One thing that really saddens me more than anything else, and a thing I handle particularly badly, is farewells. Not only from people, but from places too. Some places just don’t do it for me but there are others where I seriously believe I pick up a spirit, and I feel a strange, almost “goosebumpy” sensation when I am there and that spirit is around me.
There is no rhyme or reason where some of these places are concerned. Abingdon in Oxfordshire is a pretty town in places, but there are prettier ones all along the Thames. Ham in Surrey is fairly nondescript. Cliftonville near Margate in Kent, once a cheerful seaside town, is but an empty shell. And yet for me they all have an inexplicable gravitational pull. Some people believe in ghosts in the form of human spirits, but for me there seems to be an energy generated by some past event or period of time that seems to linger, and which I reconnect with when I set foot in these places.
There is more logic to the affection I have for my little bolthole in Portugal. It is a very pleasant place, both aesthetically and in terms of the life I enjoy when I am here. I visit Portugal for a week every year. In fact this time around I was fortunate enough to have been able to enjoy two weeks in very quick succession, but that was sadly a one-off. I can’t afford two weeks every year, and timeshares are frankly a rip-off anyway.
For my last five visits my wife Caroline and my son Joe have not come over with me, for various good reasons, although my daughter Rosie has been with me for the last two. Of course I think the world of them both, but they can look after themselves and being away from them for a week doesn’t tug at the heartstrings all that much.
Being away from here for 51 weeks is a different matter. All sorts of irrational fears invariably report present. Will I be healthy enough to travel, or for that matter alive, this time next year? Will they have knocked the place to the ground? Will all the friends I like to think I have made here have found better jobs and moved on?
Because, obviously, it is about people too. On most holidays we meet people casually and sometimes we become friends with them. Then we all go home and usually we never see nor hear from them again.
The worst example of this I can think of was a coach trip that Caroline and I took to Austria back in 1996. For ten long days the same coach party is together, long journeys from place to place, meals together at restaurants along the way, all in the same bar at the hotel in the evening, quiz nights and talent contests. Then the long, long journey home, a last evening as a group at a hotel in France, a few drinks on the ferry and then, at Medway service station, suddenly the realisation strikes that you will never have anything to do with any of these people again. For a soppy old romantic like me it can actually be quite a devastating experience.
This being a timeshare we do sometimes see the same faces from one year to the next year, and I take comfort from this. This year though the clientele was a little different, the week having a Country and Western theme and the usual karaoke folk and talent showers presumably having swapped their bookings for a different week or jetted off elsewhere. I hope they will be back next time.
I am reassured by the work that is going on around the pool, noisy though it is. They wouldn’t be doing all this, I guess, if they had plans to turn the site into a multi-storey car park or an international airport.
So for me it’s back to the grind tomorrow, hoping that I can raise the price of an “in-betweeny” for September or October, and hopefully also we can be here then as a family.
Showing posts with label Abingdon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Abingdon. Show all posts
Friday, 17 February 2012
Monday, 19 September 2011
A Walk Too Far (Or a Tale of a Middle-Aged Man's Arrogance)
I have now more or less recovered from my second consecutive and final unsuccessful attempt to walk the Thames Path between Isleworth and Abingdon in Oxfordshire.
Some people may remember that I tried five years ago to walk the same route with only one stopover, only to have to throw in the towel after some 55 miles. On that occasion I was able to blame my preparation and my equipment, having in an extraordinary display of amateurism miscalculated the distance between here and Windsor by some ten miles. This time I once again omitted to take into account a massive detour that seems to have been incorporated into the route around the same area, but cannot blame this for my inability to complete the walk.
Instead it was simply a case of too much - having completed 75 miles over the first two days I set off on the third with the underside of both heels inflamed like balloons and resplendent in a worrying shade of yellow, without any prospect at all of covering the remaining 20 miles within the required 10 hours.
