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My Adopted Soldier
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Saturday 7th of March
Saturday was the first of many early starts (which didn't bode well for me, seeing as how I had been on the Helix stage at the Junk Kouture Regional Finals the night before and only got three hours of sleep). All the students taking part in the trip, their families and the teachers and those who had helped to organise it, met at Collins' Barracks. This was the day that started everything off, that really started us on this incredibly emotional, life changing experience. During the day, we got to meet our fellow students and Gerry Moore, the brains behind the whole project. It allowed us to learn about the project and what exactly the trip would entail. We got to learn about those in our province and their soldiers, each of us getting a few minutes to give our spiel. It was quite the nerve-wracking experience, but I can't even imagine what I would have been like if I wasn't so tired. This meet-up made the world of a difference when it came to the trip itself. We got to know each other and even set up a group chat afterwards so that we could skip through the awkward not-knowing-anything-about-each-other stage. I think made us feel more comfortable as a group and helped us to connect more later on.
Friday 26th June
Early that morning, all 39 students made our way to the place it would all being; Ratra House. On arrival, we waited around, talking to each other and matching Facebook profile pictures to faces as everyone turned up. We were brought into the building where we collected our red and purple polo shirts and our red jackets, donning the purple polos as told; ready to meet the President. A few short interviews about our hopes and dreams for the trip later and we were ready to go.
We said "slán" to our families before climbing aboard the bus and making our way to Áras an Uachtaráin to meet President Michael D. Higgins. When we arrived at the Áras, we were brought into a large room, where we would be meeting the President. We formed a semicircle around the room, our excitement building as we talked to one another. The President was introduced to each of us in turn by Gerry Moore, learning our names and counties as he welcomed us to the Áras. Once the President was finished greeting us and had cracked a few jokes along the way, he gave a moving speech about the importance of remembering World War One and all that fought and died; especially the Irish who were not seen as the heroes that they should have been. I think that at this moment, we all realised just how important and emotional this trip was going to be.
Once the speeches were given and the trip finally started, we were brought into an adjoining room where we had tea with the President. Having tea with the President is something I could never have imagined happening and at the time it felt like I was dreaming, except for the fact that I wouldn't have been able to dream up something so brilliant. Even today, it still feels surreal and if it wasn't for the pictures, I probably wouldn't believe that it happened. In that moment, there was an astounding sense of pride from all of us, that we had the privilege to represent our counties at something so important.
Once the President had left, we climbed back onto the bus and made our way to Dublin airport. When we got there, we checked in our suitcases, made it through security leaving no man behind and went for some desperately needed food. Most people bee lined for Burger King, but for those of us, who had forgotten our antihistamines (me), when we made it to food court, the line was too long for Burger King and time was ticking, so we went to the "healthy hipster place" for a sandwich instead.
After some food and a trip to the shop to get sweets for the plane, we made our way down to the gate where we were split into our groups that we would go to for a head count during the trip. I was put into the "Connacht and Weinster (W's in Leinster) Group", which we quickly decided was the best.
As we boarded the plane, the excitement grew as it finally started hitting us that we were going on the trip that we had been waiting the whole year for. All the work, all the research, all the searching had led to this and there we were, on our way to finish what we had started, to end our soldiers' stories that been left unfinished for so long.
After a quick two hours of chatting away, the plane landed in Brussels Airport. As we cleared customs, collected our baggage and climbed aboard the (much to our relief) air conditioned tour bus, we talked about the trip and had a discussion about what language we were to speak while on the trip; be it French, German or just stick to English.
I can tell you now, that you do not want to be stuck in rush hour traffic on a Friday evening in Brussels. It's like the traffic on the M11, but about ten times worse. So, after the long bus journey spent talking about the war, school, the trip and nearly every topic under the sun, we began noticing random cemeteries popping up everywhere. They were in the strangest places; beside houses, in the middle of villages or in the middle of nowhere. The reason for that was that literally everywhere your eye could see had been a battlefield. You could almost picture the rolling hills covered in debris, bodies thrown everywhere as the war raged on. The noise started to quieten down at this point, an almost eerie silence taking over and sending a chill throughout the bus.
When we pulled up and were told we were going to get food, everyone jumped off the bus, eager to eat the food that was waiting for us. We spent the evening chatting; our excitement for the rest of the trip as clear as day as we talked about what we hoped would happened and exchanged spiels about of soldiers.
