Fort Rumeli Mecidiye, Kilitbahir. Cat in redoubt. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Summation
To stand in some redoubt of Time – to share again. Siegfried Sassoon (British soldier poet) whose brother Hamo was lost at Gallipoli.
Our time here is a grand ramble on wise ground – I feel the significance of the ground beneath our feet – a recurrent presence of this earth’s hallowed ground.
We start our climb upwards from Shrapnel Valley Cemetery upwards to Plugge’s Plateau. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Day 8 (22 September 2025): To Home
I have worked through my “of the time” digital notes and images, picking out the memories that add to my expression this last while. Our odyssey on this true footed campaign and trail is led by Gallipoli military historian and author Peter Hart. We revisit old footsteps of our own and those tracks of elden folks. We find new ground (to us) but familiar to that elden generation who speak again with each step taken.
Our leaders Bulent and Peter on the trail. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
All the while at critical points we are informed of the occurrences in these very spots. Of great assistance to us all is Bulent our Turkish guide who adds the local accent to Peter’s summations. A tag team of historical interpretation that includes the voices of the campaigners here and images from the time. All of us on this wander have something to add perhaps a quote to read, a paragraph or two, stories from their hometown veteran or regiment. Remember to listen…the voices are varied the stories speak to the time.
Father and son visitors at Helles Memorial. From one generation to another. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
I concentrate on each step high, low, steep or shallow. It can be easy to tumble here especially walking through treed areas across branches lying in tangles. From bankside to dry stream and back, rock step or ground, solid or loose, inclines, declines these steps of varying heights can with our excitement break our focus. A bit of imbalance and seemingly in step printed slow motion down to the sacred ground.
Place of peace and tranquility. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Being mindful all the while of soldier stories, family stories that survive as legend, myth and truth, operational histories, remembrance, songs and poets. Bringing it together is my attempt to help others become interested. These writings are a blend of all connections…they place you on the ground and set the tone for your walking steps at these sites in the future.
Be well…I have made it through, to trek and write another day…
EPIGRAPH
I HEAR THE VOICE THAT CALLS ME HOME Able Seaman James Allan McWalter Anson Battalion, Royal Naval Division Redoubt Cemetery, Helles 4 June 1915 Age 20
The author rests at the Helles Memorial. A time to reflect. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Barbed wire (the hurt) amplified by golden light. Military Marine Museum, Çanakkale. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Epigraph
The wound is where the light enters you.
Rumi (1207-1273)
Gravestones at Kumkale Cemetery, Çanakkale. Near to the French landing. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Day Seven (21 September): Kumkale and Troy
Suitably post-breakfast fortified at our morning café, our troop embarks upon the tour’s mini-bus with its arrival off the Ecabat ferry. Today a new destination, remaining on the Anatolian to Kumkale where the Ottomans and French met in conflict 25-27 April 1915. The afternoon a return to the familiar – Troy where new spaces provide these eyes a fortuitous chance encounter; a symbolic representation of my ever-present thoughts of conflict.
Defending the Dardanelles. Heavy gun at Dardanos Battery near Kumkale. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Our wheels roll through areas of wildfire fresh in its destructive path. Blackness against dry ground, buildings and surviving shrubbery. I yearn again for a footed wander across these vistas to seek new views. But soon a return to the troop as the notes of our tour’s anthem begin to play. The bus slows. We have arrived at the Ottoman cemetery where the 1915 French diversion is explained. Again, not all goes well for the allies. Peter repeats the objectives of the first three days…day one Achi Baba, day two, oh dear my recall faded but with inquisition Sari Bahr and day three tea and tarts in Constantinople. None of these objectives achieved.
Radio direction finder within the Dardanos Battery. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Afterwards we walk stone cobbles towards Achilles. The wind howls through the trees as we proceed to gun batteries. Originals and props for film reside here as does a radio direction finder ideal as a potential set for a 007 antagonist’s lair. We continue to walk. After watching from afar we catch up with the others – we stand, as Alexander the Great once did, at Beşiktepe before a bronze age burial mound, a tumulus where Achilles is said to be buried (c. 1184 BCE). Others make the ascent, but I am content to stand at its base, the angle too steep to climb. That we too pilgrims travel for events of the Great War, Alexander ventured here 334 BCE (Before Common Era).
The bronze age burial mound possibly of Achilles. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
At Troy we wander the wood trackways stopping at each excavation panel. The archaeological record that is Troy is a must see – for those with strong interests in this site, this is a lifetime destination. Our walkabout ends with the ubiquitous gift shop visit where patinated owls with golden highlights call from glass cabinets. None come home this day.
The patinated owls of Troy. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
It is at the new museum (Troya Müzesi), Tevfikiye, Turkey opened in October 2018 that I find the epigraph to our journey here. Amidst the broken and whole pieces that once were Troya – one fragment, one face – Asklepios (God of Healing). I remember to myself (we should all remember) not all wounds are visible. As I look upon the face of Asklepios (son of Apollo – God of Light) I appreciate we can all use healing. We can all use the light.
