deepest Birmingham and the only thing I can remember buying all were incense sticks, which never were used. Then there was Beatties, the giant model shop, where I would spend my time nose pressed up at plastic kits I could not afford. Finally, just outside the bull ring was Hudson's bookshop, a giant sprawling mass of literature, where I spent many a happy an hour perusing the shelves.

Apart from the 70's retail experience, the other reason for visiting was the two museums, the Natural History and Art museum and the science museum.

The art museum is still based near the council offices, and we were often dragged their by my mother because she was doing a art degree and she had a thing for the Pre-Raphelite Brotherhood, which rather fortuitously Birmingham art gallery is famous for. However at the time the main attraction was always the full size fibre glass T-Rex with a button that made to raw(this was as close as we ever got to animatronics then)

The science museum used to be based at the Gas street basin, a nexus of canals which at the time was pretty ugly and polluted. (someone at this point mentions that Birmingham is that it has more canals than Venice. This is true in the same way that Malawi has more mosquitoes than Brixton ). I really loved the science museum, with its strange eclectic mix of old machines and modern technology. I especially loved and was fascinated by a mechanical turk, with which you could play fox a geese. It is one of my 1st memories of automation, and may well of set my path to where I am today.

Unfortunately the museum is no more,  with most of the exhibits being subsumed into the Millennium point, where you can pay a huge amount to watch your kids press buttons for half an hour. The exhibits still exist, but they are hidden on the bottom floor which is a great pity because they define why Birmingham came to be.

Ok you may ask, apart from the major nostalgia kick, why am I telling you my life story?(yes why? - ed).

Well, Birmingham has in recent years gone through a bit of a Renaissance.  A lot of the architectural excesses has been torn down and replaced with iconic buildings. More importantly a nascent art scene has started to grow up and photographers such as Verity Milligan, 
Ross Jukes, and Tim Cornbill have started to show the city in a new light.

I recently had reason to be in the city, so i thought I would make a day of it. So I thought I would re-visit the city of my youth and re-evaluate it through adult eye. The following blogs are about what I found....

Lest we forget

In late July 2108, I found myself well off the tourist trail, in a little visited Northern french village trying to locate the village cemetery while aware that I had a train to catch, but with no mobile signal and only school boy French

How did this occur and why was I there? Please read on.

Family Trees

I have for many years taken the self appointed role of family genealogist. All families have one, and over the years I have found it quite fun to connect the family tree together, and explore  the lesser known by-ways of my and my wife's family.

Nowadays this is relatively easy with the internet and sites like ancestry.com. What used to the task of crawling through dusty corridors looking for birth certificates, can now be done with a click of the button. Not only is it easy to find birth and deaths, but with the census information you can sometimes eek out all sort of other information, such as where they lived and worked.

This really brings the character alive and you can create a quite compelling narrative. For example I found one of my Mother-in-laws relative was transported to Australia (insert joke here). Via the power of the internet you could find what he was convicted of, the ship he was sent on and  the fact he never made it, dying on route (so putting the kibosh on going to Australia to discover long lost relatives.)

However the one story that has always fascinated me the most is that of Edward Stephen Edgerton.

Edward is related to me through my fathers side and is in fact my great uncle. He was born in Walsall and grew up probably thinking that he would live and die in that industrial black country town.

It was not to be. World events which he had little control were moving which would change and tragically end his life.

I am talking of course about World War 1.

Edward was 25 when the war broke out.  In 1911 he was listed as a Saddletree maker which was  probably not a lucrative job, but a skilled trade nonetheless in an area renowned at the time for saddle and leather working (Walsall football club is still nicknamed the saddlers). Edward had 4 living Sisters and 1 baby brother at this time, but I feel that it was his brother Joseph, 2 years older than him, who he was closest to.

On the 9th December 1915,  Joseph joined up. His choice of regiment was a strange one, eschewing the local regiments and pals brigades, he joined one of the Britain's elite and oldest regiments, the Coldstream guards.

