Here is my post from 27 June. I have only just got back to the internet.

Our visit to France continues to be quite intensely moving and memorable. I am in Vignacourt, a town with a strong historic relationship with Australia due to the presence here of Australian troops in the Great War. Yesterday, we held a memorial service at the British Military Cemetery in Vignacourt at the grave of my grand uncle Jack Grant, where the band played both the Australian and French national anthems, I was able to give a short speech of respect and gratitude, and Diana read from a letter from her great great grandfather to her great grandfather. (Speech and letter are below) Eric Brisse kindly arranged to frame a photo of Jack that I sent him (below), which was placed at the grave, and where Diana and I laid a beautiful wreath. I really appreciate that the Eastern Australia Band made this commemoration possible of the connection of our family to the war.`

The band performed in the Catholic Church in Vignacourt, a beautiful and immense neo-gothic building more like a cathedral than a church. Diana sang Moondance and Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal. The reverberation of the cathedral chamber worked well, and I filmed the concert from the organ loft, and also climbed the bell tower, up a long narrow circular stair case.

I am billeted with a local family, Charlie and Marie-François. I cannot express enough my gratitude for their warm welcome and generous hospitality, in their beautiful house and garden. For dinner last night we ate a venison pate from a deer that Charlie shot, drank a 1985 red wine, had the most exquisite cheeses, and a raspberry desert from their garden. For breakfast we had coffee and bread, with raspberry jam.

This photo of Jack Grant was taken in London, and was included by my mother in her memoir Seven Generations of A Queensland Family, from which the letter below was also taken. Here are my speech and my great grandfather’s letter, as presented at Vignacourt.
Speech by Robert Tulip at Jack Grant's grave, Vignacourt, France, 26 June 2014

My grand uncle Lieutenant Jack Grant died on 20 May 1918. We honour and remember his service in gratitude, as we honour the service of all who have fought and died for Australia and for France.

We are here to thank the people of France, and especially the people here in Vignacourt and the region of Picardy where so many Australians died. I extend personal thanks to Mr Eric Brisse for his work to make this commemoration of Jack Grant possible, as part of the visit by the Eastern Australia Brass Band. Thank you Eric for the opportunity to join in this service of remembrance. Thank you also in particular Mayor Ducrotoy, for sharing in this special event. It is deeply moving for me personally, and for my family.

Music contributes to community spirit. We celebrate through music the bonds of solidarity and friendship between France and Australia. Our enduring relationships are grounded in our shared values.

This Saturday 28 June marks one hundred years since the start of the war. Over the next four years, as we reach the many centenaries, we will remember the sacrifice of the fallen.

My mother’s father, Robert Grant, spent the war years in India and Africa. His brothers Gag and Jack Grant sailed for France. Sadly, like so many of his brothers in arms, my grand uncle Jack Grant did not return home to Australia, and is buried here. We are here now to pay our respects. The flowers of the forest are all wede away. Lest we forget the roses of Picardy. We will remember them.

A French soldier stands eternal guard over the Australians buried here in Vignacourt. We turn now to him to symbolise our ties of friendship.

Letter read by Diana Tulip in ceremony at Jack Grant's graveside.

Mackay 10 June 1918
To Lieutenant Robert Grant
Nairobi, East Africa

My Dear Son,
I have to confirm to you in my cable of 1st June from Colonel Luscombe to mother, ‘Lieutenant John Grant, Military Medal, died of wounds on 20 May, sympathy, all well.”
I thought it best to let you know as soon as possible. It would be very hard for you over there by yourself so far away from all your people to hear about Jack’s death. The news has come as a severe shock to the town and district as Jack was so well known, and so exceedingly popular with the public in his capacity as station master. We have received piles of condolences and have numberless visitors all of which things keep us from fretting too much.
I am writing to Gag today. It seems so hard that I cannot write any more to Jack. I have just received a letter of his dated 24 March and he writes so cheerfully and brightly. I expect two more letters from him at least. They will be treasured.
Mother is quite brave and Annie and Janey doing their best. We must just wait patiently and trust in God.
Cheery Robbie and blessings on you always and everywhere.
Your Affectionate Father, Alexander Grant 

27 June
A blog from the tour is at http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog-e ... /tpod.html

Today we visited the Bay of the Somme, including the Parc du Marquenterre

http://www.visit-somme.com/somme_touris ... rquenterre

This is a migrating bird sanctuary, scientifically rehabilitated to encourage birds to stop en route from Africa to the Arctic. It has a large resident population of storks and spoonbills, and extensive fresh water wading ponds for the birds. The stork nests in the pine trees are impressive.