After our meal, we walked the short distance to the Ibis Hotel and were given our room keys and roommates before heading off to get ready for bed. It's safe to say that we slept like logs that night, looking forward to the day ahead of us.
Saturday, 27th June
Saturday kicked off with breakfast in the Ibis before we hopped on the bus and started our history-filled day.
The first place we visited was the Lochnagar Crater, which is 300ft in diameter and 70ft deep. The crater is one of the only ones of its kind left because, as opposed to being filled in with debris, it was bought and preserved as a reminder and a memorial. This crater was created when the British launched an offensive attack against the Germans on the 1st July 1916.
As Gerry told us about the memorial, I couldn't help but try to picture the events that happened there; to even try to see myself on that brutal battlefield, having to witness it, but it’s not something you can explain. It's not something a war film can cover because what these men went through was hell on earth.
We continued on and began visiting Commonwealth Commission cemeteries. They are set up to look like a typical English country garden so that the men buried there would at least have some familiarity in death, even if they could not go home. The grass is freshly mowed; the flowers lying in front of the graves kept to perfection, the headstones clean and well kept, creating something picturesque.
I think the thing that made the fact that we were there hit me was when I found graves members of Private Daniel Murphy's Regiment (the Middlesex Regiment) who had died on the same day as him. Finding something like that even before seeing Daniel's grave myself really made me aware that I was there.
We were then brought to the German Cemetery, Fricourt, and on walking in, I was hit with a wall of emotion. While the Commonwealth cemeteries were made to look like an English country garden, the German cemeteries were made to look like a German forest. Compared to the bright and peaceful feeling of the Commonwealth cemeteries, the German cemetery was dull, the light blocked out by the trees and had a feeling that I can only describe as heavy. In the Commonwealth cemeteries, only one soldier, or sometimes two, are buried in each grave, whereas in the German cemetery, each grave contained four soldiers. They were simple crosses with four names, two on each side. Sometimes, it was a full name, sometimes it had the date they died, but also some were just a surname, leaving them practically untraceable. There were also headstones with the Star of David for the Jewish soldiers who were killed. I think one of the things that was the hardest to deal with, for me personally, was that I found my friend's surname on one of the graves; just a surname and nothing else. The other thing that hit everyone hard was the fact that at the bottom of the cemetery, there were four mass graves, each containing nearly 12,000 dead in total. How deep would they have had to dig those graves to fit so many people in? Well, so deep that bodies would have been literally thrown in like trash.
That heavy and empty feeling stayed with me even as we were on the bus again. It stayed with everyone. We made attempts to take our minds off it, talking about anything and everything we could; cracking jokes and trying to laugh. It was either that or cry.
We moved on with the trip, going to some more cemeteries before we stopped for some food; a baguette and a drink.
Once we were satisfied, we moved on to more cemeteries and visited the grave of the Private William McBride from the song "The Green Fields of France". While we were there, we sang the famous song about the soldier, to remember not just Private McBride, but all of the soldiers who fought and died.
As we were leaving, Gerry asked if anyone had a mother who was a nurse, so because I do, I raised my hand, albeit cautiously. I was silently hoping that he wouldn't ask me any medical questions because while I may have picked up somethings, I'm definitely not an expert. Much to my relief, my medical knowledge was not needed, but instead, I was to dress up as a 1916 nurse when we reached the Ulster Tower while two others would dress up as a 1916 and a 2016 soldier.
When we got to the Ulster Tower, Kyle, Nathan and I were brought in a separate direction to everyone else where we donned our outfits before returning to the group. We walked around the trenches, learning about the British soldiers who had occupied them and everything that seemed to go wrong for them.
Later that evening, we headed to the Thiepval Memorial, where 72,195 British and South African servicemen are commemorated; all of whom died during the Battle of the Somme and all of whom do not have a named grave. These men were lost, their bodies never found and if they were, were unidentified and so are buried in unmarked graves. Two of the students' soldiers are named on this memorial and so a commemoration ceremony was held in their honour and in the honour of all the Irishmen who are named on the monument. One soldier from every county named on the memorial was represented by each student, a rose laid on the Cross of Sacrifice during the ceremony in their memory.
Once the ceremony was finished, a few more tears had been shed and we had been to all of the cemeteries for the day, we hopped back on the bus to get some food and then back to the hotel for some bonding and sleep.