Having gone through the motions of limping the four miles between Streatley and Moulsford on the third day (in at least as many hours), and mindful of the fact that I had just a couple of weeks beforehand been diagnosed with Type 2 Diabetes (which requires one to take extra care of one's feet), I decided to call it a day upon arrival at the Beetle and Wedge and to spend the next hour or so immersed in a pint of Heineken Export and a large plate of mixed nuts and olives.
So near yet so far, as they say.
But the three-day event was for me something of a surreal experience. Whilst I am unlikely to attempt it again, now that the pain has abated there are some pleasant memories, as well as some not so pleasant ones.
Amongst the latter was the unfamiliar experience of having been almost all in after just fourteen miles, at Walton Lock. I frequently walk for 10 to 12 miles as a recreational activity and certainly wasn't prepared for the experience of early blisters, near-torrential rain and pushing into close to gale-force winds. So early into the walk the experience had ceased to be pleasant and I was faced with the reality that this was going to be an arduous ordeal and not the stroll in the park that it had looked to be on the website.
Nonetheless I persisted, and at 20 miles I was between Shepperton and Staines and encountered not one but two people of my regular acquaintance. The first was a guy who drinks in a local club with which I am familiar, the second was my cousin who was visiting her mother (my aunt) at her home in Chertsey.
At Staines I met up with Caroline and Joe (Rosie had gone back to school the day previously) for a coffee at the Thames Lodge Hotel. The coffee was pricey but the service was wonderful and we were really made to feel welcome despite my disheveled appearance which did not best suit the surroundings.
Then I moved on, first to Runnymede, then to Datchet and later to Windsor, where all the detours are and which seems to carry on forever. Windsor may be a proud and historic place but it is truly the graveyard of this particular walk, the point at which one begins to wonder whether it ever ends. As if the horrendous detour through a cow field and then around the streets, always it would seem in driving rain, was not enough the river walk between it and Maidenhead comprises the longest six miles known to man.
Having completed a dubious 44 miles (dubious in the sense that it was almost certainly more), I stopped off at a bed and breakfast in Marlow where I was able to enjoy a bath once I had finally managed to climb into it, and then the next morning it was off again along the 31-mile route to Goring.
After a largely pleasant walk past some picturesque riverside dwellings and public houses it was a relief to arrive at the particularly splendid town of Henley, where the quite stunning scenery continues into Shiplake and Sonning. At one point upon reaching the latter I wanted to leave the path and enjoy a pint in an old pub that had been recommended to me, but it was 100 yards off the route and I just couldn't motivate myself to add the extra distance to my schedule, which must sound quite of weird when one considers the overall distance involved with the walk but be assured that at the time it made perfect sense.
Past the enormous presence that is Reading one passes through Pangbourne and Whitchurch before encountering the beautiful town of Goring, from where one walks across the bridge to Streatley where my second bed and breakfast awaited.
After settling in at the house I ventured, very slowly, across the road to The Swan at Streatley where, unbeknown to me, the comedian David Walliams had stopped off along the route of his heroic charity swim for Sport Relief. He had not managed to actually reach Streatley by water at that point as he had originally planned due to illness, but he had proceeded to the hotel by taxi before returning to Wallingford the next day to continue where he had left off. By the time I had reached the hotel and had settled down with a glorious pint of Addlestone's cider he was, presumably, tucked up in bed, but I enjoyed a wonderful evening at the venue enjoying a couple of pints with his film crew, as well as having the benefit of a long friendly chat with the hotel manager Karl Bentley and some of his delightfully sociable, helpful and efficient staff.
Although I didn't actually stay there overnight I cannot recommend this wonderful hotel enough as a place to relax and enjoy a drink and some food. During a telephone conversation with my parents I discovered that The Swan had previously been a restaurant owned by the late drag artist Danny La Rue, of whom my mother had been a fan, and that I had visited the restaurant in the company of my parents as a child. Small world.
