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In Tranquillity and Grief

By Denis Bunbury
 
Our week in June, cruising in a narrowboat on the Trent and Mersey Canal, was serenity itself.  It’s a mode of transport that time and technology has passed by, but for me that was something to be grateful for and it was all part of the charm.

We, that is, my wife Lorraine and I, boarded the narrowboat at Sawley Marina near Nottingham, and with more enthusiasm than training, set out for Fradley Junction, which we planned to make our turning point.  At no time could we travel at greater than walking pace and so managed to cover only 25 miles in the three days’ outward journey. 

I recollect that when at the end of the week we left the boat and caught the train from Derby to Birmingham, we covered the same distance in about 18 minutes.  That’s technology for you!  On the other hand, the canals were their own great advance, for when they were first opened up in Britain (late 18th century), the price of coal in London fell because cartage costs dropped significantly.

Our slow pace made things possible that fast pace renders difficult.  We were able to become immersed in our environment.  We interacted with the swans and their cygnets, and other water fowl; we admired the reflection of graceful brick bridges in the canal water; we had time to watch the sun setting at the late hour of 9 pm; and had time to converse into the twilight with other boat dwellers.

Passing through the locks was a fun experience. Narrowboaters generally pitched in and helped each other to open and close paddles and gates.  People living close by sometimes came and spent a morning or afternoon chatting with boat crews and helped them passage through the locks.  It’s a lifestyle that promotes interactivity, unlike the daily commute in our motor vehicles.

At the completion of our third day we reached Fradley Junction and turned and headed back eastward.  Early on our fourth day we moored at an attractive town called Alrewas, and having sought directions, set out on a ninety minute walk to the National Memorial Arboretum.  We had been warned so often before leaving New Zealand about English summer rain, that we were largely under prepared for the blazing hot sun that rode overhead.

The information brochure described the Memorial as a huge park of 50,000 trees with areas dedicated to the British war dead.  We looked first at the Gallipoli Campaign memorial and then followed the signs to a distant edge of the Arboretum, where we located the remembrance to the 326 soldiers “Shot At Dawn” for alleged cowardice or desertion.

Each of the men was represented by a post with his name on it, in neat rows and forming a semi-circle.  In front of the posts was a statue of a young man in army uniform, blindfolded.  Perhaps the blindfold was a very small mercy offered, I thought, amidst a sea of misunderstanding and harsh judgement.  I read on the nearby placard that the British government pardoned the 326 men in 2006 –but did not exonerate them.

As I gazed at the statue I noted the youthfulness of the face, the look of uncomprehending fear. 

Only part of one foot is seen, the other foot and leg unformed in the material of which the figure is made.  A young man not yet fully emerged perhaps; how could such a youth, or indeed any man, be able to make sense of the insanity that raged around him in the form of repeated shellings and multiplying casualties? How our ethical abilities were unable to keep up with the technology of war!

Later, we were able to catch a bus back to Alrewas and to our narrowboat, to the tranquillity but not forgetting the grief.

 
 
 
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