IT’S astonishing to recall that just a few years ago, Remembrance Day was sliding towards oblivion. The 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month was passing largely unregarded, hence the shift of focus to Remembrance Sunday the following weekend.

But now, although the entire nation no longer stops in its tracks at the very moment the guns fell silent in 1918, Armistice Day, as it was originally called, has regained much popular recognition. With civic ceremonies then and on Sunday well supported, the tide of Remembrance is rising.

A good thing, of course, and to catch it at perhaps its height, the War Graves Commission has launched an initiative aimed at the young. Victoria Wallace, the Commission’s head, explains: “I think the real challenge is the next generation.”

So young people are being invited to become (paid) guides at war cemeteries. The first dozen recruits are now guiding visitors at the Thiepval memorial in France.

Splendid. But the Commission would do equally well to direct similar attention to war graves here in Britain. Scattered in local cemeteries and churchyards, many are neglected. Spending arguably too much time in graveyards, I’ve come across scores.

Among the worst was one at St Endellion, the church often featured in Doc Martin.

Close to the rubbish dump, the headstone was invaded by nettles, which my wife and I thrashed down with our walking sticks.

“The thing that gets people interested [in Remembrance] is the human story,” says Ms Wallace. Schoolchildren could research the history of their local war graves. In the absence of other care, they could act as their guardians. Certainly the War Graves Commission’s aim should be for every war grave to be as immaculate as those in mass cemeteries like Thiepval.

WHITBY MATTERS 1. A reader tells me that the origin of the Goth festivals might not be the visits by the Dracula Society, as I suggested. He believes the trigger might have been a small-ad for penfriends in a 1994 edition of the New Musical Express (yes, the NME) by a young Barnsley Goth, Jo Hampshire.

She received about 100 replies, and when she decided to meet her new friends at Whitby, chosen because if its Dracula connection, double that number of Goths turned up, packing out the Elsinore hotel. Where is Jo now? It is nice to suppose that among Goths she is a more lauded Barnsley figure than Dickie Bird or Michael Parkinson.

WHITBY MATTERS 2. It’s a struggle to say anything against that treasured institution, Bettys, luxury bakers extraordinary.

Perhaps few among us haven’t indulged, with great pleasure, from time to time. But really – their heavy-handed crackdown on the small Whitby café selling Fat Rascals, unaware that Bettys had trademarked the name. Such a shame, especially when it turns out the rascals have strong Whitby antecedents.

An inspired response to Bettys is suggested by a Cumbrian observer, Peter Cottam, of Brampton. He urges the café to rename its rascals Fat Bettys – after the well-known white-painted cross up on the moors. Perfect.

Top hole. Go to it, Sandgate café. Your oven will never be cold.