We were feeling a bit like a cultural vacuum after our weekend of eating and drinking. It was a feeling we needed to banish. On the way home we decided to restore our karmic balance with a trip to the battlefields of Flanders.

The battlefields of Flanders (Vlaanderen), in Belgium, were part of the Western front during World War I. The front ran from the North Sea to Switzerland. It was a line of battle between the Allies and the Germans. The Germans would attack and the Allies would defend. The Allies would attack and the Germans would defend. This line remained virtually unchanged for most of the war.

Driving through Flanders, it's hard to reconcile the present-day scenery with images from World War I. Pictures from the war show a landscape of trenches, mud and craters. Today it's farmland; green fields, tractors and sheep. It's hard to believe that it was the setting for such carnage, death and destruction. Well, it's hard to believe until you start to notice the cemeteries.

Driving through the countryside we drove past cemetery after cemetery. It seemed that we passed one every few kilometers or so. The Commonwealth cemeteries all follow the same design. White headstones, the Cross of Sacrifice, the Stone of Remembrance. Some cemeteries were tiny with only a few graves. Some were big enough that it looked like the hillside was covered in a blanket of white.

We decided to visit Tyne Cot cemetery. A Commonwealth World War I cemetery, it is the largest military cemetery in Europe. The place is enormous. Eleven thousand, nine hundred and fifty six soldiers are buried here. Walking among the grave stones, we noted just how many headstones were nameless. These headstones read "Known unto God". They know nothing about the poor soul buried in the grave. Not his name, his rank, or even his nationality. Eight thousand, three hundred and sixty five graves in Tyne Cot are unnamed. That's almost 70% of the graves in the cemetery.

So many men died during World War I. As the years pass, those who knew them are also disappearing. The mothers, wives and sisters who were left to remember. Remember what he was really like. Remember the sound of his voice. Remember what he liked and disliked. Remember how he lived. Now these poor buggers have no one left to remember them, and some haven't even a gravestone as a memorial. It really makes me sad.

"My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori." -- Wilfred Owen

More photos on Flickr...

My favourite read from last year, Birdsong, is set in the trenches of World War I. I believe it is essential reading. It gave me nightmares for a week afterwards but after reading it I feel like a better person.