Remembrance Sunday in Lambourn is a poignant ceremony. I grew up in a large-ish suburban town where there were many hundreds of names inscribed on the War Memorial. In a small village, there are, of course, fewer names.
After the ceremony outside, we all went into the church and Pete, a native Lambournite, read through all the names of the dead, from the First and Second World War and from other conflicts since, just as his father did before him.
Many of the names are those of families that are still in the village and it is brought home to those listening that those who died were brothers, great-uncles, family, of villagers who are here today. It is also noticeable that, in the First War, many surnames were repeated, where brothers or perhaps cousins, were killed.
It was time to think of those fighting at present, and time as a mother to hope that my two sons never have to fight.