Sunday, 28th and Monday, 29th June
And so it arrived; the day I had been waiting months for; the day I would finally visit Private Daniel Murphy's grave. I distinctly remember feeling extremely nervous, as if I was about to meet someone hugely important – even more so than the President – and I guess, for me, it was true. I had spent the last few months learning about this young man, this man who would be eternally one hundred years older than me and remain forever at an age that I would shortly become and pass. He felt like more than just a research project and I doubt that that will ever change. He felt and still feels like a brother to me, someone I've grown up with and known my whole life. And so, when I was going to, essentially, see him, I was excited (of course I was), but anxious; like that feeling you get when you go see an old friend, someone you haven't seen in years; that excited, nervous, almost tearful, butterfly feeling.
When I got up that morning, I decided to represent the place that Daniel and I call home and proudly donned my trusty Wexford jersey.
As we headed to the Visit Interpretative Centre and walked through the trenches that still remained, that anxious feeling only grew. Walking through those trenches, that I would learn were only fifteen minutes walk away from the Hawthorne Ridge Cemetery, I tried to keep my mind off it, but knowing that I would be heading to see him soon, it was no use.
Before I knew it, Michael Collins (one of the leaders in charge of the trip, not the Big Fella himself) was telling me that it was time to go. So I grabbed the girls that I had gotten close too (and still after a year haven't lost contact with for more than a day) and we headed along the sweltering French road. The girls were yapping away about de Valera and Collins (a normal topic of conversation for us), but I found myself unable to contribute. I was too busy thinking about where I was going and trying not to think about it at the same time. At this point, my chest was beginning to tighten in anticipation and fear. Looking back, I'm not sure what I was afraid of, but I know even if I was to go back tomorrow (which I would gladly do), I would feel the exact same way.
So we continued along the practically deserted road, until we reached a dirt track and that's when I had to remind myself to breathe. I just kept looking out for the Cross of Sacrifice (found in most cemeteries where the majority of those buried were Christians) and I knew that when I saw that, that it would just be a matter of steps. We followed along the dirt path, my heart racing. It was then that I saw the huge poppy bush, just randomly on a pile of white chalky stone and despite that feeling of anxiety, it was as if I knew that, somehow, this was Daniel telling me that it was okay. I took in a deep breath and reminded myself why I was doing this; it wasn't about representing my county anymore (I don't think it ever was). This was about representing myself, representing Daniel's family and giving him the recognition and peace that was long overdue. This was for him.
So, I took in another deep breath and braced myself, stepping out from behind the bush. And that's when I saw it; the sun beating down on the green, green meadow, filled with long blades of grass up to my knee and topped with the most beautifully delicate blue flowers. A small path cut through the grass, leading to a small walled cemetery, two big trees dusting the graves in shadows and there, standing tall, was the Cross of Sacrifice. I had seen pictures of the cemetery, of course I had, but nothing could have prepared me for the beauty and the tranquillity of the place that is the Hawthorne Ridge Cemetery.
I led the way down the path, my hands clearly shaking at this point and not saying a word because I didn't trust my voice or myself to not completely break down. As I walked into the cemetery, I remember this astounding feeling of peace wash over me, as if I was at home. I knew Daniel was buried in the second and final row of headstones (in probably one of the smallest cemeteries) and so, I walked along the graves slowly, scanning my eyes across the names, searching for that one that I will never forget, the name of that young Wexford boy who lost his life in such a horrendous war. I'll admit, I couldn't find him when I first walked passed. I couldn't see his name at all, so I passed them again and, at this stage, I was starting to panic, but Michael Collins just reminded me that some soldiers were buried in a two-person grave (this being the moment that I found out that Daniel was not buried alone). So I walked passed them again and this time, I didn't miss it. I stopped, my hand covering my mouth in a last attempt to hold myself together and I kneeled down in front of his grave and, well, it's safe to say, I couldn't stop the tears anymore. I just remember thinking that this was it, this was what all of the research was about, this was what the project was about. I had basically adopted this young man into my family and here I was, the first of those to know his story to visit him. It was like all the work, the anxiety, the fear, all of it was worth it because I was here; I was with him. He wasn't alone and forgotten anymore and never would be again.
