We were never ones for lying on a beach. When the boys grew up and left home, Wendy would book activity holidays. She discovered a company offering bike or canoe trips in France, delivering your luggage each night to a comfortable auberge, leaving you to navigate your own way. We canoed down the River Creuse, a sleepy tributary of the Loire, with kingfishers flashing across the sun-dappled water and the occasional otter peering at us inquisitively. The following year we cycled through Provence.
Our final holiday of this kind was a celebration for Wendy’s seventieth birthday organized by Maria Coffey, who had been Joe Tasker’s partner. After Joe’s death she had emigrated to Canada and fallen in love with a vet and passionate sea canoeist. They started a boutique ethical adventure travel company, Hidden Places, offering trips around the world, including the Galápagos. We had Maria and a knowledgeable ecologist to guide us as we sailed each night from island to island, during the day watching wildlife or snorkelling alongside seals and myriad exotic fish. At the end of the tour we took off for a week in the Ecudorean hills above Quito staying at an eco-lodge and watching the hummingbirds. On the night of President Obama’s first election we caught a cab into town and watched the results come in. Both of us felt a tremendous wave of optimism that night.
Wendy had retired from teaching the Alexander Technique and was now deeply into photography. It was fascinating to compare our approaches. I already knew I was a happy snapper: that’s what a photojournalist or expedition photographer is. You are taking a series of pictures to illustrate a story. Wendy was an artist, interested in shapes, textures and colours, fascinated by detail and the beauty of nature. She’d spend an hour composing a single picture. I tended to take my Kindle with me on walks so I could park myself in the shade of a tree and read.
She was still playing golf with her great friends Gill and Dennis Clarke, even when they retired to Catalonia. We began visiting twice a year, Wendy playing a round most days. We would spend a couple of days doing something together, but otherwise it was up to me to find people to climb with. One special old friend was José Anglada whom I’ve known since the 1970s when we were living in Bowdon. His father, a businessman in Barcelona, had sent him to Manchester to improve his English. José was a brilliant climber, pioneering hard new routes on the conglomerate pillars of Montserrat, just twenty minutes from the centre of Barcelona. He also became one of Spain’s best-known expedition leaders, inviting me to Barcelona to give lectures and taking me climbing with his Catalan friends. With Gill and Den in L’Escala this became a twice-yearly event.
Another regular visit was to Sydney to spend time with our Australian family. Once Joe and Jude’s children Edie and Honor were born we would rent a nearby apartment. As usual I combined work, play and family, doing speaking engagements around Australia, visiting Berghaus’s agents and enjoying weekend climbing with friends in the Blue Mountains. In 2011, I joined Joe in Bhutan for a trek he was leading while Wendy helped transform Jude’s kitchen; it was a hands-on effort, sanding and staining a wooden floor, putting in new shelves and cupboards and redecorating. It was typically determined of her: Wendy had needed keyhole surgery on a painful knee only a few days before flying out to Sydney.
The following year, Wendy began tripping over, on kerbs or rocky steps. Our doctor, Kate, referred Wendy to the neurologist at Cumberland Infirmary in Carlisle. He diagnosed a dropped foot caused by a damaged nerve in the lower leg and recommended corrective footwear. I don’t think either of us was convinced. We were becoming increasingly worried, not just by Wendy’s falls but her pronounced loss of energy and general unsteadiness.
In early August 2012 we drove down to Bryn Mel, where Charlie Clarke has a lovely holiday home perched above the Menai Straits. In the past I had relied on him as an expedition doctor; now I needed his professional skill as a neurologist. With Wendy’s blessing, I asked him to assess her. Charlie saw her on her own, spent a good hour with her, then asked me in, and told us he felt we should have a second opinion. He knew just the man, a consultant called Tim Williams at the Royal Victoria Infirmary in Newcastle. Then we simply got on with our holiday.