Asklepios. Fortuitous chance encounter. Troya Müzesi. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Dardanelles shipping on the current and at dock. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Introduction
I stood on the deck of a troopship At the Gate of the Dardanelles, Midst the thunder of warships’ cannon And the bursting of giant shells…
G. Brownell, The Call from the Dardanelles Published in The Referee, 6 October 1915
Suvla Bay where the Allies landed nightfall 6 August 1915. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Day Six (20 September): Suvla
As time nears to our departure another ferry arrives and satirical discussion immediately ensues about the possibility of being rammed amidst various references to well-known but cliche film quotes. The ferry pivots on a dime or more likely a plastic lid floating on the water. The on/off procedures are perfection with those well versed in the ways of our local crossing. Efficiency, both in unloading and loading, some at the same time and when full – off to the other side once again. Atop our water transport I repeatedly rise to photograph the mercantile fleet making its way to the sea. I appreciate painted colour against the natural landscape and deep blue of the passage.
The deep blue. Dardanelles vessel heading towards the Sea of Marmara. P. Ferguson image, September 2026.
The shades of the water’s deep blue harmonizes with the gentle ripples. Enough to make the contours assured of highlights and shadows. Reds and whites stand out against layers of centuries old merchant fleets. With the green but dry Gallipoli Peninsula in the background another freighter compass point moves along. I turn to thinking of Conrad’s Lord Jim and the Patna. Serendipitously how chance reminders (neural signals) allow us to connect random thoughts. Our crossing may be slow today as the floating commerce takes precedence, I take the opportunity writing reminders of neural signals to voyages upon the seas.
The well. Failure to provide a shout leads one traveler to drawing water. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Upon the other side we learn of failure to pay for a round (in Australia and New Zealand – think ANZAC – a round is known as Shout/Shouting) has resulted in one of our adventurers assigned with the task of drawing water near Green Hill and Chocolate Hill. In close pursuit is a driver chasing our laborer in circles. Amidst the laughter one thinks of Arnold as Conan. Methinks there will be additional shouts in the evening.
Upon this place we tread. Our trail up Lala Baba Hill. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Today at Lala Baba Hill (200 feet high) we learn about the Yorkshire Regiment (6th Green Howards) who are largely coal miners from Durham. Instructed not to use ammunition in the 7 August 1915 attack the fight is with the bayonet and hand to hand combat. The element of surprise lost due to a flare. Three-quarters of the regiment becoming casualties. After two hours there are only fragments of the 6th remaining. Tough coal miners downed by continual hurt upon this place we tread. Amongst their losses Lieutenant Colonel Henry Edward Chapman killed whilst leading the attack to the summit (and here…here we stand). Chapman is buried at AZMAK Cemetery, Suvla.
Lieutenant Colonel H.E. Chapman marker, AZMAK Cemetery. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Our journey continues. At our next site I watch green feathered birds dart amongst the trees at Chocolate Hill. We meet with the property owner who takes us to a previously buried Turkish projectile, with fuse and shrapnel balls. After this viewing of rusted metal, attention is turned to the nectar of bees as jars of honey are purchased for travel to tables in the UK. Hives and high explosives – nectar and hurt from the same fields.
Eat honey, my son, for it is good. (Proverbs). P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
The day continues with the words of Homeland reminding us of the harshness that was once here. Sadly, I am unable to find this voice this day…perhaps it will be heard again to these ears? With thoughts of all this storied day we arrive at Hill 10 Cemetery where I photograph gravestones of Newfoundlanders and so too the Hook Brothers, Duncan and Robin, 9th Battalion Lancashire Fusiliers resting side by side. Their story was known to me…and now there in another, Henry Edward Chapman far, far away across the sea.
And now today (10 January 2026) with time at home in the comfort of an oversized chair I imagine my Dardanelles ships of colour making their way upon the dueling currents. I think of 1899-1900 Conrad but find another while in search of quotes about the Dardanelles…a 1860 passage not heard to me before…a new serendipitous chance reminder that will return time and time again.
Dardanelles Théodore Aubanel French Provençal poet … In the still hours when I sit dreaming Often and often I voyage in seeming; And sad is the heart I bear with me, Far, far away across the sea Yonder toward the Dardanelles I follow the vessels disappearing, …
Dardanelles merchant ships. P. Ferguson image, September 2026.
Soldiers in bronze watch from the high ground. P Ferguson image, September 2025.
Day Five (19 September): ANZAC II
Minor issues this morning but enough to throw me off my mark. Hopefully catch up will round itself out shortly. It is enough that this creature of habit’s morning routine has had his trail disturbed. Once sorted I feel hurried but resolved. Soon I am at breakfast circling about the honey and bread, cereal, raisins and hot food. Afterwards we advance to the café nearest to our embarkation point. The morning, like the strait and self, has become calm…one must remember…minor issues.
