How do you say goodbye to a love one you sent away to war? A person who may never have returned?
These words are so faded now. But then, when these words were chosen by a family, by individuals who had lost a son, these words had colour and depth. But now, these letters fade with the weather that beats against it year on year.
For prisoner of war, solicitor, friend to the down-at-heel, poet - Frederick William Harvey had survived the war. He had found a voice, found an audience, found a life he would perhaps strive to return to in some small part. But F. W. Harvey wasn't the one I wanted. I had come to find the other Harvey.
It is an elegant memorial to his son in this quiet place. As it says on the memorial 'for 46 years its vicar.' Promoted Captain on the 1st September 1915, he did not survive long in his new rank and went it was published in the London Gazette, he was already dead. Grasett has no known grave; his name like so many of his fellow Indian army comrades are on the Indian Memorial at Neuve Chapelle. It is a uniquely beautiful memorial to the Indian army lost, some 4,500 of them
Serjeant John Vick was serving in the 1st Royal Gloucestershire Hussars in World War One. He had been appointed the Gloucester Troop Sergeant. One of the old Gloucestershire Yeoman; well-liked; respected.
When George Edward Fletcher died in 1932 aged 71 years, a retired police superintendent of the Bristol Corporation at Fishponds; and then his wife Selina in 1952 aged 91 years - their two sons who died in World War One on active service were also added to their grave stone.
Down on bended knee, I see only that the words have disappeared with the seasons. Through the rain and wind, the sun and time, faded indentations of letters are the only reminders of the chosen sentiments for this memorial.
But an interesting thing about Herbert was that although he died a decorated Lieutenant in the British army, be began the war as a Private in the Australian Imperial Force. For when he first enlisted to fight in World War one, Herbert Ellis was in Australia. More precisely working as a orchardist in Bridgetown, Western Australia.
The church sits quiet in its tribute, just before the lane dies out and the views spread out forever. But there Rangeworthy Church lends us another glance into the immortal souls of the war dead of this parish. Behind the alter, another stained glass window shines in the light; reflecting the dancing glow of sun from outside. This time it memorialises the war dead of Rangeworthy. The pain of a village and their ceremony to them.