The band played a concert at the seaside town of Mers Les Bains with the Brass Band de la Côte Picarde http://brasscotepicarde.free.fr/b_orche ... hestre.php
Mers Les Bains is at the mouth of the Somme River, on a wide shallow estuary. It has a beautiful beach, with big pebbles down to the water line and then sand. At both ends of the beach are high white chalk cliffs. I took the funicular train to the top of the western cliff, where a diorama explained that England is a hundred kilometres away.

Saturday 28 June

Today is the centenary of the assassination of Austrian Arch Duke Franz Ferdinand, beginning the cascade into the maelstrom. We visited the military cemetery at Villiers Brettonaux, where hundreds of Australian and other British Empire troops who died in the First World War are buried. This is an immense monument with a high tower. The band marched up the central grass colonnade between the rows of grave stones, about two hundred metres with more than ten rows of graves tightly packed. In addition the wall at the end lists the names of 11,000 Australians who died in France but who have no grave. The memorial was finished in 1938, but was then heavily damaged in World War Two, and the walls are pocked with bullet marks.

We drove to the Hamel battle site, where General (later Sir) John Monash of the Australia Corps executed what he described as a classical symphony of a battle plan to rout the Germans. Using tanks, artillery, planes, gas, bayonets and men in the place of the instruments of the orchestra, Monash ensured accurate timing of the entry of all parts beginning at 3am on American Independence Day, 4 July 1918. This battle was used by the imperial high command as a model of modern warfare.

Returning to Villiers-Brettonaux, the town saved by the Anzacs on 25 April 1918, Australia’s second ANZAC day, the brass quintet played Roses of Picardy at a wedding at the town hall. This song is a signature tune for the tour, and Diana will sing it for the first time tonight. The roses of Picardy evoke the flowers of the forest, the finest of the young who lie cold in the clay, in the hymn for the fallen.

And the concert was a triumph. Diana received a standing ovation for Roses of Picardy, and again for her encore Fly Me to the Moon. Due to Diana being unwell in Mers Le Bain, it turned out the anniversary concert in Villiers-Brettonaux was the only time on the tour that she sang Roses of Picardy in full, in both French and English.

Sunday 29 June
My hosts Charlie and Marie-François Dupuis welcomed me and Martin Schaeffer, tuba player in the band, into their house to stay for four nights. Charlie and Marie-François have been wonderfully generous, with their time, effort and help. They have a beautiful house and garden in a small old village just outside Amiens. The rich soil of northern France grows trees and vegetables that are far more lush than anything we see in Australia. Marie-François’s grandfather was mayor in the town of Fourdramoi, and we visited his grave in the local church yard with Charlie. As it happens I discovered that Martin’s son Stuart used to be my boss at work. Marie-François cooked us a wonderful meal on our first night at their house, with the local Picardy special of ham and mushroom sauce rolled in pastry,

29 June turned out to be a magnificent climax for the tour with the concert on the steps of Amien Cathedral where Diana was the soloist with a band of about a hundred musicians. The day began with a picnic on the bank of the Somme River in Amiens. The Somme is to me an almost legendary river due to its fearful reputation as the site of some of the most horrible battles of the Great War, in that mad world of mud, death and fire. The war is remembered of course, but today the Somme is a very beautiful region. Our picnic began under heavy skies which soon opened with solid steady rain. I was under an umbrella in a twelve seat boat in the Hortilonage, a large area of the Somme that is crisscrossed by canal channels, traditionally for agriculture but now more for private enjoyment, since the only access is by small boat. They have flower competition, and also some have market gardens.

From the picnic, we went for a brief visit to Amiens Cathedral, one of the great gothic cathedrals of France. Due to the rain, a scheduled outdoor concert in front of the town hall had to be moved to an indoor concert venue.

I am now on the train from my hotel in Paris to visit Chartres Cathedral, another French place with a completely legendary reputation for me, but for good rather than evil. Despite my strong faith in reason, I find places such as Chartres, and also Amiens, to be entirely magical, oozing a chthonic energy linking our fleeting moments of historical appearance to an enduring constant reality, surrounded by eternity.