Edward was already in the Army, enlisting in Februray 1915, but again the choose of service was unusual. Instead of the normal foot soldier, he joined the Royal Army Medical Corp, rising to be a corporal, attached to No 25 General Hospital based around the Calais region

The question is therefore why Edwards decided to transfer to his brothers regiment, the Coldstream guards ,in October 1918, only 2 months before end of the war.

Did he feel he was not doing 'his bit'? Was his head turned by his older brother and his battle honours and stories? Was there a sibling rivalry between them, which made transferring inevitable? We will never know, why he did it, but what we do know that in Oct 1918 he found himself on the front line in Northern France near the town of Quesnoy, taking part in the great dash as the German army front line collapsed.

Unlike his service in the R.A.M.C, we can via regiments records track his progress across France

- November 2 , to Ruesnes ( 2000 yards west of Quesnoy )

- November 3, was used to begin the offensive enemy bombing west of Villers -Pol , the objective of the attack was the high ground east of the village. " We crossed the Rhonelle and there was a strong battle in melee in a thick darkness. At 13h , we were digging trenches on the west bank of the river were sporadic shelling. " 

- November 4 , 1h, under a heavy enemy barrage , our attack was stopped on the east side of Villers -Pol where there was gunfire , intense bombing. Refueling arrived in the evening but the night was very cold and wet in the trenches.

On November 4th 1918, he was declared missing and later found dead. It was only 7 days before the ceasefire was declared.

Reading the diaries entries and already knowing the ending, feel like one of those movies where you know the final scene, but cannot look away anyway. Also it raise so many questions. Why with the war already won, was so much fighting continuing? Why did he join an frontline regiment? Was he close to his brother when he died?(Joseph lived on to 1977, despite the 3 years of active service on the frontline). How did his Father and mother receive the news, while probably at the same time as the joy of the armistice was announced?

Some of these questions will never get answered, but what we do know that his body and a number of other causalities were interred in a small French cemetery in the french town of Frasnoy

The pilgrimage begins

For more I learned about Edward Edgerton, the more I felt a connection and I made myself  a promise that I would some point visit his grave. In hindsight this should of been as easy, just driving down to the channel ports, hoping on a Ferry or Eurotunnel. However I am never a great one for road trips and I have that  inbuilt  British thing about driving on the continent in that the 26 miles of water represents a psychological and a physical barrier At one point, I entertained the notion of going with my father, but his frailty and my timidness never seemed to make that a reality and my father passed on well before I was ready

However the hundred year anniversary of his death and the ending of the great war meant I had much greater reason thatn before to go. So after  discussion with my wife we hatched, in the words of Blackadder, a cunning plan. We would combine the trip with a family holiday. We would find somewhere to stay in Northern France or Southern Belgium. Visit on the way out or the way back and in between spend a relaxing few days seeing the sites.

The first problem came finding somewhere to stay. This part of the world is a long way removed from the usual holiday spots on the Normandy coast or in the hills of the Ardenne. Northern France away from the coast is flat, while Southern Belgium is more industry than recreational.  As a consequence, searches for holiday accommodation was difficult. However eventually we did located a holiday complex situated next to a large man made lake, so in late we set off on the long journey to the channel, and to brave the French and Belgium motorways.

We decided to visit on the way back. Obviously we were time constrained because we had a Eurotunnel connection booked, but it looked like we had plenty of time to stop off, find the cemetery, pay our respects and then catch our train.

I had however assumed, rather naively, that finding a cemetery in a small village would be easy. I had looked at the location so often on Google maps, that I was confident of locating it. It turned out to be a little more difficult.

First problem was just getting there. Frasnoy is, and probably ever was, well off the beaten track.  Google maps did a great job getting us so far, but then we ended up going many KM on small  non-descript French roads. It was also complicated by the fact google maps directed us to the larger Frasnoy communal Cemetery in le Quesnoy. I realised this rather late as we were seemingly headed in the wrong direction and instead set google maps to direct us to the center of Frasnoy.

During our week in Belgium we had got complacent with mobile coverage, with high level of 4G. Northern France was a different story, and as we entered Frasnoy we found ourselves in a mobile internet black spot. Unfortunately I had also not printed off the map of Frasnoy with the cemetary map location marked. We were well and truly lost.

