That’s when the Great War was held, wasn’t it?

Last year my grandson and I went up to my local pub for a beer, a coke and a game of darts. 

 With a little help, he beat me as usual and we left the pub in bright sunshine and crossed the road and headed for home. It was a short but beautiful stroll. We crossed the small area of grassland opposite the pub and made our way along the track that lead in to the woods. He soon noticed a small label fixed on to a stake and driven in to the ground at the foot of one of the trees which lined the pathway.

“What’s that grandad?” he asked walking over to it and squatting down in the sunshine to read it. He looked closely at the small sign and after a moment or two, looked up at me. “Where’s Pashiondale?” he asked, pronouncing the Belgian town’s name with surprising clarity. “It says that this person was killed there – and he was only eighteen."  He looked up at me waiting for an answer but before I could offer one, he suddenly scurried off down the track to the next tree and found another small sign. “There’s another one here” he said, settling down for a moment to inspect it. “But this man was killed at….”.

As my grandson struggled with the location of the soldier's passing, I moved up behind him to read the insignia. “He was killed in Ypres” I said, “It’s another place in Belgium. It’s difficult to pronounce” I told him, “because it’s a different language”.

“Was it the great war?” he asked as he stared at the sign, “we’ve been doing World War 1 at school”.  He continued to concentrate on the small sign and then said “I recognise the date. It says he was killed in nineteen seventeen”.  He became quiet for a moment and then said, “That’s when the Great War was held, wasn’t it?”

We proceeded to inspect every label at every tree location on our route home, and then doubled back to check the seven or eight trees that adorned the grassed area by the pub. He read out the names, dates and locations as best he could on all of the markers we saw.  Some of the trees were well established and had attracted various vines and climbers. Others were recently planted specimens surrounded by protective steelwork. There are twenty three in all, seven bordering the grassland opposite the pub and sixteen lining the path from the grassed area down to the woods and we looked at them all, reading the plaques as we went.

I found out later that there are in fact thirty in total. Apart from the twenty three on our walk, there are four more around the village pond, two in Church Lane (tree No’s 25 & 26) and the last one is in the church yard of St Marys in the centre of the village.  According to the Bucks Free Press published 5 December 1937, some trees were originally planted in the nineteen twenties to commemorate the local men who died in the first world war, but it was in 1937 that a collection of around forty ex-service men, armed with forks and shovels planted thirty trees – one for each of the fallen – in commemoration of their bravery and ultimate sacrifice. There is a notice board about a hundred yards down a small lane opposite Tylers Green Village Hall which gives all the details of the plantings, the names of the dead and the tree numbers. You can plan a walk around the village from there, as we did to view all thirty trees and read the inscriptions, including a magnificent specimen in the church yard and two horse chestnuts in Church Lane. There are three pubs around the village and a small café opposite the pond so why not make a day of it.

   What a poignant way to commemorate the men of the village who gave their lives for their beloved country all that time ago. You read on many fixed memorials, all over the country that - “their names live on” - and so they do,  I’m sure. 

But on that sunny day last year, walking through the lush and leafy woodland of the English countryside, what a heart-rending  experience to hear the names of each and every one of them spoken from the lips of a young boy with his whole life in front of him.