I took out my bag of soil (which had come from my garden - every student brought soil from their county to leave on their soldier's grave) and sprinkled it on the ground, reading his name over and over again. I took a bit of the soil from his grave in return and when I got back home, I visited his parents' grave in Adamstown and left it with them, so even though they are hundreds of miles away from each other, in the end, at least a bit of them was with the other. I remember feeling a strong presence with me as I sat in front of his grave, and I don't know, maybe it was just my friends, but I felt like it was Daniel there with me, saying thanks or something more along the lines of “what are you doing crying, you big fool”. After a moments silence, I told the teachers that had tagged along and my friends a little about Daniel's background and then signed the memorial book that every cemetery has, just to mark my being there. Once I was ready, we headed on our way, back through the meadow, with one last look back before collecting a poppy each to bring home and heading back to the bus.
Later that day, we headed to Ypres, had a very quick clothes change (due to the importance of the evening) and headed to the Menin Gate for the Menin Gate Ceremony, which is held every night without fail. Every night, the town shuts down for an hour. Each ceremony focuses on a different soldier named on Menin Gate, music is played, wreaths are laid and the Last Post is played. I think all of us felt it; the incredible emotion that was attached to the Last Post, as if it was our sign of respect, our salute, our goodbye for now to our soldiers. The ceremony was hauntingly beautiful and something I don't think we are likely to forget.
After the ceremony, we headed for our evening meal in a local Ypres restaurant, courtesy of the Director of Flemish Tourism. The food wasn't traditional French food, but more like a hearty Irish stew that everyone just devoured after our not-so-great experiences with food while we were there. It was definitely just what the doctor ordered.
We went back to our hostel (which was empty apart from us) and had our last evening together, which we all just spent chatting away and laughing until the teachers said we had to go to bed, but that didn’t exactly happen. The night was spent with us trying to escape from our rooms to spend our last night all together in the form of one massive all-nighter. Our room was manned by one of the teachers, who I'm actually convinced camped outside our door, so we just sat on our bunk-beds, chatting about everything and nothing, messaging the handful who did manage to escape. At around four in the morning (bare in mind we had to be up at six at the latest) a group of those who had managed to escape, came into our room and we spent the last two hours just laughing as quietly as we could as one of the girls put makeup on one of the (willing) boys.
When six o'clock rolled around, we got dressed, got some breakfast and then climbed back onto a freezing (it was supposed to be like thirty-five degrees that day so they were getting ready for the heat for some reason, but we eventually got the heat turned up) bus, ready for a three hour journey. I don't think anyone was awake during any of that bus drive. I know I wasn't, apart from that time when the bus braked, when I had my head resting against the window and leaned forward in my slumber whacking my head against the window pillar.
Looking back (even on the bus, we all knew), pulling an all-nighter was not a good idea. When we got to the European Parliament, we were all given fizzy drinks to wake us up (which did the trick) and then had a tour of the buildings and got talks from various workers, which was very interesting. We even got to go into the chambers themselves, which was a brilliant experience.
Once we had left the Parliament buildings we headed back to wait for the bus and then headed to the “Walibi” Theme Park, which I think we all enjoyed. Not being a fan of heights, I forced myself to go on all the scary rollercoasters and after one called the Vampire, which looped and turned and left you upside down for way too long, I was so glad I did. It was a fantastic way to end the trip.
We climbed back onto the bus one last time and headed to Brussels Airport. When we got there, each of us got very confused by the three different types of security (when you thought you were home free, you were not and the stress of going through security just continued). Once we were at the gate, I think nearly everyone got a Starbucks and, all of us with our Irish names couldn't help but laugh at how Emily had turned into Emmeleie (each of the three Emilys spelled a different way), Seán became Chang, and Caoimhe became Chivwa. I can't help but feel sorry for the poor Belgians looking back. They didn't stand a chance with our names.
When the time came, we boarded the plane, most of us splitting up and had some last fun before we arrived in Dublin. Once we had collected our bags, we all had a big soppy farewell, hugging each other like we had spent more than a total of five days together (including the day in Collins' Barracks). Even though the trip was over, I think we all knew that our time with our soldiers wasn't and neither was our time with each other. In the last year, I have seen my small group of friends from the trip a total of four times, each lasting more than a day and we haven't lost contact at all. The trip gave me more than a once in a life time history trip; it has given me lifelong friends and a one hundred year old adopted brother who I will never forget, nor will I let my family forget him. He may have been lost, but he is no longer forgotten; none of them are and they never will be.
