Remembering Mike

Yesterday morning we drove to Worcester to spend the weekend with Gail, the wife of my friend Mike who died back in February. I was in Spain for his funeral, and was unable to visit her before the funeral, or since returning, so there was a lot of catching up to be done.

After lunch, she drove us out into deepest rural Worcestershire to visit the National Trust property Hanbury Hall. On the way there, we visited Hanbury Parish church which is where the BBC record St Stephen's Ambridge church sequences for our favourite soap opera 'The Archers'. It's half a mile walk from there to the Hall, but we drove back to the Hall to be sure to have enough time to visit.

The house is in the early 17th century style of William and Mary's reign, but has been modified on occasions since then. The impressive formal gardens are a modern recreation from the original 1701 plan of landscape artist George London. The house sits on a ridge and the land falls away from the terrace in a sweep of grassland dotted with trees plus a tree lined avenue for riding or walking. Due to lack of rain, the grass is golden yellow, and populated by a flock of sheep, not so visible at the moment. With hindsight, I regret not taking photographs of the landscape in this unusual condition. My pictures of the house and church are here.

This morning we went to the Eucharist at St Stephen's Barbourne Parish church together with Gail. This was the church where Mike's funeral was held, the Fr Andy the Vicar, I'd already corresponded with over the tribute I recorded for use in absentia at the funeral. It was good to meet him at last in person, and enjoy participating in a well thought out service with excellent preaching and a over a hundred communicants. Just how it should be. 

As we walked home, Gail pointed out the Post Office where Mike died, and told the story of how she went looking for him when he failed to arrive in time for a car journey up north. It seems she guessed what had happened when she saw the ambulance lights on approach, as he'd collapsed inexplicably out talking the previous day, and had been given the all clear by his GP afterwards. It was such a shock for us all. And we miss him.

After lunch we went for a walk along the east bank of the river Severn. It runs about half a mile away from where they live. The riverside meadows are a mix of grain fields, and grazing land for cattle and horses. There's no industrial traffic on the river, just leisure craft and narrowboats. A nice quiet way to see the landscape and observe the wildlife. Gail spotted a woodpecker taking off, and there was a egret up by the weir, but I missed both. Never mind, my bucolic landscapes are here. 

Before we set out for home, there was an evening service at St Stephen's with a group of French youngsters from a Parisian suburb attending, as part of an exchange holiday project. The service was bi-lingual, and Fr Andy asked if I could read a prayer in French, which I did, and wished that I'd asked Clare to do it instead, so that my Sunday could be a full Sunday on the receiving end for once. Serves me right not being reluctant to say 'no' to a colleague.

The run home was fairly traffic free, and we reached home just after nine, with much to think about after our catch-up time, and for me, more grieving to do, at the loss of those unique conversations that can only happen when you've been friends for three quarters of a lifetime.