The following (Thursday) morning, having enjoyed a hearty breakfast, I hobbled uneasily onto the street and back onto the Thames Path with the assistance of a walking stick that my landlady had kindly lent me, but it became immediately apparent to me that I would not reach the speed required to make Abingdon by nightfall and I had begun to have serious concerns about my health. Nonetheless the four miles that I did manage to complete were not uneventful.
First of all somewhere around Cholsey a crowd appeared from nowhere to run headlong down the towpath towards me. After a moment of two I caught sight of Mr Walliams, whom they were following, maintaining an impressive speed between two red and yellow canoes in spite of the problems he had encountered the previous day. He was being followed by his press team on a boat, and when one of them spotted me and shouted out asking me how the walk was going I was touched and felt more than slightly honoured.
Then into a big open field that seemed to stretch for miles a female walker caught up with me and asked me what I was doing. When I explained about the walk she handed me a ten pound note to put towards the cause.
A few yards and about half an hour later I was suddenly overcome by the need to sit down. I was by this point in really bad pain and it took me several attempts and some 40 minutes simply to get back onto my feet. During my time on terra firma the most extraordinary, not to mention slightly eerie thing happened. When I looked up what appeared to be a huge red kite was hovering overhead, moving closer and closer down towards me. Kites are carrion feeders, and it was clear the creature had become alert to my distress and was pondering the prospect of a rather hefty meal. At first I laughed, but as it became closer I felt it prudent to wave my walking stick to reassure the bird that I was still very much alive, whereupon it flew swiftly off. How creepy is that?
Although what I had decided was to be the finishing point was by this time in sight it still took me some 30-40 minutes to reach it, and that as they say was that. After the aforementioned pint and luxury snacks I took a taxi to Cholsey, and then a train to Richmond to finish the day off with around six pints of Abbot Ale at the Cricketers pub on the Green before being collected in the car by Caroline.
Was it worth it? Probably - I have hopefully raised enough money to buy a boat for the sports department at my son's school, St. James Independent School for Senior Boys. The school has been extremely kind to my son and to us his parents and I feel pleased and privileged to have been able to give something back.
Should anybody who hasn't done so already feel my efforts to be worthy of a donation, no matter how small, sponsors can be given at uk.virginmoneygiving.com/PhilipAndrews.
Will I try it again? I doubt it. There could be no excuses for failure this time beyond advancing years and I need to start taking my diabetes seriously. The doctor counselled lots of exercise but I'm not sure this was what he had in mind.
In closing I would like to say a big thank you to those who have sponsored me already, and also to those who encouraged me along the way by following my progress on Twitter and on Facebook.
Here are a few (sadly not very good quality) photos that I took along the way, there are more at the sponsor site above:
Some people may remember that I tried five years ago to walk the same route with only one stopover, only to have to throw in the towel after some 55 miles. On that occasion I was able to blame my preparation and my equipment, having in an extraordinary display of amateurism miscalculated the distance between here and Windsor by some ten miles. This time I once again omitted to take into account a massive detour that seems to have been incorporated into the route around the same area, but cannot blame this for my inability to complete the walk.
Instead it was simply a case of too much - having completed 75 miles over the first two days I set off on the third with the underside of both heels inflamed like balloons and resplendent in a worrying shade of yellow, without any prospect at all of covering the remaining 20 miles within the required 10 hours.
Having gone through the motions of limping the four miles between Streatley and Moulsford on the third day (in at least as many hours), and mindful of the fact that I had just a couple of weeks beforehand been diagnosed with Type 2 Diabetes (which requires one to take extra care of one's feet), I decided to call it a day upon arrival at the Beetle and Wedge and to spend the next hour or so immersed in a pint of Heineken Export and a large plate of mixed nuts and olives.
So near yet so far, as they say.
But the three-day event was for me something of a surreal experience. Whilst I am unlikely to attempt it again, now that the pain has abated there are some pleasant memories, as well as some not so pleasant ones.