One of my main interests in the cathedrals of France is how they show medieval concepts of time. The great western face of Amiens Cathedral is lit up every night in summer, restoring the appearance to its brightly coloured painted original. This comes as a shock when we are used to imagining that things have always been as they are now. But like with the ink in the chiselled names of the lost Australian soldiers on Menin Gate in Ypres, the paint that once coloured the magnificent figures of Amiens Cathedral, and all the great Gothic cathedrals, has fallen off over the centuries.

The scene on the Amiens Cathedral gate that most interested me was a depiction of the cycle of the year in stone. I am looking forward to seeing the same thing today at Chartres. On the bottom of the northmost end of the western wall, we find the symbols of the twelve months of the year, both in the agricultural activities that typically occur from sowing to harvest and storage, and also with the stars behind the sun at that time.

1 July 2014
Now I have spent a beautiful day at Chartres Cathedral. The extraordinary thing about this extraordinary construction is how little we today understand the thinking that inspired it. The purpose of a cathedral, as I have already suggested, is to bring time into connection with eternity, to enable community to see the original connecting connectedness of the ordered rationality of the cosmos expressed in the Christian idea of the unity of mythos and logos.

Mythos is the sense of mysterious symbolic archetypal meaning that generates a sense of beauty and awe. Logos is the logical ordered causality of things that can be represented and understood by language. The connectedness of being refers to the perception of an original unity, understood as all in all, recognising that the past, the present and the future come together in a stable causal whole of the universal reality of space-time.

In Chartres Cathedral, the grand immensity of the use of space seeks to hold an image of God within the high ceiling and walls, in the limpid light of stained glass. The windows and sculpture are truly magnificent, telling stories of the Bible, nature and history. I am sitting at the eastern end, in the part of the cathedral called the choir, facing a sculpture, made in the 1500s, of Jesus Christ riding into Jerusalem on a donkey. The series of sculptures to the left, on the southern side of the choir, tell the traditional story of Christ’s life up to this point, and on the right, the northern side, we find the subsequent events of passion, resurrection, and ascension. Chartres Cathedral has thousands of figures in glass and stone, and had many more in earlier times. The whole culture of veneration of Christ is based on a cosmology that through the middle ages provided a coherent and satisfying sense of meaning and purpose for the community of faith. But the conflicted status of this doctrine of meaning is shown by the large amount of destruction, especially decapitation and removal of sculpture.

In the construction of Christendom the church used the Christ story to assert that the union of throne and altar was on the side of the poor. This story was a means to deflect and contain social unrest, and to sustain social stability within the economic framework of the prevailing inequality between the classes. For example, the Gospel parable of Dives and Lazarus says the rich will go to hell and the poor will go to heaven. Preachers can use this to buy political peace, by convincing the poor that the emotional satisfaction of a hope for a better life to come, including revenge against their enemies, will serve to prevent protest about the injustice of the world.

In countries such as medieval France this trick worked for a long time, partly because the social contract between rich and poor did actually provide mutual aid, with the lord giving military protection in exchange for taxation. But the steady slide from a reasonable bargain into an unjust aristocratic exploitation produced the French Revolution of July 1789. The peasants saw the hypocrisy of the church as a target for destruction, leading to numerous beheadings, of kings, queens, lords, bishops and statues. This violent conflict leaves its residue today in the numerous headless statues of Chartres Cathedral.

I climbed the Chartres bell tower, up a narrow stone spiral staircase, providing breathtaking views over the city. When I get more organised I will share a photo I took.

The use of the cathedral to reflect a real sense of time and space is indicated in the repeated use at Chartres of the four living creatures, marking the four corners of heaven, and the twelve signs of the zodiac, marking the months of the year. The irony in this material is that this use of the stars indicates a purely materialistic understanding of time, but this cosmology has largely been forgotten and rejected due to its magical associations. Meanwhile, the actual myths, such as the Virgin Birth, create a massive quiet polarisation in society, between those who find these stories consoling and important, and those who see them as delusional and dangerous. My own view is that the polarisation can be reconciled by placing at the crux the vision that the myths of faith originate in real allegorical meaning.

