Wrexham - reunions, raves and reverie.

I’ve just been to Wrexham. Where? It’s a city in Wales which was home to the army regiment The Royal Welch Fusiliers. A few years ago and to the disgust of many ex-comrades, the regiment was amalgamated with another welsh regiment to become to Royal Welsh. For the last few decades, every September without fail, Wrexham hosts the largest military reunion in Europe. Ex Royal Welchmen of all ages don their regimental ties and proudly set off to participate in the many activities provided by the Comrades Association for their amusement.

As well as getting banjaxed on the unavoidable wave of beer.

Why was I there? Well, you all remember my husband Pat? He actually had a life before me and when he was a tender teen, set off for a military career and joined the Royal Welch. Pat had a wonderful 7 years in this regiment and during his time ”in” made some of the best friends ever. It’s an experience indeed to be a spectator to this camaraderie. Men who haven’t seen each other for many, many years, greet each other heartily amidst the banter and friendly insults. Some have changed beyond recognition, some have slightly aged but are easily identifiable as the young lads they were. It’s a special time, a time that keeps you laughing until the tears of hilarity flow unrestrained but also instills an innate respect for these men. They’ve lost colleagues as the years pass, some have been through personal trauma and are currently experiencing some harsh and sad realities, yet they support each other. They hold each other up and even though they’re not on any muddy and bloody battlefield, they’re in the middle of life’s combat zone and it’s easy to see how much they value the presence of their “mates”, even if only for a short time. To know that kind of friendship and trust is a gift a lot of us will never experience. To see it manifest in this comical yet significant force, is a gift to the layman.

Having set off for the A company reunion, Pat and I got no further than the door of the local hotel before he was beset with greetings and catcalls. Mostly, relating to his still naturally brown hair color. The grey’s there though, it’s just not as easy to spot. Pat’s also still quite trim and I will never tell if he spends weeks at the gym or enhances his locks with anything artificial…so stop asking…or buy me copious amounts of booze. I’m ashamed to say I kept getting everyone’s name mixed up. So many people who still identify each other by their military numbers and nickames – well that’s easy for them to do but for the civvy, who incidentally feels a bit daft referring to someone as “43” or “47” ..or even calling a 40 something man “Shagger”, takes some practice. Finally the ladies present (yes, I am included in that) opted to use christian names. Wouldn’t it be great if I could have actually got their names right. Sorry “lads”.

The one name I will never forget and believe me, I was determined to find him; my wonderful friend Richard Donovan. I met “the Hon Don” many years ago when we were members of the original Royal Welch forum and used to enjoy meeting up with many others in the chat rooms. These days the chatrooms aren’t as popular, but my mate Hon Don is still one of the (new) forum stalwarts. We were at the pub aptly named after the regiment and I was just about to demand Pat take me to the memorial hall so that I could find RBD, when…he walked around the corner. Talk about perfect timing. Having informed Pat that I’d “pulled”, Don and I had a quick catch-up. For me, seeing him again was the icing on the reunion cake…or the froth on the reunion pint? Arrderchog.

Far too quickly it was suddenly Sunday. Having set a cell phone alarm for an uncivilized 08.30 am, I proceeded to kick and drag a still slightly drunk Pat out of bed. Making coffee and getting the bacon on for a hangover curing breakfast, I was horrified to look at the wall clock and discover it was actually 07.30 am. Ooops, which silly Sharon hadn’t changed her phone to British time? Pat never said a word, just turned around and crawled straight back into bed.
The lack of wordage felt a tad surreal, although my consequent giggling didn’t seem as funny to him as it did to me.

Eventually, we set off for the memorial hall and the preparation for the march into Wrexham town, ending in a memorial service at St. Giles’ church.

I must admit to having a lump in my throat at the sight of so many ex comrades and veterans, suited, booted and proud in their flash and hackle. Bryn Davies was the first person we saw as we approached the hall. Bryn was in the band with and is a great friend of Pat’s dad. He actually used to babysit Patrick... all those moons ago. Always turned out meticulously, Bryn looked fabulous in his military regalia and Pat, as always was thrilled to see his “old mate” looking so well. Slowly but surely, the company grew and finally they fell in, facing the war memorial.

This has to be one of the most moving sights for a “civvy”. Old men, young men and middle aged men, standing side by side as they paid their respects to the fallen. Marching to the church, age and infirmity forgotten, they lifted their chins, squared their shoulders and stepped out.

The church service over, they fell in once more. This time marching back to the memorial hall, for well earned relaxation, catching up time and the yearned for “pint”.

It will probably be a few years before I go to Wrexham again but I hold these memories dear. Even now, eager for the next time I can be a spectator to one of the most impressive displays of camaraderie a layman can experience.