Amongst the latter was the unfamiliar experience of having been almost all in after just fourteen miles, at Walton Lock. I frequently walk for 10 to 12 miles as a recreational activity and certainly wasn't prepared for the experience of early blisters, near-torrential rain and pushing into close to gale-force winds. So early into the walk the experience had ceased to be pleasant and I was faced with the reality that this was going to be an arduous ordeal and not the stroll in the park that it had looked to be on the website.
Nonetheless I persisted, and at 20 miles I was between Shepperton and Staines and encountered not one but two people of my regular acquaintance. The first was a guy who drinks in a local club with which I am familiar, the second was my cousin who was visiting her mother (my aunt) at her home in Chertsey.
At Staines I met up with Caroline and Joe (Rosie had gone back to school the day previously) for a coffee at the Thames Lodge Hotel. The coffee was pricey but the service was wonderful and we were really made to feel welcome despite my disheveled appearance which did not best suit the surroundings.
Then I moved on, first to Runnymede, then to Datchet and later to Windsor, where all the detours are and which seems to carry on forever. Windsor may be a proud and historic place but it is truly the graveyard of this particular walk, the point at which one begins to wonder whether it ever ends. As if the horrendous detour through a cow field and then around the streets, always it would seem in driving rain, was not enough the river walk between it and Maidenhead comprises the longest six miles known to man.
Having completed a dubious 44 miles (dubious in the sense that it was almost certainly more), I stopped off at a bed and breakfast in Marlow where I was able to enjoy a bath once I had finally managed to climb into it, and then the next morning it was off again along the 31-mile route to Goring.
After a largely pleasant walk past some picturesque riverside dwellings and public houses it was a relief to arrive at the particularly splendid town of Henley, where the quite stunning scenery continues into Shiplake and Sonning. At one point upon reaching the latter I wanted to leave the path and enjoy a pint in an old pub that had been recommended to me, but it was 100 yards off the route and I just couldn't motivate myself to add the extra distance to my schedule, which must sound quite of weird when one considers the overall distance involved with the walk but be assured that at the time it made perfect sense.
Past the enormous presence that is Reading one passes through Pangbourne and Whitchurch before encountering the beautiful town of Goring, from where one walks across the bridge to Streatley where my second bed and breakfast awaited.
After settling in at the house I ventured, very slowly, across the road to The Swan at Streatley where, unbeknown to me, the comedian David Walliams had stopped off along the route of his heroic charity swim for Sport Relief. He had not managed to actually reach Streatley by water at that point as he had originally planned due to illness, but he had proceeded to the hotel by taxi before returning to Wallingford the next day to continue where he had left off. By the time I had reached the hotel and had settled down with a glorious pint of Addlestone's cider he was, presumably, tucked up in bed, but I enjoyed a wonderful evening at the venue enjoying a couple of pints with his film crew, as well as having the benefit of a long friendly chat with the hotel manager Karl Bentley and some of his delightfully sociable, helpful and efficient staff.
Although I didn't actually stay there overnight I cannot recommend this wonderful hotel enough as a place to relax and enjoy a drink and some food. During a telephone conversation with my parents I discovered that The Swan had previously been a restaurant owned by the late drag artist Danny La Rue, of whom my mother had been a fan, and that I had visited the restaurant in the company of my parents as a child. Small world.
The following (Thursday) morning, having enjoyed a hearty breakfast, I hobbled uneasily onto the street and back onto the Thames Path with the assistance of a walking stick that my landlady had kindly lent me, but it became immediately apparent to me that I would not reach the speed required to make Abingdon by nightfall and I had begun to have serious concerns about my health. Nonetheless the four miles that I did manage to complete were not uneventful.
First of all somewhere around Cholsey a crowd appeared from nowhere to run headlong down the towpath towards me. After a moment of two I caught sight of Mr Walliams, whom they were following, maintaining an impressive speed between two red and yellow canoes in spite of the problems he had encountered the previous day. He was being followed by his press team on a boat, and when one of them spotted me and shouted out asking me how the walk was going I was touched and felt more than slightly honoured.
