Pals

Sam is here, and is sitting on the sofa knitting a pair of socks with at least four needles. Nathan seems to be doing something similar, but I believe he’s making a pair of gloves in a “Sanquhar” design; an intricate black and white style of knitting which comes from a Scottish village. It looks like ornate Tudor timber framed buildings.

We're off on our holidays tomorrow; camping in Northumbria. Unfortunately, we've learned that it’s raining up North. Hilary, Tanya, Raily, Mez et al are already up there in some kind of state of mayhem by all accounts. I’m told Uncle Bill broke down on the way up, and that all the tents have leaked very badly. Little Jago woke up in a pool of water. It sounds quite hideous.

With any luck, the three of us will ride into the camp site like knights in shining armour and in the process, bring a little bit of the sunshine we’ve had pretty much all day in London with us.

I’ve spent the day today investigating the Leeds Pals; a regiment of ordinary Yorkshire men, who signed up to fight the Great War in 1914, almost as soon as Kitchener had let it be known he was searching for a “new” army of non-professional soldiers who were needed to fight the good fight. They trained for a year and served in Egypt before being transferred to France. Sadly, a high percentage of them were killed in the first three minutes of the Battle of the Somme. July 1^st 1916. They calmly went over the top, and walked into a no-man’s-land which was literally humming with machine gun fire. They died in their hundreds. An entire regiment was wiped out, and an entire city was left grieving. Tragic.

There’s not a great deal more to say. It’s just been one of those quiet Sundays where very little happens. I can feel my energy finally returning. The sore throat (touch wood) has gone and I can greet August with a smile, and a flurry of research.