Eighty-five years is nothing, an imperceptible blink on the face of the stone god of history. I say it does not count. Greater stretches of time have passed, since the Romans abandoned Wroxeter.

Eighty-five years ago saw a student cycle the long, dusty, carless road from Shrewsbury; blue September, the Wrekin as it is today, dew glistening on the mounds, similar sheep grazing between the bath-house walls of the ruined city.

This was better than Latin. He scoured the site for iron keys, a fragment of dark-red pottery, a coin, stamped with the image of the goddess Luna; urged his brother, think what we may be missing, the great find of the century!

Some of his finds got into the town museum, can be seen there in dusty glass containers, mixed up, not labelled with his name, Wilfred Owen.

The boy picked up his steel horse, made his way through summer darkness back to Shrewsbury. School was next day, and war was a barbarous game, fit only for Romans.