Then into a big open field that seemed to stretch for miles a female walker caught up with me and asked me what I was doing. When I explained about the walk she handed me a ten pound note to put towards the cause.
A few yards and about half an hour later I was suddenly overcome by the need to sit down. I was by this point in really bad pain and it took me several attempts and some 40 minutes simply to get back onto my feet. During my time on terra firma the most extraordinary, not to mention slightly eerie thing happened. When I looked up what appeared to be a huge red kite was hovering overhead, moving closer and closer down towards me. Kites are carrion feeders, and it was clear the creature had become alert to my distress and was pondering the prospect of a rather hefty meal. At first I laughed, but as it became closer I felt it prudent to wave my walking stick to reassure the bird that I was still very much alive, whereupon it flew swiftly off. How creepy is that?
Although what I had decided was to be the finishing point was by this time in sight it still took me some 30-40 minutes to reach it, and that as they say was that. After the aforementioned pint and luxury snacks I took a taxi to Cholsey, and then a train to Richmond to finish the day off with around six pints of Abbot Ale at the Cricketers pub on the Green before being collected in the car by Caroline.
Was it worth it? Probably - I have hopefully raised enough money to buy a boat for the sports department at my son's school, St. James Independent School for Senior Boys. The school has been extremely kind to my son and to us his parents and I feel pleased and privileged to have been able to give something back.
Should anybody who hasn't done so already feel my efforts to be worthy of a donation, no matter how small, sponsors can be given at uk.virginmoneygiving.com/PhilipAndrews.
Will I try it again? I doubt it. There could be no excuses for failure this time beyond advancing years and I need to start taking my diabetes seriously. The doctor counselled lots of exercise but I'm not sure this was what he had in mind.
In closing I would like to say a big thank you to those who have sponsored me already, and also to those who encouraged me along the way by following my progress on Twitter and on Facebook.
Here are a few (sadly not very good quality) photos that I took along the way, there are more at the sponsor site above:
Monday, 15 August 2011
Three Months Go West
Other than a post for the sake of a post towards the end of June it occurs to me that I've not updated this blog now for over three months.
One or two of those few who noticed have asked me why this is. The simple answer is that I have just been too busy - busy trying to earn a living, busy with the kids, busy being busy.
During this short period I have been away once again to my beloved Isle of Wight, staying at the Park Resorts site Thorness Bay with the family. It was the first time in a couple of years that we'd been based at Thorness Bay despite having visited the site once or twice since. More recent trips to the Island have involved stays at Landguard, Rookley Country Park and Gurnard Pines. Whilst I like all of these sites there was a certain "coming home" feeling about spending four nights at Thorness after such a long absence.
I have also undertaken to do a 95-mile sponsored walk between Isleworth and Abingdon along the Thames Path early next month to raise some funds for the sports department at Joe's school, St. James School for Senior Boys in Ashford. St. James has been really kind to Joe, and to us his parents, and I wanted to do something to repay that kindness. For more details of the proposed walk please see my new sponsor site at http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/PhilipAndrews.
If you would like to sponsor me by making a donation, no matter how small, so much the better and many thanks. Please just follow the instructions on the site.
Oh, and on Friday the doctor confirmed to me that I have Type 2 Diabetes. Whether it was knocking 80% of the alcohol on the head, losing nearly two and a half stone, improving my exercise routine or adopting a low-fat vegetarian diet that brought it on I guess I will never know.
On the community front things are relatively quiet. The ICG has circulated a newsletter throughout Syon and Isleworth wards to leave our calling card but the libraries are still open and residents continue to organise over issues of concern such as a proposal to open a Sainsbury's store in South Street, which would be devastating for many local businesses.
More on this, and other things, anon.
One or two of those few who noticed have asked me why this is. The simple answer is that I have just been too busy - busy trying to earn a living, busy with the kids, busy being busy.