In the end we meandered to the central square and church, guessing that the cemetery would be close at hand. It was not to be, and with time running out, we had to resort to asking directions. Unfortunately my French is pretty appalling and unlike Belgium, English is not widely understood  (If only my French teacher had warned me there would be days like this). However both my wife's and eldest daughters French is pretty good. So I sent them off to ask a old gentleman the directions. This he promptly did, the only problem was after leaving him, my wife realized that his droite and gauche were actually opposite to what his hand were saying. So we had to take a guess. We were wrong.

Central Frasnoy and church with a memorial to the English soldiers who liberated Frasnoy on the day Edward died

Collecting spring water, probably the same one used for hundred of years

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After driving 5 minutes, we realised we were not going anywhere, so headed back to the center and parked in the church car park and sent my wife out for new directions. She came back pointing up a road next to the church and we decided to set out on foot. We were just about to give up hope, when I saw just over a rise the unmistakable silhouettes of tombstones. We hand found it!!

We've found it

Paying respect

I had sort of assumed that the cemetery would be a small affair, but it was in fact quite sizeable and consisted of the kind of monuments and mausoleums common in Catholic cemeteries. Still tucked in the far right corner were a row of immaculately maintained white gravestones standing up from the dark gravel like teeth. Among them, was Edwards Edgerton gravestone, with his Regiment, serial number and date of his death.

I had assumed that we would have an hour here. Unfortunately  due to our shenanigans we had far less time. So I gave a little speech to the girls about Edward's life and death, in the hope they will not forget, planted a small cross and poppy and left a note in French about Edward life and thanking the residents of Frasnoy for looking after him. Then it was time to go.

I would of liked to of visited the far larger German cemetery on the way out, but time was against us, so it was back on the Chunnel and back home.

In search of the graves

Edward's Grave

 In memorium

After reading, researching about Edward, and for so many years planning to go to his grave, I had mixed feelings after visiting. There was a sense of achievement of finally getting their, mixed with a bit of a disappointment of not having more time to spend. I would also of liked more time exploring the area

There was also some sadness about why I was here at all.

Edward's brother, Joseph died in 1977, when I was about 14 years old. Now I look back I believe I may well of visited him, when my Grandmother, his and Edwards sister, took me long bus trips across Walsall to visit various elderly relatives. If he had been alive today, I would of had many questions about him and his brother. However a 14 year old boy has little interests in various old relatives and so it was with me.  It is only now that I appreciate and have some understanding of his and countless others sacrifice.

As we reach the 100 year anniversary of the great war, we are reaching the point, when even the longest lived were mere children when the  war ended. We have already lost all those who directly took part, and it will not be long until there are no living memories left to tell there stories 1st hand. Today the task of making sure that we do not forget is passed to my generation, and one day that responsibility will be passed on.

There are already some people who seem intent on subverting this task and the symbol the poppy represents and subverting it to something that glorifies war and not the symbol of refret and loss that it is meant to be. The responsibility to ensure that the symbol remains pure is one which we must not relinquish.

I don't believe Edward, went to war for glory, or some other jingoistic cause. Edward went to war because he felt it was his duty, because he wanted to be with his brother and friends, and because it was the right thing to do. He did not die gloriously, but just another casualty in a foreign field, one of many. What his last thought were, we will never know, but I'm pretty sure that it was not a wish to be consigned to a foreign field, far away from the streets he grew up on.

I, like many other people with similar stories, keep his memory alive, not to glorify war but as part of his legacy of duty that he passed down. It is so that future generations should not have to shoulder the same burden.

Behind that long and lonely trenched line
To which men come and go, where brave men die,
There is a yet unmarked and unknown shrine,
A broken plot, a soldier’s cemetery.

There lie the flower of youth, the men who scorn’d
To live (so died) when languished Liberty:
Across their graves flowerless and unadorned
Still scream the shells of each artillery.

When war shall cease this lonely unknown spot
Of many a pilgrimage will be the end,
And flowers will shine in this now barren plot
And fame upon it through the years descend:
But many a heart upon each simple cross
Will hang the grief, the memory of its loss.

John William Streets (killed and missing in action on 1 July 1916 aged 31)

Frasnoy Poppy's