I am honoured to receive the Nice Matters award, and will do an entry later. Many thanks to Jeannette, and congratulations to others in J-land who are also being honoured in this way.
The freight ferry Riverdance, pictured above, is reported in serious difficulties in the Irish Sea. Crew and passengers are being airlifted off in the most atrocious of conditions. The vessel, which carries freight between Heysham and Warrenpoint, was apparently struck by a freak wave and is currently listing at 60 degrees after cargo shifted. Winds in the Irish Sea are currently blowing a full force 10, with gusts to 70 mph.
Earlier today, I received an email from someone in Canada who kindly forwarded an Internet link and hopefully later on a picture of one of the casualties on my Faces from the War Memorial site. Donald Martin, who originated from 59 Back (this village is too small to warrant street names) had emigrated to Australia. From the 49 documents, a sequence of events became clear, that is very sad to view.
A young man of 27, Donald had set forth to war from the town of Pyrmont, NSW. He left his lodgings at 109 Pyrmont Road, took all his belongings with him and signed up with the Australian Imperial Forces in 1916. He was duly transferred to the British Expeditionary Forces headquarters in Alexandria via Mudros. A note is made of him being subjected to disciplinary action after being found "out of bounds" without a pass. Donald went into the trenches and was killed in action on 29 July 1916. Where his remains lie buried is not known, but his kit was returned to his father in Back during 1917. It took a lot of correspondence back and forth for this to be traced, as the military police was sent to his last address in Pyrmont, where his poor landlady assured that Donald had taken his effects with him.
Twenty
years passed. It was now in the years after World War II, and to
alleviate the shortage of rolling stock, an old engine stood sighing in
the sidings at the station. An express train came roaring up from
London through the dark evening and passed the green signal ahead of
the station. As the locomotive drew level with the signal box, the
driver caught sight of a ghostly white face dashing up across the
lines, jumping in front of his train, trying to cross ahead of the
engine. He harshly applied the brakes, and the express juddered to a
stop at the top end of the sidings. The driver jumped out of his cab
and ran towards the rear carriages, which were level with the
signalbox. Nothing to be seen. There was no body. What was standing in
the siding next to the mainline was the old engine. The signalman, who
was still there after twenty years, leaned outside to see what the
commotion was about. He climbed down to the tracks and glanced past the
back of the carriages - and recognised the engine. It was the very
locomotive that had mowed down his own daughter, all those years ago. 