Saturday was the first of many early starts (which didn't bode well for me, seeing as how I had been on the Helix stage at the Junk Kouture Regional Finals the night before and only got three hours of sleep). All the students taking part in the trip, their families and the teachers and those who had helped to organise it, met at Collins' Barracks. This was the day that started everything off, that really started us on this incredibly emotional, life changing experience. During the day, we got to meet our fellow students and Gerry Moore, the brains behind the whole project. It allowed us to learn about the project and what exactly the trip would entail. We got to learn about those in our province and their soldiers, each of us getting a few minutes to give our spiel. It was quite the nerve-wracking experience, but I can't even imagine what I would have been like if I wasn't so tired. This meet-up made the world of a difference when it came to the trip itself. We got to know each other and even set up a group chat afterwards so that we could skip through the awkward not-knowing-anything-about-each-other stage. I think made us feel more comfortable as a group and helped us to connect more later on.
Friday 26th June
Early that morning, all 39 students made our way to the place it would all being; Ratra House. On arrival, we waited around, talking to each other and matching Facebook profile pictures to faces as everyone turned up. We were brought into the building where we collected our red and purple polo shirts and our red jackets, donning the purple polos as told; ready to meet the President. A few short interviews about our hopes and dreams for the trip later and we were ready to go.
We said "slán" to our families before climbing aboard the bus and making our way to Áras an Uachtaráin to meet President Michael D. Higgins. When we arrived at the Áras, we were brought into a large room, where we would be meeting the President. We formed a semicircle around the room, our excitement building as we talked to one another. The President was introduced to each of us in turn by Gerry Moore, learning our names and counties as he welcomed us to the Áras. Once the President was finished greeting us and had cracked a few jokes along the way, he gave a moving speech about the importance of remembering World War One and all that fought and died; especially the Irish who were not seen as the heroes that they should have been. I think that at this moment, we all realised just how important and emotional this trip was going to be.
Once the speeches were given and the trip finally started, we were brought into an adjoining room where we had tea with the President. Having tea with the President is something I could never have imagined happening and at the time it felt like I was dreaming, except for the fact that I wouldn't have been able to dream up something so brilliant. Even today, it still feels surreal and if it wasn't for the pictures, I probably wouldn't believe that it happened. In that moment, there was an astounding sense of pride from all of us, that we had the privilege to represent our counties at something so important.
Once the President had left, we climbed back onto the bus and made our way to Dublin airport. When we got there, we checked in our suitcases, made it through security leaving no man behind and went for some desperately needed food. Most people bee lined for Burger King, but for those of us, who had forgotten our antihistamines (me), when we made it to food court, the line was too long for Burger King and time was ticking, so we went to the "healthy hipster place" for a sandwich instead.
After some food and a trip to the shop to get sweets for the plane, we made our way down to the gate where we were split into our groups that we would go to for a head count during the trip. I was put into the "Connacht and Weinster (W's in Leinster) Group", which we quickly decided was the best.
As we boarded the plane, the excitement grew as it finally started hitting us that we were going on the trip that we had been waiting the whole year for. All the work, all the research, all the searching had led to this and there we were, on our way to finish what we had started, to end our soldiers' stories that been left unfinished for so long.
After a quick two hours of chatting away, the plane landed in Brussels Airport. As we cleared customs, collected our baggage and climbed aboard the (much to our relief) air conditioned tour bus, we talked about the trip and had a discussion about what language we were to speak while on the trip; be it French, German or just stick to English.
I can tell you now, that you do not want to be stuck in rush hour traffic on a Friday evening in Brussels. It's like the traffic on the M11, but about ten times worse. So, after the long bus journey spent talking about the war, school, the trip and nearly every topic under the sun, we began noticing random cemeteries popping up everywhere. They were in the strangest places; beside houses, in the middle of villages or in the middle of nowhere. The reason for that was that literally everywhere your eye could see had been a battlefield. You could almost picture the rolling hills covered in debris, bodies thrown everywhere as the war raged on. The noise started to quieten down at this point, an almost eerie silence taking over and sending a chill throughout the bus.
When we pulled up and were told we were going to get food, everyone jumped off the bus, eager to eat the food that was waiting for us. We spent the evening chatting; our excitement for the rest of the trip as clear as day as we talked about what we hoped would happened and exchanged spiels about of soldiers.
