Fragile Friend
We arrived at Sans les Marquoin British Cemetery early on a bright March morning and entered the cemetery via the steps flanked by some flowering heather. The ranks of headstones faced us bathed in the early spring sun and to our right a butterfly, the first we had seen of the season, made its uncertain way past us.
To our astonishment, our little companion flew ahead, its apparently random flight path terminating on the very headstone that we sought, Gunner Harold Victor Mansell of Peaslake, Surrey, alighting to the side of the inscription that Harold's grieving mother had composed:
" In loving memory of dear Harold from Mother, Walter, Gracie, Kathleen "
This red admiral, so familiar in an English garden, held its damaged wings wide to welcome the spring sunshine and remained still on the headstone as we took our photographs and reflected on whether Harold's mother, Walter, Gracie or Kathleen had had the chance to visit Harold's grave, an ephemeral symbol of the vulnerability of life, before taking once again to the air.
As we walked amongst the headstones of the young men of Harold's war who had lost their lives a century ago our aerial companion made its way around the ranks, regularly passing us as we stopped and talked, subsequently appearing flying through numerous photographs, until finally we bid our farewell and left the men at Sans les Marquoin to their fragile friend.
Fragile Friend
We arrived at Sans les Marquoin British Cemetery early on a bright March morning and entered the cemetery via the steps flanked by some flowering heather. The ranks of headstones faced us bathed in the early spring sun and to our right a butterfly, the first we had seen of the season, made its uncertain way past us.
To our astonishment, our little companion flew ahead, its apparently random flight path terminating on the very headstone that we sought, Gunner Harold Victor Mansell of Peaslake, Surrey, alighting to the side of the inscription that Harold's grieving mother had composed:
" In loving memory of dear Harold from Mother, Walter, Gracie, Kathleen "
This red admiral, so familiar in an English garden, held its damaged wings wide to welcome the spring sunshine and remained still on the headstone as we took our photographs and reflected on whether Harold's mother, Walter, Gracie or Kathleen had had the chance to visit Harold's grave, an ephemeral symbol of the vulnerability of life, before taking once again to the air.
As we walked amongst the headstones of the young men of Harold's war who had lost their lives a century ago our aerial companion made its way around the ranks, regularly passing us as we stopped and talked, subsequently appearing flying through numerous photographs, until finally we bid our farewell and left the men at Sans les Marquoin to their fragile friend.