How does the poem go, again? 'There is some corner of a foreign field that is forever 4 Stone Street, Runcorn.'

In the #wearehere event, I represented Joseph Moores, who served with the Cheshire Regiment and died at the Somme, on the 1st of July 1916. Before he went over to France, he lived at 4 Stone Street, Runcorn. In researching his life I discovered there were two other men named Joseph Moores recorded as serving in World War I. One served with the Loyal Lancashire regiment, and died two weeks after my Joseph Moores. The other was a Canadian, whose ultimate fate is unknown.

Joseph Moores of Runcorn was born to William and Jessie Moores. William Moores is listed as a labourer in a later record - specifically a record of the 1938 marriage of Richard Moores, Joseph's younger brother, to Emily Fox. Richard was 23 in 1938, and would probably never have known his older brother - he would have been an infant at the time of Joseph's death.

Stone Street no longer exists - a Google maps search took me to Runcorn's Stone Barn Lane, which may or may not be related. A terrace on Stone Street was recorded as being unsuitable housing in surveys that were undertaken as part of the Housing Acts 1925-1935, which led to the terrace's demolition.

Even with all this information at my fingertips - the man's parents, his address, his younger brother's marriage - I still feel detached. I do not know the man himself, there is no record of his dreams, his fears, his thoughts.

This is perhaps appropriate. We were only ever aping the men who gave their lives for their country. We, like most people in this country, will have learnt about WWI. We may well have ancestors who served and died in that war. Anyone who attended a school that has existed for sufficient time (and this is not strictly class-based, I attended a state school established in the 1580s) will have seen the memorials listing the alumni of that school who served in the wars. But we do not know what it is to live in a fortified trench, or to charge into the face of machine-gun fire. Buddug and Gethin, the local organisers of the event, gave some quite vivid descriptions of the lives of the men who served and died at the Somme. They emphasised the familiarity they would have had with one another, the intimacy within that, and their functioning as a unit more than as individuals.

When we talk about rehearsals, we think of memorising lines. #wearehere being a largely silent event (the noise of our boots on the ground aside), this did not apply. Our rehearsals, rather, were a stab at recreating the kind of unspoken fraternal bonds that might be had between men who ate together, worked together, slept together and faced death together. We largely practiced moving as a unit, and exerting ourselves in our uniforms. At one point Gerald, another organiser whose background was in dance, had us hug each other - again, to try and capture something of the intimacy the men we represented would have shared, although intimacy is perhaps the wrong word, suggesting as it does a romantic connection. Perhaps physicality would be putting it better - at its core the event was about physicality, about the simple presence of a group of men in uniform, alternately walking and resting.

As I say, we were merely aping the men who died at the Somme. But there are certain parallels between the British army of WWI and how the event was structured. One concept that was mentioned during the rehearsals were the 'pals' battalions' of WWI, in which many of the young men of a town or village would join the army together. Certainly some of the men taking part in #wearehere knew each other already, though our recruitment was arguably closer to conscription (even though we had volunteered) - a group of men from the same rough geographical area being formed into a unit and then rubbing along together as best they can. There is also a comparison to be made in that the groups who took part in #wearehere were all localised, but being directed by a nationally based organisation, just as the army had locally based regiments ultimately directed by the British government.

The event itself was deceptively simple - in full uniform, we walked around the city, pausing in preselected areas. Occasionally we sang - 'we're here because we're here', repeated to the tune of 'Auld Lang Syne'. Yet - again, due to its sheer physicality - this prompted a striking emotional reaction from those who witnessed it. As part of our rehearsals, we had practiced walking as a group. Even in plain clothes, the people around us paid attention, and on the day we had the advantage of hobnailed boots that amplified the sound of our steps. People wept, people applauded, one man - who had himself served in the Falklands - praised our actions. Anyone who asked us what we were doing, or showed sufficient interest, received in reply a card with our soldier's details and the hashtag #wearehere. Andy Lloyd-Williams describes this, not inaccurately, as their headstone.

We had known beforehand that the event was being kept secret so as to make it something of a surprise. We also knew it would be publicised on the day, but even so it was slightly unreal to see the many news articles covering the event. Perhaps that reflects the somewhat abstract relationship between the local and the national. 

We were described as 'ghost soldiers' by some of the people who witnessed the event. While I can see why they would use the phrase, I would not do so myself. From the beginning, the organisers emphasised that we were not playing these soldiers, in the sense of acting in their character. We were simply simulations, placeholders for the men who could not be there. I certainly was not attempting to act the role of Joseph Moores - for all I know, I look nothing like he did. But in spite of that, I would consider any praise I received to be addressed to Joseph Moores, not me. He, after all,  was the one who put his life on the line for his country. It was a privilege to be given the chance to honour his memory.