Finny

Up bright and early for our first day in France, I decided to start today with a quick run. Now that’s far from unusual for me but what was a little strange was the noticeable lack of cars. Out there on the flat plains of Northern France, my biggest adversary became the ever so vigilant farmyard dog, with an endless cacophony of howls, barks and roars keeping me firmly on my toes, as I dashed passed rows of neatly planted cabbage. Luckily our wonderful host at ‘La Moole Veld’ had rustled up a typical French breakfast for us and so after an ice cold shower, coffee was taken and croissants devoured.

We’d picked to stay here on our first night largely due to the gîtes close proximity to Aval Wood War Cemetry, a memorial to commonwealth soldiers who sadly perished during WW1. Among these poor souls lays my great great grandfather Joseph Finnigan. After making our way past statues to the fallen, red tiled cottages and impressive churches we finally spotted the burial site on the edge of a beautiful wood. It’s so difficult to fathom that a place of such tranquility could have also played host to one of the most sickening chapters in human history, but scarcely more than a century ago, this place was a killing field, a place where Europe's fathers, sons and would be grandfathers were mercilessly slaughtered.

The cemetry itself has been immaculately maintained and after 10 minutes wandering between the headstones, many of which bare the desperately sad inscription ‘a soldier of the great war’ - ‘known unto god’, we finally stumbled across my relatives grave. We spent ten minutes talking about a man we never knew (his own mother, my grandad’s mum, was only an infant when he passed), imagining his journey, the pals he fought beside and the legacy he left behind. Courtney laid two red roses on his grave and also left a few with a number of the others from the East Lancs, I placed my grandad’s order of service (which I’d randomly found in my car a few days earlier) with them, finally reuniting him with his pops, whom he always assured me was a very talented footballer in his youth. Joseph who trialed with Burnley FC in 1906 may well have passed some of his talent down through the generations, with both my uncle and myself forging a living in the game.

It was with more than a touch of emotion then that we left ‘Finny’ in a place he’s now laid for almost 107 years, far from home and surrounded by those he fell with, a small piece of East Lancs forever lost to France’s green fields. Continuing south toward Reims, our next stop was Arras, another poor victim of the western front’s barbaric nature. We spent the afternoon wandering its faithfully reconstructed squares (they were painstakingly rebuilt in their original style after WW1) and alleys before Luna had her first go on a fairground ride. Aided by Courtney she opted to take her seat on a jet, and whilst at first a little bewildered by the carousel, she soon got the jist and displayed her customary grin. Arras itself is a cracking little town, with tonnes of independent clothing shops, cafes, bars and museums. There seems to be a quiet confidence about the place, one which unfortunately sits at odds with the current mood in our own town centres.

For the next two nights we’re ensconced in another cracking gîte in a sleepy little village on the outskirts of Reims, which we hope to use as a base for exploring the wider Champagne region.

RIP Joseph Finnigan

Paying our respects to Finny 🌹