During this short period I have been away once again to my beloved Isle of Wight, staying at the Park Resorts site Thorness Bay with the family. It was the first time in a couple of years that we'd been based at Thorness Bay despite having visited the site once or twice since. More recent trips to the Island have involved stays at Landguard, Rookley Country Park and Gurnard Pines. Whilst I like all of these sites there was a certain "coming home" feeling about spending four nights at Thorness after such a long absence.
I have also undertaken to do a 95-mile sponsored walk between Isleworth and Abingdon along the Thames Path early next month to raise some funds for the sports department at Joe's school, St. James School for Senior Boys in Ashford. St. James has been really kind to Joe, and to us his parents, and I wanted to do something to repay that kindness. For more details of the proposed walk please see my new sponsor site at http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/PhilipAndrews.
If you would like to sponsor me by making a donation, no matter how small, so much the better and many thanks. Please just follow the instructions on the site.
Oh, and on Friday the doctor confirmed to me that I have Type 2 Diabetes. Whether it was knocking 80% of the alcohol on the head, losing nearly two and a half stone, improving my exercise routine or adopting a low-fat vegetarian diet that brought it on I guess I will never know.
On the community front things are relatively quiet. The ICG has circulated a newsletter throughout Syon and Isleworth wards to leave our calling card but the libraries are still open and residents continue to organise over issues of concern such as a proposal to open a Sainsbury's store in South Street, which would be devastating for many local businesses.
More on this, and other things, anon.
Saturday, 12 July 2008
A necessary excursion
One type of event that an active councillor attends almost as frequently as meetings is funerals.
Yesterday my wife Caroline was a tad perplexed as to why I would drive 140 miles to and from Chichester to attend the funeral of Ted Hitchcock, a man whom I had seen twice, possibly three times, during the last thirty years.
When I was a lad of fourteen I was, as I am today, a regular attendee at Isleworth Congregational Church. As well as services on Sunday mornings, the Church ran a youth club on Monday evenings which was the highlight of my social calendar. During one year in particular - and I remember the year well, it was 1976 - it was the epicentre of everything I lived for. It was where my closest friends went, it was where my gang was based, it was where music was played of a kind (Barry White, Van McCoy, George McCrae) for which I would not under other circumstances have had any enthusiasm but which, because I associate it with that year and with that club, I still cannot listen to without an almost unbearable desire to turn back the clock and walk back into the Church Hall one last time in my four-inch platforms and tartan lumber-jacket (with collar upturned) to see my old mates once again.
Ted was a helper at that club, as was his wife Dorothy and his daughter Jane. He was a Deacon of the Church (as I am today), who gave up his Monday evenings for no personal gain to help ensure that twenty or thirty local youngsters were kept off the streets and on the straight and narrow. But he did more than just help. He took an interest. I can remember holding quite a few deep conversations with him about a range of issues - social, theological, musical. Whether he was humouring me or not I'll never know, but I always felt as though he was treating me as an equal.
In late 1975 some members of the club spent a weekend away on a barge on the Thames at Abingdon. Most of us travelled there by minibus, driven by another helper. Ted arrived a little while later in his estate car. Taking one look around the dormitory-style sleeping quarters he decided very quickly that they brought back too many unhappy memories of his time as a Prisoner Of War, and elected to sleep in his car instead. But he stayed the weekend nevertheless.
As fate would have it and despite the very best efforts of Ted and others to steer me along the correct course in life, I strayed from the path regardless. Unbalanced by the sense of shock which came with the realisation that even the state of spiritual perfection that was 1976, not to mention adolescence itself, had to come to end, I began to develop an unhealthy interest in fascist politics which led ultimately to me joining the National Front, and remaining with it or with splinters thereof until just after my thirtieth birthday. Inevitably, my new enthusiasms ran coterminously with my disengagement from my Church.
Although for two decades I had hankered on many an occasion to walk back into the Church, I felt unworthy. However in 1998, shortly after having been elected as a councillor for the first time, I bit the bullet and attended a service - in part to honour a promise to the late former Secretary Pat Burch, who was also one of my constituents and who during the election campaign had taken out membership of the ICG. I have been involved again with the Church ever since.