After our meal, we walked the short distance to the Ibis Hotel and were given our room keys and roommates before heading off to get ready for bed. It's safe to say that we slept like logs that night, looking forward to the day ahead of us.
Saturday, 27th June
Saturday kicked off with breakfast in the Ibis before we hopped on the bus and started our history-filled day.
The first place we visited was the Lochnagar Crater, which is 300ft in diameter and 70ft deep. The crater is one of the only ones of its kind left because, as opposed to being filled in with debris, it was bought and preserved as a reminder and a memorial. This crater was created when the British launched an offensive attack against the Germans on the 1st July 1916.
As Gerry told us about the memorial, I couldn't help but try to picture the events that happened there; to even try to see myself on that brutal battlefield, having to witness it, but it’s not something you can explain. It's not something a war film can cover because what these men went through was hell on earth.
We continued on and began visiting Commonwealth Commission cemeteries. They are set up to look like a typical English country garden so that the men buried there would at least have some familiarity in death, even if they could not go home. The grass is freshly mowed; the flowers lying in front of the graves kept to perfection, the headstones clean and well kept, creating something picturesque.
I think the thing that made the fact that we were there hit me was when I found graves members of Private Daniel Murphy's Regiment (the Middlesex Regiment) who had died on the same day as him. Finding something like that even before seeing Daniel's grave myself really made me aware that I was there.
We were then brought to the German Cemetery, Fricourt, and on walking in, I was hit with a wall of emotion. While the Commonwealth cemeteries were made to look like an English country garden, the German cemeteries were made to look like a German forest. Compared to the bright and peaceful feeling of the Commonwealth cemeteries, the German cemetery was dull, the light blocked out by the trees and had a feeling that I can only describe as heavy. In the Commonwealth cemeteries, only one soldier, or sometimes two, are buried in each grave, whereas in the German cemetery, each grave contained four soldiers. They were simple crosses with four names, two on each side. Sometimes, it was a full name, sometimes it had the date they died, but also some were just a surname, leaving them practically untraceable. There were also headstones with the Star of David for the Jewish soldiers who were killed. I think one of the things that was the hardest to deal with, for me personally, was that I found my friend's surname on one of the graves; just a surname and nothing else. The other thing that hit everyone hard was the fact that at the bottom of the cemetery, there were four mass graves, each containing nearly 12,000 dead in total. How deep would they have had to dig those graves to fit so many people in? Well, so deep that bodies would have been literally thrown in like trash.
That heavy and empty feeling stayed with me even as we were on the bus again. It stayed with everyone. We made attempts to take our minds off it, talking about anything and everything we could; cracking jokes and trying to laugh. It was either that or cry.
We moved on with the trip, going to some more cemeteries before we stopped for some food; a baguette and a drink.
Once we were satisfied, we moved on to more cemeteries and visited the grave of the Private William McBride from the song "The Green Fields of France". While we were there, we sang the famous song about the soldier, to remember not just Private McBride, but all of the soldiers who fought and died.
As we were leaving, Gerry asked if anyone had a mother who was a nurse, so because I do, I raised my hand, albeit cautiously. I was silently hoping that he wouldn't ask me any medical questions because while I may have picked up somethings, I'm definitely not an expert. Much to my relief, my medical knowledge was not needed, but instead, I was to dress up as a 1916 nurse when we reached the Ulster Tower while two others would dress up as a 1916 and a 2016 soldier.
When we got to the Ulster Tower, Kyle, Nathan and I were brought in a separate direction to everyone else where we donned our outfits before returning to the group. We walked around the trenches, learning about the British soldiers who had occupied them and everything that seemed to go wrong for them.
Later that evening, we headed to the Thiepval Memorial, where 72,195 British and South African servicemen are commemorated; all of whom died during the Battle of the Somme and all of whom do not have a named grave. These men were lost, their bodies never found and if they were, were unidentified and so are buried in unmarked graves. Two of the students' soldiers are named on this memorial and so a commemoration ceremony was held in their honour and in the honour of all the Irishmen who are named on the monument. One soldier from every county named on the memorial was represented by each student, a rose laid on the Cross of Sacrifice during the ceremony in their memory.
Once the ceremony was finished, a few more tears had been shed and we had been to all of the cemeteries for the day, we hopped back on the bus to get some food and then back to the hotel for some bonding and sleep.