2 July 2014
The Louvre.
My campaign to minimise my holiday costs has led me to stay at a hotel in Paris where the internet does not work. But that does not bother me, unless of course people are trying to get in touch with me, since the tariff is only 25 euros. From the Rue de Stalingrad I walked to the metro, which costs just 1.70 euros per trip within the city walls. A short walk along the river of dreams led me to the grand palace of the beheaded kings, properly of the citizens of Republican France since 1789.

The Louvre is truly spectacular. It only took me one hour from arrival to get in, descending through Mitterand’s pharaonic tribute, the glass pyramid in the forecourt. I patiently read a book in the warm summer sun while moving forward in the queue. I then spent five hours wandering around the galleries, starting with the mosh pit (Mona Lisa) and then moving through the Italian, Greek, Egyptian, Babylonian, Roman, French and Flemish collections.

I do not understand what motivates people to hold their camera aloft in front of the Mona Lisa, since it is easy to get a much better photo of Mona Lisa on the internet, except for the crass effort of the selfie. Nonetheless, I elbowed, kicked and headbutted my way to the front of the scrum of Chinese Ipad wielders, and then spent a serene few minutes of heavenly peace contemplating the inscrutability of the smile and the wise depth of the bottomless intelligent eyes, looking straight at me from behind their very own screen of bullet proof glass.

The Louvre contains seething currents of human flesh drawn from the four corners of the world. From gentle brooks, vast rivers of people come together, mostly politely, with the greatest maelstroms around La Gioconda and the wonderful torso and head of Venus de Milo. For their own polymorphous reasons the Louvre insist on titling La Gioconda as Monna Lisa, which I am sure must be infinitely confusing to some visitors.

After a brief wander around the Italian collection, mostly on Biblical themes, I spent some time communing with my friend Leonardo. His John the Baptist has the same deep genius as Mona Lisa, and uses the same Virgo model for the index finger pointing up to the starry heavens as in the corresponding figure in The Last Supper. The ladies in The Virgin of the Rocks are stunningly beautiful.

Next I headed for Egypt. I will never fail to be amazed by the high civilization of Ancient Egypt, and will never cease to wonder how the stony fragments that have survived form part of a coherent whole that we can only understand in the most partial way.

Seriously. I envy you.

What a great opportunity to visit such a historical treasure. Chartes was a topic of discussion in one of the Great Courses I own.

Wow! Magnificent!

Thanks for this post. It's among the finest ever here.

3 July 2014
Continuing my interest in the great Gothic cathedrals of France, today I am sitting at a café in front of the great cathedral of Saint Denis, patron saint and genonym of my home town Sydney. My reasons for visiting St Denis were that it is a single train ride by metro from my hotel in Malakoff, and that I wanted to see its magnificent south transept rose window, perhaps the greatest depiction in medieval art of the basis of the twelve apostles in the structure of time ordered by the movement of the sun through the stars each year.

So it was a considerable disappointment to me to find that the great zodiac rose window has been physically removed from Saint Denis cathedral. My enquiry to the bookshop attendant revealed that it allegedly was removed for reasons of maintenance, and that the church could not afford to restore it. Meanwhile, massive restoration work is underway on the western façade. Naturally, my conspiratorial suspicions led me to imagine that the reasons for its removal relate to disquiet that modern Catholics feel at how their medieval forebears understood Christ as allegory for the sun, with the astrological implication of the comparison of apostles and zodiac symbols seen these days as heretical, as derogating from the transcendental supernatural glory of God. But further investigation showed these suspicions not to be grounded in fact.

Saint Denis himself was certainly a rather miraculous character, at least according to the faith traditions. He was allegedly martyred at Montmartre in the mid third century by application of an axe to sever his head from his body. Inspired by Christ, he managed to physically carry his own head to his final resting place here, his neck spurting blood all the way. In awe at this magical feat, the church then built a place of worship above his tomb, gradually growing to the present magnificent edifice which is the resting place also for the beheaded kings of France, and of many royals (reals) who died of less gruesome causes.

Some magnificent old art in the crypt shows Denis delicately cradling his own head while his neck emits a red fountain.from its grisly flesh wound.