Vehicles and passengers prepare to disembark for the Gallipoli Peninsula. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Again our team climbs to the top of the ferry for our crossing to the Gallipoli Peninsula. Two trips a day, there and back again, and how I do enjoy the crossing in these open-seating boats. I have time to think, to start the new words of the day. My mobile is a constant tool – the Notes app receiving a workout each day as I gather thoughts wherever I can. These initial impressions will be added too. More writing, more rumination to follow.
A reminder to us all of this land …of what went before. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
I believed earlier this may be my last visit here, but I think not. Why do we come back to these places? There are daily challenges, I have challenges – at times with every step. But I return because of what went before. Knowing, feeling this ground, these surroundings, sun, water, earth and sky – the people whose experience was this ground and turning this to my experience for them…for others.
We see more people today visiting relatively open sites. The benefit of this style of operational history tour is we go up and we go down the roads and trails less traveled. I appreciate those who visit here whether from cruise ships, buses or on their own. They have at least shown interest. What connects these visitors to these grounds (?) – to walk these earlier steps, to feel this ground, to stumble to fall, to feel the heat, the salt, the challenge of the climb…
The burnt and dried landscape of Gallipoli. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
It’s a four water bottle walk down a slope covered with debris and stone. Burnt branches litter the ground and in the near distance the sound of chainsaws and falling timber dry crackles its way to the earthen deck. Locals must wonder why we came this way as blackened hands wonder where to wash. The bosks* and holts** require fleet of foot and the free-spirited whip-like branches find their way across your person attempting to thwart your step, to challenge your balance, stinging when their twitch finds bare skin.
Rhododendron Ridge. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
The climb down and up Rhododendron Ridge, part of the Sari Bair range is much kinder than 2012. The peaks here are 200 to 300 meters high or for us old school types 650 to 980 feet high. And to think soldiers climbed in between these trails and upwards whilst under fire! Aged steps of varying low and deep rises have been replaced with some kindness, albeit occasionally with a reach of the foot. Former railings made of branches have, as well, been replaced with a finer version of sturdy and do not wobble nearly as they did before. It is a grand walk to the water and an event that pushes me, like Gully Ravine to a return visit. With our journey’s end we board our bus to lunch at Hill 60 and stop at the Sphinx where we have time to become familiar with this landmark formation overlooking ANZAC.
Shell Green Cemetery, cricket was played here. Howzat…Jaffa. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Another walk follows uphill to Shell Green Cemetery where a diversionary cricket match was played on the green by the 1st Light Horse Brigade on the 17 December 1915. The tactical innings a ruse, a deception to conceal Allied preparations for the evacuation of the ANZAC and Suvla Bay sectors. With thoughts of batting and centuries (100 runs), bouncers and googlies I return whence I came down the graveled road, bringing an end to the historic portion of the day…and with each step I watch as the sun stipples across the water on the horizon.
The return from Shell Green Cemetery. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Our bus attempts to reach an early Çanakkale ferry, but our boat has just departed. No hurry, there is more time to watch from this bank. I watch side to side observing life moving within the winds of today. It is a fine contrast to the past events we experience with our wanderings here. As the Alinteri*** 18 docks, I return to the present requirements. It has been a fine day of great effort and achievement. People and cars disembark (and load) at the same time. The vessel waits until full – not to a set schedule (it would seem). Before we depart the nearby minaret provides its audible devotional to all. Heads turn towards the direction of the call to prayer heralded from the tower and as we depart, I wonder what those amongst hear within its yearning voice?
Our return ferry the Alinteri 18 prepares to dock. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
* Bosk: thicket of bushes, a small wood.
** Holt: Old English. A small wood, wooded hill, grove of trees.
***Alinteri: Turkish meaning “sweat of the brow”. Hard work, labor or great effort. Used to emphasize that something was achieved through honest hard work.
Istanbul not Constantinople. We are barely off the ferry and onto the bus…the preliminaries beginning as I request 30 seconds notice before we join in this day’s, same as each day, bus-song. Great fun and now (having had 30 seconds) recorded for all time, a rousing choral group only too pleased to belt out the tune, ably led by the PHBT* logistics team. Though prior to this trip the song amused me it is now a standout, a memory for all time. The tune sets the tone for our day…brings the team together…all are smiling, whilst chattering about last evening’s wind tunnel refreshments. Our 50-minute drive to Gully Ravine continues.
Day Four (18 September): Helles 2
Shipwrecked lighter at Gully Beach. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
We stop at X beach and walk part way down the slope stopping before we are on the landing. It is a brief visit to learn what happened here but soon we move on to Gully Beach (Y2) where another vessel awaits us lying in state beached. Its metal skeleton becoming increasingly a relic of layered, shredded rust. One day the sea shall have the boat shard as the waves continue with their wake. Nearby the bones of men.