Sunday, 28th and Monday, 29th June
And so it arrived; the day I had been waiting months for; the day I would finally visit Private Daniel Murphy's grave. I distinctly remember feeling extremely nervous, as if I was about to meet someone hugely important – even more so than the President – and I guess, for me, it was true. I had spent the last few months learning about this young man, this man who would be eternally one hundred years older than me and remain forever at an age that I would shortly become and pass. He felt like more than just a research project and I doubt that that will ever change. He felt and still feels like a brother to me, someone I've grown up with and known my whole life. And so, when I was going to, essentially, see him, I was excited (of course I was), but anxious; like that feeling you get when you go see an old friend, someone you haven't seen in years; that excited, nervous, almost tearful, butterfly feeling.
When I got up that morning, I decided to represent the place that Daniel and I call home and proudly donned my trusty Wexford jersey.
As we headed to the Visit Interpretative Centre and walked through the trenches that still remained, that anxious feeling only grew. Walking through those trenches, that I would learn were only fifteen minutes walk away from the Hawthorne Ridge Cemetery, I tried to keep my mind off it, but knowing that I would be heading to see him soon, it was no use.
Before I knew it, Michael Collins (one of the leaders in charge of the trip, not the Big Fella himself) was telling me that it was time to go. So I grabbed the girls that I had gotten close too (and still after a year haven't lost contact with for more than a day) and we headed along the sweltering French road. The girls were yapping away about de Valera and Collins (a normal topic of conversation for us), but I found myself unable to contribute. I was too busy thinking about where I was going and trying not to think about it at the same time. At this point, my chest was beginning to tighten in anticipation and fear. Looking back, I'm not sure what I was afraid of, but I know even if I was to go back tomorrow (which I would gladly do), I would feel the exact same way.
So we continued along the practically deserted road, until we reached a dirt track and that's when I had to remind myself to breathe. I just kept looking out for the Cross of Sacrifice (found in most cemeteries where the majority of those buried were Christians) and I knew that when I saw that, that it would just be a matter of steps. We followed along the dirt path, my heart racing. It was then that I saw the huge poppy bush, just randomly on a pile of white chalky stone and despite that feeling of anxiety, it was as if I knew that, somehow, this was Daniel telling me that it was okay. I took in a deep breath and reminded myself why I was doing this; it wasn't about representing my county anymore (I don't think it ever was). This was about representing myself, representing Daniel's family and giving him the recognition and peace that was long overdue. This was for him.
So, I took in another deep breath and braced myself, stepping out from behind the bush. And that's when I saw it; the sun beating down on the green, green meadow, filled with long blades of grass up to my knee and topped with the most beautifully delicate blue flowers. A small path cut through the grass, leading to a small walled cemetery, two big trees dusting the graves in shadows and there, standing tall, was the Cross of Sacrifice. I had seen pictures of the cemetery, of course I had, but nothing could have prepared me for the beauty and the tranquillity of the place that is the Hawthorne Ridge Cemetery.
I led the way down the path, my hands clearly shaking at this point and not saying a word because I didn't trust my voice or myself to not completely break down. As I walked into the cemetery, I remember this astounding feeling of peace wash over me, as if I was at home. I knew Daniel was buried in the second and final row of headstones (in probably one of the smallest cemeteries) and so, I walked along the graves slowly, scanning my eyes across the names, searching for that one that I will never forget, the name of that young Wexford boy who lost his life in such a horrendous war. I'll admit, I couldn't find him when I first walked passed. I couldn't see his name at all, so I passed them again and, at this stage, I was starting to panic, but Michael Collins just reminded me that some soldiers were buried in a two-person grave (this being the moment that I found out that Daniel was not buried alone). So I walked passed them again and this time, I didn't miss it. I stopped, my hand covering my mouth in a last attempt to hold myself together and I kneeled down in front of his grave and, well, it's safe to say, I couldn't stop the tears anymore. I just remember thinking that this was it, this was what all of the research was about, this was what the project was about. I had basically adopted this young man into my family and here I was, the first of those to know his story to visit him. It was like all the work, the anxiety, the fear, all of it was worth it because I was here; I was with him. He wasn't alone and forgotten anymore and never would be again.