Paris in July is very beautiful. The square here in front of the cathedral has the typical French dense trees, pruned each winter to maximise the leaf to volume ratio and provide dark shade. I should also put in a good word for the Paris Metro, which I have found extremely easy to navigate, except for my bad southern hemisphere-derived tendency to constantly expect trains to come from the opposite direction from where they actually arrive. Today I caught the train to Gare du Nord, and bought a ticket to London for tomorrow. The trains are jam packed like sardines even in the middle of the day, but are nonetheless very easy to navigate, and the staff have been very helpful to me despite my complete lack of any French whatsoever.

Last night at the hostel where I am staying I stayed up till the wee small hours discussing music and philosophy with a couple of guys from England and the US. We had quite a good chat about electronic music, and how it compares to more traditional forms. I am rather biased against modern dance music, but the fellow I was speaking to explained how it is designed to produce an entrancing state of ecstacy, somewhat like religion was once meant to do in its Dionysian dissolving whirling frenzy. Which brings me back to old Denis the menace, who was allegedly the pseudo-Dionysus the Areopagite, and responsible for extensive writing on Christian cosmology, which might in turn help explain the presence (and absence) of cosmic imagery in his cathedral.

The best astrological image I have discovered is at the holy core of St Denis, where a row of twelve zodiac signs on the floor lead straight to the altar. This indicates how they regarded the zodiac as holy, central to the actual structure of time.  

7 July 2014
Two beautiful days in London with my old friend Tony Tonks and his wife Jo. First day spent at the British Museum. The two highlights there for me were the bark shield recording first contact between Captain Cook and Australia, and a few pieces in the Egyptian collection.

The story of the bark shield is that when Captain James Cook landed at Botany Bay on 29 April 1770, ready to declare ownership of the continent of New Holland for the King of England, two aboriginal men approached them. After desultory attempts at civil conversation, it seems the Brits had a soldier fire a bullet through the shield, marking the first contact between Great Britain and its future dominion of Australia.

The shield, apparently newly drilled with a bullet hole through its upper middle, was collected by Captain Cook as a trophy of his first contact with Australia. The information in the British Museum Enlightenment Section, where this prize of the British attitude to savage dialogue is on proud display, does not record if Cook knew or cared if the original shield bearer was killed or injured, although a bullet to the heart would be unlikely to be therapeutic. The British Museum say they "cannot state conclusively whether this particular hole was caused by a spear or a musket ball." I can't imagine how Cook got his hands on it without using a musket ball to encourage the owner to hand it over.

Bark is sufficient to ward off spears and boomerangs, but this contretemps shows that military technology in Australia was at the beginning of its rapid evolution into the wonders of metal. I am not quite sure why the British Museum sees fit to display this trophy of empire in its Enlightenment section. Certainly it has a strange iconic irony, in that dialogue by lead bullet does not really show civilization at its most refined and rational.

In the Egypt section, apart from the wealth of plundered wonders, the thing I found most interesting was a picture of the snake god on a coffin. More on that later.

Here is a haiku I have just written after visiting Rochester Cathedral in Kent, and seeing how they use the French Gothic cathedral ceiling design in the choir as a reverbarative amplifier, and how they put the green man on the ceiling straight above the central point where the nave-choir axis crosses the transepts.

Church in Rochester
Pre-electric Marshall stacks
Wake up the green man

Saint Denis picks up his head after decapitation. Honest!



Sculpture of Denis on his cathedral door, holding his own head, marching to his burial place, as you do.

8 July 2014
Messkirch. My final days in Europe, no longer on brass bands, but a personal pilgrimage to the birthplace of my favourite philosopher, Martin Heidegger, the heimliche König. The trains in Europe are just wonderful. I had a serendipitous delay at the Channel Tunnel, so instead of roughing it at a backpacker hostel in Frankfurt, Eurostar put me up at a nice hotel in Brussels and gave me dinner. I caught a 630 train next morning to Frankfurt, then got immediate connections to Stuttgart and Sigmaringen, where I had to wait an hour for the bus to Messkirch. I met an interesting Englishman in Brussels, and whiled away the train journey with him talking about music, drugs, politics and his phone app measuring the train speed (we hit 300 kilometres per hour).

Heidegger was born in Messkirch in 1889. Again, through a heavenly synchronous serendipity, it turned out the place I am staying, the Klosterherberge, is right next door to where Heidegger grew up, across the road from the St Martins Catholic Cathedral where he was a bell ringer as a boy, and down the hill from the Heidegger Museum. I highly recommend the Klosterherberger as a place to stay, stunningly elegant, well run and low priced.