Standing full and crumpled water bottles. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
We walk towards a well…likely dug by Joseph Murray, Hood Battalion, Royal Naval Division. Though water lies within its walls we would not drink from it. Best to trust the hydration we carry. Aqua est Vita – Water is Life. A perfect reminder – remember to hydrate…our next walk is three bottles long…and our time here and for all days – the sound of crumpling bottles like the shuffling of cards. Some sounds stand out from the crowd, and this is one for the duration. We move on from the well, card metaphors continue.
Water is life. The well near Gully Beach. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Our wander through the dry ravine goes especially well. In 2012 our group had challenges to navigate…I seem to recall sliding across boulders (or at the least very large rocks or was it compacted earth – probably both) in an attempt to move along the path of least resistance. There seemed to be more obstacles as the water in the ravine dictated our need to bob and weave. One was concerned about falling in – though not deep there would be far too much laughter for the remaining day and for the rest of the trip. Here in 2025, there are a few low-level challenges, and the natural rock wall requires two to help me over, but there is no water. I suspect the 2012 challenges remain – that was May…now in September it is far drier, not very green, and so too with wildfires having taken much in its path…we are able to see more.
Walking through a very dry Gully Ravine. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Along the gully’s carved route I again stand and walk in amazement at this natural place that in 1915 saw medical posts within its contours including dressing stations and first aid posts. I imagine as I wander, what silent sounds rebound within these walls…their stories are being told again as we walk through this part of history. Hmmmm 1915…2025…110 years later. We will remember them.
The team at the natural rock wall of Gully Ravine. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
At Nuri Yamut Memorial we sit outside its walls and receive our lunch, meatball sandwiches embedded with chips aka fries, along with bananas, drink and ice cream. While here in Gallipoli each day, time is of its own accord. It takes the time it takes to hike to places, there are always detours in our advance, new finds, new excursions, lunch occurs when we get there. Not as scheduled but always appreciated. As I walk along the wall after re-fueling the call to prayer begins its crest. Indeed most appropriate after all we have seen.
Redoubt Cemetery. West of Krithia. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
A visit to Redoubt Cemetery, near Krithia, occurs near to day’s end and brings us to a memorial tree planted in honour of 2nd Lieutenant Eric Duckworth, “B” Company, 6th Battalion, Lancashire Fusiliers, age 19. The tree is the only private memorial on the Gallipoli Peninsula having been planted by his parents James and Mary Duckworth of Dunsterville, Rochdale in 1922. Though Eric Duckworth was never found, he is commemorated on the Helles Memorial, the leafy oak stands with 2,027 Commonwealth servicemen burials and commemorations.
Memorial oak tree planted in memory Eric Duckworth. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Reminders of loss continue as we add to our day of learning at Achi Baba a site of great devastation, costly and bloody, in these killing fields and gullies. There was an immense loss of life here, fragments of war are found along our travel lines and, at rest in the crux of a tree, the sting of a projectile lies extinguished but haunting. The trauma still remains in these grounds and waters… though we repeatedly remind ourselves to never let this carnage happen again, with our lives of experience, the knowledge of the days we have now… is it too much to contemplate the actions we continue…after our simple pleasures of lemon ices? Aqua Est Vita…Terra Musicam Habet Is Qui Audiunt (the earth has music for those who listen).
Lemon ice at Krithia. Time for contemplation. Can you hear the music? P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Wantmore on walkabout at the non-mice Bailey home.
Here In His Attic
Wantmore struggled a bit this past year. He was missing his o’den ones who had kept him safe and warm. The ones who brought him ice cream and crumbles, tastiness and shiny things. Still there were others about who brought him joy. But the year had also been hard with his non-mouse Bailey family having finally chosen to gift the Waterloo items to an important museum somewhere in London. Wantmore did not understand what London was…sounded big, scary for a mouseling. And so here in his attic, Wantmore was now alone in his alonenessness, a giant void that once was the trunk, his boot his home and filled with things…well…familiar things to him…gone.
Wantmore browses through his oneziss picture album at Christmastime.
Wantmore sat in his chair, a small hearth providing warmth with a table of goodness beside. Slowly he sipped at the hot chocolate and giggled as the melted green, yellow and pink marshmallow bits attached themselves to his whiskers. But he was also very careful as he sat turning pages in his oneziss mouse album. Some mouses were unknown to him but others he well remembered like Grampa Gravystone, formerly of the Auxiliary Mouse Service.
Wantmore saved mini marshmallows through the year for his hot chocolate.
