The place was bathed in late afternoon sunlight. A gentle breeze moving through the lavender hedges the only sound.
It was beautiful, more than peaceful - a place that belies its gruesome history.
I was standing at the place where my great-great-uncle Frank Woodhouse died 100 years ago during the 1915 Anzac Campaign. His remains, like so many others, were never found and his name is inscribed on a memorial to the missing at the cemetery at Hill 60.
As I stood looking at his name on that plaque, my mother's maiden name and a name that is part of the fabric of my life, I was overwhelmed. It was surreal to see it there, on that monument so far from home.
There were a few tears - sadness mixed with absolute pride - and the gravity of what happened to Frank hit home. I thought there would be more tears to be honest, but the emotional impact of seeing Frank's final resting place was much deeper than that. I am still at a loss for words to describe how it felt.
Affected, humbled, awestruck - I've thought of them all but none do the feelings any justice.
Frank was 17 when he enlisted, three years too young but a fib added three years to his age and off to war he went.
He turned 18 just two months before he was killed.
My mind was racing. Where exactly on this hill did he advance towards the Turks?
What was he thinking? Was he terrified, did he want to turn and run, did he have time to think anything or was he one of the first to fall?
How was he killed? Was his death quick - I hoped so - or was he wounded and left to die on that battlefield so far from home? Did he kill any of the enemy and how did that affect him?
It also struck me that while he was my great-great-uncle, he was a child. I was standing at the grave of a boy who thought he was going off on an adventure, who had no idea what war really was. He never should have been there. He should have had the privilege of growing up, having a family and living. He should have had all of the freedoms I have had.
There is comfort though in knowing that he is resting in such a place. He is away from the din and roar of war and he will be forever remembered there. He is among comrades and he will never be alone. He is one of 182 Kiwi boys and men believed killed there, but never put in a proper grave. Just 13 of our lads were identified and interred properly.
The words of Ataturk came into my head as I walked away from Hill 60, away from Trooper Frank Woodhouse of the Otago Mounted Rifles.
"Those heroes who shed their blood and lost their lives, you are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace.
" ... your sons are now lying in our bosoms and are in peace.
"After having lost their lives on this land they become our sons as well."