Of course in Messkirch they think Heidegger is the greatest philosopher of the twentieth century, and they have named their high school after him as their most famous son. I am coming back to agree with that assessment of Heidegger’s deserved reputation, on which more perhaps later. But Heidegger is difficult to read, so it is important to try to distil his simple big ideas.

Last night in the kloster I watched the Germany Brazil game on TV, with the one other guest, a Swiss journalist doing a story on a plan to rebuild a medieval monastery. I probably should have gone down to the local hotel to soak up the German World Cup atmosphere, as I don’t think anyone quite expected the 7-1 trouncing they gave the Brazilians. While I seriously doubt that my arrival had much influence, it was certainly nice to see such Deutschesuberallestriumphierendurcharrogantdisdainundtechnikeleganz on my first night here. I doubt even Angela Smirkel could hide her delight. Go Germany!

This morning I went for a long walk along Heidegger’s celebrated Feldweg, the field path through farms and forests around Messkirch. Google images show Heidegger ruminating as he strolled along, spazierengang style, and the bench under the big oak tree where he used to sit and think. I took a short detour through a corn field and saw two baby foxes playing with each other, and managed to take several photos of them before they noticed me and ran off into the corn. I sat briefly at the Heidegger oak bench, and then down to a nearby village over a bubbling brook. Absolutely beautiful. It is easy for me to see how his philosophy was based on his feel for nature.

My interest in Heidegger arose from his effort to reconcile science and religion, through his recognition that scientific facts are not sufficient to produce a theory of value. His central axiom, that care is the meaning of being, arose from his understanding of social psychology as inherently relational, that our being in the world is grounded in historical existence in cultural identity, and that philosophical theories should be built upon this existential reality.

Care means connecting with other people through empathy and respect, so to make that a foundation for thinking presents a far more coherent way of doing philosophy than the analytic methods that subordinate thinking to the purely theoretical knowledge gained through science. Also, Messkirch Cathedral of Saint Martin rings its bells every quarter hour, and Heidegger’s early job as a bell ringer must have instilled his focus on time as the big problem in philosophy, a concern that first motivated me to read his Being and Time with such interest.

I am reading a biography of Heidegger by Rudiger Safranski, which is motivating me to return to discussion of Heidegger, something I had always planned to do. For now I will just mention his epigraph to his PhD, from the medieval German mystic Meister Eckhart, “time is that which changes and turns manifold; eternity stays simple.”

The local tourist bureau kindly opened the Heidegger Museum for me to look at. Again, it is a model of understated elegance, design and celebration, in the German efficient style. It has his complete works, and timelines of his life and thought, as well as a lot of good photos and original letters. Here is his hut in Todtnauberg.

I will conclude this blog for now with some broad remarks. I have had a wonderful holiday in Europe, something I have looked forward to for more than thirty years. Travelling with the Eastern Australia Brass Band provided some unique and unforgettable experiences, many of which I have captured on video, and look forward to sharing on Facebook, such as at the Arc de Triomphe and the Menin Gate.

I was immensely proud of Diana singing with the band, in her grace, talent, beauty and technical accomplishment. The quality of music produced by the band was superb, enjoyable and entertaining. The power of harmony in a brass ensemble is really unrivalled in more recent musical forms. Diana's vocals lifted the brass to a whole higher level, so I hope she can find bigger audiences. The pleasure the musicians get from playing extends also to the audience.

Seeing the bonds of friendship between France and Australia forged in the grief of war was intensely moving, especially in being able to remember my granduncle Jack Grant at his grave in Vignacourt, and the wonderful hospitality from Charlie and Marie-Francoise.

The great cathedrals of France and Belgium inspire awe, and I am really interested in how this legacy of human technical accomplishment in seeking a union of heaven and earth has ongoing life. For me to also have some time in France, England and Germany after the band tour, seeing more of the wonderful heritage in cathedrals, museums and architecture, and the easy sense of identity of Europe as the cradle of civilization, was wonderful and inspiring.

I am living vicariously through you.

Here are some videos I took during the visit to France - from http://vimeo.com/user30567123/videos

Autumn Leaves - Amien

http://vimeo.com/104025947

March to Arc de Triomphe

http://vimeo.com/103927779

Menin Gate

http://vimeo.com/104048802

Roses of Picardy

http://vimeo.com/104102445