Gravystone (such a fine name) had lived and fire moused (oh my) in London (extra oh my) during the time of the Blitz. Tales of tails in gargantuan fires, falling debris, loud noises, frightened mouses and other creatures…including the non-mice. But Gravystone had survived these days and afterwards came to Kemmelberry. Wantmore looked to the wall where a frame of Gravystone and his shiny things resided. There was of course a portrait of Gravystone with his tin hat marked “AMS”, an AMS badge he wore in those trepidatioustimes and a green, orange and black riband with the Defender Medal. Gravystone always said that he was most proud of his service and so was Wantmore.
Gravystone in an AMS vehicle races to a Blitz site. Pixabay image by Hellio42.
Decidedly Wantmore decided he needed more crumbs, some fruitcake was about from the non-mouse Christmas last year and it was the dark kind…the best kind. Wantmore shaved some slivers for himself and some extra for any potential guests, this as it was known amongst the non-mice – Christmas Eve. Gently Wantmore poured more hotness into his mug…it was his best mug, one that Gravystone was given by Wantmore’s Gramma Tailtwitch before Gravystone and her were married. Tailtwitch worked in a canteen run by a local charity providing comforts to the Auxiliary Mouse Service and Raid Mouse Precautions. Tailtwitch would have received a Defender Medal too, but this was long ago misplaced. As Wantmore turned the page to his elden mouse wedding day portrait he smiled and was gracious for the year that he had had. Never mind this sadness stuff…I learned to play checkers this year he thought…and he was very good counting six wins for himself and six wins for his other self as there was only him.
Wantmore playing checkers (to his understanding!)
Just as he pulled the checkerboard out for the final game of the season, great mouse clatter occurred as he was descended upon by all matter of oneziss mouses. There was much to chatter about and a few gifts to open insisted his mother mouse named for Tailtwitch but with a y added to note a difference in the grand mouse tree. All assembled around Wantmore’s tree as he pulled the ribbon…and within his paw fell a shiny medal…one with a green, orange and black ribbon. Wantmore held it with great surprise and there upon the medal’s edge…was a great mouse name Tailtwitch. Canteen Mouse Service. Much joy fell upon him as he chose that moment to align the two oneziss Defender Medals together complete with a certain wedding photo (both in uniform). And so, the mouses, safe and warm, chattered all night with crumbles and spices, drinks and giggling as marshmallows attached themselves to their whiskers.
Wantmore with his oneziss at the hearth.
Merry Christmas to one and all…mouse and non-mice!
All images, save for AMS Gravystone, by P. Ferguson, December 2025
Gallipoli ant nest in the sand. P. Ferguson image, May 2012.
Introduction
The day begins (for me) at breakfast with a honey urn (an inverted hive), coffee at the café and on the ferry discussions of classic rock bands we have seen. Today is Anzac 1. It will be time to climb again. Hold up legs…knees…the roll-on muscle lotion applied. I am good to go. The lotion will, perhaps, be lasting. Remember to hydrate and sunscreen…
Honey urn at Port Artur breakfast room. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
As our bus rolls on to our first objective – 21 of us in all – and most of us of an age…the song comes. Istanbul (Not Constantinople)…to be sung every day. Forever ingrained. Our daily tune becomes worthy of a quick search, and I am amused that the original was sung by the Canadian quartet…The Four Lads…good gosh the Canadians (and there are four of us this trip) are to blame for this ear worm released in August 1953!
Day Three (17 September): ANZAC 1
Commonwealth War Graves Commission markers at Ari Burnu Cemetery, ANZAC, Gallipoli. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
At Ari Burnu, near Suvla Bay, where the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps first landed 25 April 1915 we walk the rows of graves. Stones have been left atop several markers as evidence of other’s visits. Always I wonder what these visitor’s thoughts were…some perhaps relatives…others perhaps sentimental…the losses can be overwhelming. In the distance thunder…
Beach Cemetery, ANZAC, Gallipoli. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
We proceed south to Beach Cemetery at Hell Spit also near to Suvla Bay. Here, similar to our visitors who leave behind stones at Ari Burnu, visitors leave poppy crosses, pinecones and stones at the grave of John Simpson Kirkpatrick AKA John Simpson, a stretcher bearer of the 3rd Australian Field Ambulance.
Grave of John Simpson Kirkpatrick, Australian Army Medical Corps. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Simpson used donkeys to transport the wounded to the beaches for evacuation. For almost a month, whilst under fire, Simpson continued in these actions until killed by machine gun fire 19 May 1915. His likeness together with his donkey appear on the Australian Anzac medallion and on statues at the Australian War Memorial and in England (Simpson was born in South Shields).
James Simpson Kirkpatrick. Australian War Memorial, A02826.
We climb today towards Plugge’s Plateau. Some of it fierce, one poor soul falls a second time in as many days – there are more days of this, one hopes for no further falls – no injuries. I understand their strength to keep going. Having fallen myself in 2012 I know that one’s will – will help you through the course. Repeating to myself, as I did in 2012, There is no way I will let this hurt affect my trek.
