There is a village near Glasgow which, one hundred years after the event, is erecting a monument to the war dead. Some think it is too much, that we don’t need this monstrosity to remind us.

But memory is fallible and we are, after all, only human and, in times of war, are capable of terrible deeds, mostly driven by fear. Those who have lived through war will have seen the worst that we can be. The first world war is a perfect example: bloody battles, torture and not least the terrible hardship our fathers, husbands, brothers and sons had to endure in the trenches and tunnels which became home as war dragged on; terror, horror and boredom in equal measure while, at home, mothers, wives, sisters and daughters pulled together to keep everything running so that those who came back when it was all over would know that the sacrifices had been worth everything.

The monument is well under way and should be ready by the summer of this year; we stood in the rain and biting wind last Sunday and watched the first stone being laid. A lone piper played a melancholy drone as we stood huddled while the speeches were given; the cold wind driving the needles of rain into our faces stinging our eyes, a stark reminder of what those men in the trenches had had to endure, not only for ten minutes but for months at a time in the bloody fields of battle.

We retired to the cafe afterwards for a warm drink, rubbing our cold hands and wiping the tears from our eyes; not so for those gallant men, there had been no respite from the bitter wind of war.

It is going to be the grandest thing in the village, some think too grand. But I believe it should be grand just as the sacrifices were and still are, something to stand out so that people passing will stop and take notice, read the names of those who died to keep us safe and remember that they are the reason we live the lives that we live, free and safe.

Freedom is a hard fought battle which never ends. The monument will be built, lest we forget.