I took out my bag of soil (which had come from my garden - every student brought soil from their county to leave on their soldier's grave) and sprinkled it on the ground, reading his name over and over again. I took a bit of the soil from his grave in return and when I got back home, I visited his parents' grave in Adamstown and left it with them, so even though they are hundreds of miles away from each other, in the end, at least a bit of them was with the other. I remember feeling a strong presence with me as I sat in front of his grave, and I don't know, maybe it was just my friends, but I felt like it was Daniel there with me, saying thanks or something more along the lines of “what are you doing crying, you big fool”. After a moments silence, I told the teachers that had tagged along and my friends a little about Daniel's background and then signed the memorial book that every cemetery has, just to mark my being there. Once I was ready, we headed on our way, back through the meadow, with one last look back before collecting a poppy each to bring home and heading back to the bus.
Later that day, we headed to Ypres, had a very quick clothes change (due to the importance of the evening) and headed to the Menin Gate for the Menin Gate Ceremony, which is held every night without fail. Every night, the town shuts down for an hour. Each ceremony focuses on a different soldier named on Menin Gate, music is played, wreaths are laid and the Last Post is played. I think all of us felt it; the incredible emotion that was attached to the Last Post, as if it was our sign of respect, our salute, our goodbye for now to our soldiers. The ceremony was hauntingly beautiful and something I don't think we are likely to forget.
After the ceremony, we headed for our evening meal in a local Ypres restaurant, courtesy of the Director of Flemish Tourism. The food wasn't traditional French food, but more like a hearty Irish stew that everyone just devoured after our not-so-great experiences with food while we were there. It was definitely just what the doctor ordered.
We went back to our hostel (which was empty apart from us) and had our last evening together, which we all just spent chatting away and laughing until the teachers said we had to go to bed, but that didn’t exactly happen. The night was spent with us trying to escape from our rooms to spend our last night all together in the form of one massive all-nighter. Our room was manned by one of the teachers, who I'm actually convinced camped outside our door, so we just sat on our bunk-beds, chatting about everything and nothing, messaging the handful who did manage to escape. At around four in the morning (bare in mind we had to be up at six at the latest) a group of those who had managed to escape, came into our room and we spent the last two hours just laughing as quietly as we could as one of the girls put makeup on one of the (willing) boys.
When six o'clock rolled around, we got dressed, got some breakfast and then climbed back onto a freezing (it was supposed to be like thirty-five degrees that day so they were getting ready for the heat for some reason, but we eventually got the heat turned up) bus, ready for a three hour journey. I don't think anyone was awake during any of that bus drive. I know I wasn't, apart from that time when the bus braked, when I had my head resting against the window and leaned forward in my slumber whacking my head against the window pillar.
Looking back (even on the bus, we all knew), pulling an all-nighter was not a good idea. When we got to the European Parliament, we were all given fizzy drinks to wake us up (which did the trick) and then had a tour of the buildings and got talks from various workers, which was very interesting. We even got to go into the chambers themselves, which was a brilliant experience.
Once we had left the Parliament buildings we headed back to wait for the bus and then headed to the “Walibi” Theme Park, which I think we all enjoyed. Not being a fan of heights, I forced myself to go on all the scary rollercoasters and after one called the Vampire, which looped and turned and left you upside down for way too long, I was so glad I did. It was a fantastic way to end the trip.
We climbed back onto the bus one last time and headed to Brussels Airport. When we got there, each of us got very confused by the three different types of security (when you thought you were home free, you were not and the stress of going through security just continued). Once we were at the gate, I think nearly everyone got a Starbucks and, all of us with our Irish names couldn't help but laugh at how Emily had turned into Emmeleie (each of the three Emilys spelled a different way), Seán became Chang, and Caoimhe became Chivwa. I can't help but feel sorry for the poor Belgians looking back. They didn't stand a chance with our names.
When the time came, we boarded the plane, most of us splitting up and had some last fun before we arrived in Dublin. Once we had collected our bags, we all had a big soppy farewell, hugging each other like we had spent more than a total of five days together (including the day in Collins' Barracks). Even though the trip was over, I think we all knew that our time with our soldiers wasn't and neither was our time with each other. In the last year, I have seen my small group of friends from the trip a total of four times, each lasting more than a day and we haven't lost contact at all. The trip gave me more than a once in a life time history trip; it has given me lifelong friends and a one hundred year old adopted brother who I will never forget, nor will I let my family forget him. He may have been lost, but he is no longer forgotten; none of them are and they never will be.