Climbing upwards alongside Shrapnel Valley Cemetery. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Our walk to Plugge’s starts at Shrapnel Valley Cemetery as we hike upwards along the constructed path to the left and then on to the foot trail. We look down towards Queensland Point from McLagan’s Ridge, now renamed Walker’s Ridge. Further along the path a sign simply marked Walk This Way points towards my family walk destination…in memory of the Harper family, two Australian brothers I only recently wrote about (see And So We Will Walk, September 1, 2025).
Our constant companion for much of the day.
P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
At Plugge’s Plateau Cemetery, the smallest of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission’s cemeteries in Gallipoli, a Kangal joins our team on to the Sphinx and beyond. Atop the ridge I look towards the Sphinx and the Razor’s Edge, all cameras are out as everyone captures the towering landmark…our Kangal finds shade, lies down and rests. Our large dog friend knows this route well, moving ahead, stopping well in advance at all points of interest. His reward will come later with snacks and water from our group. Rover has done this before.
Two Gallipoli landmarks, the Sphinx and the Razor’s Edge.
P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
With the heights that we climb, we must also face steep downward journeys…and then climb again…this time to 4th Battalion Parade Ground Cemetery. At the end of the trail a sign…C.W.G.C. 4th Bn. Parade Ground Cemetery / Steep path 200m [metres]. I am near to my main walk today…reminders of previous writings of the Beard Family Walk (24 May 2024), Oh My Dear Boy (John Macnaugton’s Walk – 26 August 2024), and Mrs. Kate Palmer’s Walk (11 August 2018) come to mind. But at this time…to the brothers Harper…the Harper family walk. Both lads killed 7 August 1915.
Lone Pine Cemetery and Memorial.
P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Now at Lone Pine Memorial and Cemetery I wonder if mother and father…Fanny and Charles Harper of Perth Australia have been here…or other family members. Only recently I had learned of the brother’s 1915 time influencing director Peter Weir. A story creating a story. How many others know more about Gallipoli thanks to Weir, thanks to Gresley Tatlock Harper (age 31) and Wilfred Lutkin Harper (age 25).
Gresley Tatlock Harper.
Australian War Memorial, PO7183.001
Upon arrival I take my time to find their names. There are visitors here and I have no wish to disturb them in their thoughts. Distant images first and then to the panel in the far left corner – nearest to the memorial – AUSTRALIAN LIGHT HORSE / 10TH REGIMENT – and there the Harpers are before me…along with so many others…of their regiment…of other regiments and I wonder…how many others know about Gallipoli also thanks to other family names…Fry, Anderson, Holland, Ruwoldt, Villis…?
Wilfred Lutkin Harper.
Australian War Memorial, PO7183.002
Always hard to leave my thoughts at Lone Pine…but there will be new thoughts…another day…we move out to the Anzac Mine Tunnels and Quinn’s Post. Here the tour’s oracle stands with a reading appropriate to our day before we leave for Bloody Angle and Dead Man’s Ridge. At long last I find some rosemary in thirst to photograph. We visit Walker’s Ridge Cemetery where one can see Suvla Bay in the distance.
Suvla Bay the amphibious landing site, August 1915.
P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Our day has featured thunder. Though a natural sound, some perhaps hear in its effect the chaos of hurt. We have passed through prickles and ants that bite, inclines, declines, plateaus, and trenches. At the end of this day a gathering of jackals passes without sound alongside our bus and into Gallipoli’s wilderness. There is voice in their silence.
Panels 9-10-11 at Lone Pine Memorial commemorates the fallen of the 10th Australian Light Horse.
P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
From notes written 17 September 2025
For additional information on the Harper Brothers please read And So We Will Walk, Short Days Ago. 1 September 2025.
An Australian runner at Gallipoli – ANZAC John Hazlitt
Statue of Seyit Ali Çabuk who single handedly carried heavy artillery shells 18 March 1915. P. Ferguson image, September 2015.
Day Two (16 September): Helles 1
After the Dardanelles ferry crossing, our first in-depth stop is a review of the Dardanelles naval attacks with focus on the disastrous 18 March 1915 tumult. Onshore, Ottoman batteries, as well as newly laid Turkish underwater mines, hammered allied steel to misshapen form. Three vessels, the French battleship Bouvet, and two British pre-dreadnought battleships, Irresistible and Ocean are sunk.
If the Allies had been successful in forcing a passage through the strait, reaching Constantinople, there would never have been a land campaign. Allied success might have taken the Ottoman Empire out of the war gaining, for the Allies, a supply route to Russia. But there was no success…no Constantinople…the landings commenced in April.