By this time Ted and Dorothy had long retired, and had moved down south. However during my ten years of renewed work for the Church I saw them when they returned on a couple of occasions to attend special events.
Ted passed away a few weeks after his ninetieth birthday. Although I had seen him only rarely since achieving adulthood, I wanted to pay my respects to somebody who had been part of what was a very special period of my life.
I also think, subconsciously, that I wanted to give him back some of the time which he gave to me as a member of the youth club.
The world would be a much worse place without all those selfless people who give up their own time for no other reason than to make the lives of those around them better. Ted, and others of his kind, should serve as an example to us all.
Yesterday my wife Caroline was a tad perplexed as to why I would drive 140 miles to and from Chichester to attend the funeral of Ted Hitchcock, a man whom I had seen twice, possibly three times, during the last thirty years.
When I was a lad of fourteen I was, as I am today, a regular attendee at Isleworth Congregational Church. As well as services on Sunday mornings, the Church ran a youth club on Monday evenings which was the highlight of my social calendar. During one year in particular - and I remember the year well, it was 1976 - it was the epicentre of everything I lived for. It was where my closest friends went, it was where my gang was based, it was where music was played of a kind (Barry White, Van McCoy, George McCrae) for which I would not under other circumstances have had any enthusiasm but which, because I associate it with that year and with that club, I still cannot listen to without an almost unbearable desire to turn back the clock and walk back into the Church Hall one last time in my four-inch platforms and tartan lumber-jacket (with collar upturned) to see my old mates once again.
Ted was a helper at that club, as was his wife Dorothy and his daughter Jane. He was a Deacon of the Church (as I am today), who gave up his Monday evenings for no personal gain to help ensure that twenty or thirty local youngsters were kept off the streets and on the straight and narrow. But he did more than just help. He took an interest. I can remember holding quite a few deep conversations with him about a range of issues - social, theological, musical. Whether he was humouring me or not I'll never know, but I always felt as though he was treating me as an equal.
In late 1975 some members of the club spent a weekend away on a barge on the Thames at Abingdon. Most of us travelled there by minibus, driven by another helper. Ted arrived a little while later in his estate car. Taking one look around the dormitory-style sleeping quarters he decided very quickly that they brought back too many unhappy memories of his time as a Prisoner Of War, and elected to sleep in his car instead. But he stayed the weekend nevertheless.
As fate would have it and despite the very best efforts of Ted and others to steer me along the correct course in life, I strayed from the path regardless. Unbalanced by the sense of shock which came with the realisation that even the state of spiritual perfection that was 1976, not to mention adolescence itself, had to come to end, I began to develop an unhealthy interest in fascist politics which led ultimately to me joining the National Front, and remaining with it or with splinters thereof until just after my thirtieth birthday. Inevitably, my new enthusiasms ran coterminously with my disengagement from my Church.
Although for two decades I had hankered on many an occasion to walk back into the Church, I felt unworthy. However in 1998, shortly after having been elected as a councillor for the first time, I bit the bullet and attended a service - in part to honour a promise to the late former Secretary Pat Burch, who was also one of my constituents and who during the election campaign had taken out membership of the ICG. I have been involved again with the Church ever since.
By this time Ted and Dorothy had long retired, and had moved down south. However during my ten years of renewed work for the Church I saw them when they returned on a couple of occasions to attend special events.
Ted passed away a few weeks after his ninetieth birthday. Although I had seen him only rarely since achieving adulthood, I wanted to pay my respects to somebody who had been part of what was a very special period of my life.
I also think, subconsciously, that I wanted to give him back some of the time which he gave to me as a member of the youth club.
The world would be a much worse place without all those selfless people who give up their own time for no other reason than to make the lives of those around them better. Ted, and others of his kind, should serve as an example to us all.
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