I nearly died on the Somme. The more mathematically-agile reader, no doubt, might assume that this event took place in the summer of 1916 and will be impressed with my assumed longevity and technical wizardry at an impressive age of 120 years old. But before any of us reach for the Guinness Book of Records, I should clarify that my near-demise took place in my Ford Mondeo in March.

Stopping off at Gommecourt Wood Cemetery on the way home from Paris, I had parked up on the left hand side of a narrow country lane and taken this picture of the Cross of Sacrifice. I was tired. I'd been travelling through France for several days. I was a few hours from home. I was even quite smug at how the sun behind the cross gave an almost religious quality to the photograph. As I drove towards Gommecourt, I wondered at the large lorry that was coming towards me. "Why is Johnny Foreigner driving on the wrong side of the road?", thought I.

As we accelerated closer to each other in a continental game of chicken, I could see the lorry driver gesticulating wildly to his left. It finally dawned on me that, after days of careful driving, I had made a nearly fatal error. I swerved out of the way, just in time, and pulled over. To paraphrase Flashman, I was in a blue funk for several minutes afterwards.

At the going down of the sun, we will remember to drive on the right side of the road.