A freighter sails through the Dardanelles. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
As details are provided I am pleased by all that I have retained over time. True enough – this Dardanelles naval battle is easiest for me to tangle my head around. The time – short (not back and forth over months), places and actions – familiar, the distance between the shorelines of the strait – narrow. I can see all the features and adding to my imagination the passing of modern freighters and container ships adds to my visioning abilities.
No longer in ruins. Heavy restoration at Sedd el Bahr fort. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Several fortifications are being restored with newly rebuilt structures atop old familiar ruins. These sites feel careful and modern rather than…what once was left to time. Perhaps in the ruins there was more accuracy – closer to the time of study? Sedd el Bahr (Seddülbahir) fort is not the eye captivating ruins it once was with its now recreated stonework and interpretive panels. Later this day we will see previously abandoned French guns no longer in brambles and under other natural cover. No warnings about vipers required – their terrain is gone. The guns stand with newly built walls and pathways – as if props – their previous earthly reclamation far more interesting. Time though will improve these new sites as the surrounding area grows to welcome them and the current starkness replaced with character.
French guns, formerly in the wilderness, now lie in the open. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
At V Beach – one of my favorite stops – we wander towards the River Clyde site. I am at first greeted by a beach volleyball net and after Sedd el Bahr wonder if this site has also changed? Fortunately, the landing site I seek is to the left. As we walk there is chatter of a new resort. Though it is hard to imagine beachgoers frolicking in the sand and water with the knowledge of the bloodshed that occurred here…for others – this is their home. Other sites of devastation have been rebuilt and repurposed. Imagine if London, Berlin, Normandy, Dieppe or Ypres were not? Commemorations remain – ruined churches and cathedrals in homage to what once was. It is important to remember. I doubt a day goes by without Turkish families recalling their Gallipoli battles…their ata, dede, nemen, their soyad.
The site where the SS River Clyde was beached. Each wave an echo of the past. P Ferguson image, September 2025.
Standing at V Beach, with the gentle lapping at the water’s edge, we hear the costly story of the British collier and “Trojan Horse” SS River Clyde and its 2,000 soldier/sailor occupants. On this bit of embattled shoreline, six individuals performed the deeds that were recognized with the award of the Victoria Cross. Many soldiers and sailors did not survive here. The River Clyde however survived being refloated in 1919 continuing in Spanish service as the Angela and later Maruja y Aurora until scrapped in 1966.
Walking towards the Helles Memorial. A Kangal walks towards our approach. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
At the River Clyde site personal quotes are first read aloud adding to our understanding of this place. Words of the 1915 witnesses are passed around for individuals to read while laminated images pass from hand to hand. After a brief visit to V Beach cemetery we climb a rough path, difficult to scale in places, to the Helles Memorial, where I, at long last, find and visit with the name of F.W. Stacey of the Royal Naval Division and Chilliwack, British Columbia.
The commemoration of Frank Wendell Stacey, Chilliwack, B.C. on the Helles Memorial. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
In 2012 the memorial was undergoing restoration by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission. The names of the Royal Naval Division were covered at that time by work materials. Sub-Lieutenant Frank Wendell Stacey is also commemorated on Chilliwack’s local memorial. Stacey served with the Hood Battalion and after recovery from wounds received in the Dardanelles returned to the peninsula where he was killed 4 June 1915. After these respects I find the name of Hamo Sassoon the brother of poet Sigfried, a new interest for me to learn what Hamo’s famous brother may have written at the time of his loss*. Others become interested and wander over to see the name. Hamo Sassoon served with the Royal Engineers and died 1 November 1915 aboard the SS Kildonan Castle after having his leg amputated.
Great War wreckage at Lancashire Landing. Site of Six VCs before breakfast. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Outside the Helles Memorial we eat lunch in the shade where we sit within our thoughts including the trails to come. Twenty minutes pass….we receive our notice…on to Lancashire Landing. More rusted Great War iron seems exposed here than previous as far more parts lie in sharp and corroded scaled contrast to the fluidity of the waves. The pier posts remain and provide watchful stands for gulls and a single cormorant. Our next climb – the difference between a scramble and a cliff? You can climb a scramble. At times I need help, but I largely ascend on my own until the slope suggests otherwise. I am at the top to see the craters left from three mines as well as the water reservoirs. We cross a 4’-5’ concrete plank – 2’ wide with 10′ drops to either side. Good gosh so good to be here.
Visitors at Lancashire Landing. In the background the scramble we are to climb. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Our remaining day takes us to hop on hop off points of interest. At the Turkish Memorial we learn about the structure of Turkish family names courtesy of our Turkish guide Bulent. Our group has, for some 5-6 hours, heavily uploaded all that there is to learn here. Our hosts recognize when the well is perhaps, not dry but soaked for the day. We need refreshing and inevitably after wandering a museum at Krithia of rusted debris from the battlefield purchase ice cream and tea. To my great delight I am gifted a small Turkish teaspoon from the café. After a day of really big events it is nice to know the small and simple things still fit in.
At a Krithia cafe we welcome ice cream and tea. My souvenir spoon…a simple pleasure. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
*To My Brother
Give me your hand, my brother, search my face; Look in these eyes lest I should think of shame; For we have made an end of all things base. We are returning by the road we came.
Your lot is with the ghosts of soldiers dead, And I am in the field where men must fight. But in the gloom I see your laurell’d head And through your victory I shall win the light.
Weirwood tree and Dutch carillon. P. Ferguson image, November 2025.
Weirwood*
The benediction is read as two crows fly South-Southeast whilst framed by Victoria’s weirwood tree and carillon.
Standing at my usual post, with my familiar, perhaps junior weirwood tree behind, I am ideally positioned to observe all who gather here. We have come to remember, to find our place within the “between” spaces of quiet, with spoken word, choral voice, aircraft and cannon. The lament…Flowers of the Forest.
Visitor’s poppies left for the day at Victoria’s War Memorial. P. Ferguson image, November 2025.
Our tranquil space, our weirwood thoughts, of flowers and fallen autumn leaves, the change to our season – time treading its course. I am of few words today…all have gathered here with connection to someone…to this 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month.
And so I watch, and so I listen. I find my between spaces of quiet…of those family houses who went before…whose words seem wiser than anything I might write. But then I re-remember that with this day, we are all connected. With our weirwood thoughts and with our search between spaces I watch as crows fly above gathered flowers and fallen leaves…these are our houses…
Fallen maple leaves at rest. P. Ferguson image, November 2025.
*Weirwood: A sacred tree well known to followers of Game of Thrones.
Our Family Houses
Edward William Ferguson 119 Battery, Royal Canadian Artillery Royal Canadian Postal Corps (United Nations Peacekeeper)
Lewis MacLeod Mills 15th Canadian Field Regiment (WW2) Royal Canadian Artillery
Ray Morgan 4th Anti-Tank Regiment (WW2) Royal Canadian Artillery
Eugene Ferguson United States Army (WW2)
Donald Ferguson United States Army (WW2)
Bob Wilcox Royal Canadian Navy (1960s-1970s)
Ole Berget 31st Canadian Infantry Battalion (WW1) 3 May 1917
Ed Berget Loyal Edmonton Regiment (WW2)
Bill Berget South Alberta Regiment (WW2)
Bernard Kyllo 50th Canadian Infantry Battalion (WW1) 1 February 1917
Robert B. Kyllo Calgary Highlanders (WW2 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment (82nd Airborne) (WW2) US Army 14 February 1945
Soon to arrive in Istanbul. P Ferguson image, September 2025.
The Journey Out
Over the next several days eight records of my return to the Gelibolu (Gallipoli) Peninsula with Peter Hart (Battlefield Tours) will appear. Our journey (there were 21 of us this time) commenced 15 September 2025 and ended 22 September 2025. We stay at the Hotel Artur on the Asian side of Turkey at Çanakkale and take the ferry to the European side of Turkey, to the Gallipoli Peninsula, each day. (This was my second visit, 13 years after my first landing (May 2012) and 110 years after the events of the Great War, known to the Turks as the Battle of Çanakkale.
Each day I scavenged time to scratch down notes – on the ferry, the bus, at lunch, in the hotel…review, edit, markup, read, re-read, change and so on. Some original writings are nearly completely re-written but the base is there from the very day. They are what they are. I have been successful in the challenge of the climb…the days filled with sun…the encouragement to meet each day in partnership with like minded adventurers.
Share in the journey. A message from the screen in front. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Day One (15 September): ArrivalÇanakkale
Sleep a challenge since arrival Thursday. Five hours over three days in all, and up early on this new day of travel – 1:30 am. Good grief. With my familiar aches and pains it is only my excitement that acts as stoker. There is a shortage of fuel…methinks it’s fumes only that pass over the shovel, fanned not scooped, creating my forward movement.
Our group has gathered first at Heathrow Terminal Two. Our flight is graceful and… comfortable and with our approach into Istanbul the phone’s camera becomes engaged albeit with hopefulness more than certainty for grand images. We land….descend the stairs to waiting busses, pass through an extensive crowd (other nationalities) at Control then wait. One more to arrive…
One of several rolling shots along the coast towards Çanakkale. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Some time later, and with much chiding of the non-present being, our current conversationalist target arrives. We find our bus and the welcomes begin…as well as…a health and safety review. Hydrate, sun screen…and yes there is a first aid kit…including another of my own.
Footprints at Gallipoli. It is best to know where we walk. P. Ferguson image, September 2025.
Thirteen years have passed since I left footprints at Gallipoli. The rolling journey is everything I seek…already I have found the notes to the scale…the letters to the words that make this a fine first day. I smile. We need to find the day’s music..as a crowned mermaid passes by the window. Turkish please…tea first.