Earlier that summer I had been invited to carry the Olympic Torch to the top of Snowdon as part of the preamble to London 2012. It wasn’t part of the relay, more a photo opportunity than anything else, or so it seemed. I drove down from Cumbria and stayed with my nephew Liam who was converting a huge Baptist railway station the following morning dressed in a smart white Olympic tracksuit. I did ask whether I shouldn’t be carrying it on foot but there were, apparently, security issues, so I boarded the train with a little body of minders and Olympic officials with Liam and Sylvan, another of my nephews.
I felt a bit of a fraud watching streams of people walking and running to the summit. One of them was even carrying a torch; presumably he had taken part in the actual relay. Yet I was having fun and my minders, both police officers in tracksuits, were great company. At the top station my torch was ignited and I joined the cheering crowd packed around the summit of Snowdon. I did my best to run athletically to the top and with a bit of help from my police escort clambered onto the trig point to wave my torch. Suddenly, I was almost in tears. It was intensely emotional. What really hit me was being transported back to my roots, to where it had all started for me as a young lad of sixteen.
I couldn’t help regretting that I hadn’t brought Wendy and my Keswick family with me so I decided we should have our own family ceremony. I had brought the torch with us to Bryn Mel for a repeat performance. Charlie, his partner Marcela, Sepu, his endearingly mad Tibetan terrier, Rupert and Ann raced up the track from Pen y Pass. Wendy and I took our grandchildren Will and Emily on the train, carrying the torch with us. Marcela and Charlie arrived long after Rupert and Ann, having carried Sepu most of the way in a rucksack.
Life went on. That September we had another trip to Australia, as usual via Hong Kong, staying with friends above Sheko Bay. James Riley was finance director of Jardines and chairman of the Hong Kong section of the Royal Geographical Society. He and his wife Georgie were warm-hearted hosts, providing Wendy with a peaceful haven in their beautiful house to recover from the flight as I carried out a series of commitments for Berghaus and Lancaster University. In Sydney, as well as spending time with Joe and the family, we drove up to Forster, where Jude’s mum Beth lived on a bluff high above the ocean. We sat watching whales from her house and walked along the pristine beaches far below.
I had to leave early for Lancaster University events in Singapore and Kuala Lumpur. That meant Wendy would have to travel on her own as far as Hong Kong, where I would catch up with her. I couldn’t help worrying how she would cope, but it all went smoothly. After we got home I drove her over to Newcastle for tests, including electrocardiograms, and then life went on as usual, with me rushing around giving lectures and cramming in other engagements before flying to Spain for a short break with Gill and Den.
The winter Lancaster University degree ceremony was coming up, a special one for Wendy, since Geraldine, one of her closest friends, was receiving her doctorate. I would be making the presentation. The day before, we had our follow-up appointment in Newcastle with Tim Williams. I think we were both a bit apprehensive as we drove over. We hadn’t talked much about it to each other; I think we didn’t want to worry each other. We were shown into his rooms and Tim got straight to the point. He had bad news. Wendy had motor neurone disease.
It was like being hit very hard in the stomach. Both of us burst into tears and fell into one another’s arms and clung to each other. Tim had a box of tissues handy and we slowly composed ourselves. Wendy told me afterwards she had wondered if she might have multiple sclerosis, having seen a friend suffer from it. We had never thought of MND. Tim was sympathetic, explained to us no one knew the cause, that it was fatal and there was no cure. He thought it likely Wendy could have between two and five years, but couldn’t be certain.
That catastrophic moment of diagnosis was strangely inconclusive. Everything had changed and nothing had. We still had lives to live. I drove us back to Cumbria, having planned to stay with Geraldine in Ulverston. When we told her our news, we all wept, but felt an immense love, something we were to experience again and again as we told our nearest and dearest. The vice-chancellor’s driver picked me up next morning and Wendy followed with Geraldine later. The very normality of it all and the celebration of Geraldine’s achievement somehow made things more bearable.
Wendy had an immense strength of character, and a philosophy of living in the present, of looking practically into the future, always thinking of others before herself, always in command of herself. It was simply a matter of focusing on priorities. At first our lives continued as before, although I cut down on my engagements. We had a visit from Yvette, the specialist MND nurse Tim Williams sent as part of his clinic. She was full of warmth and confidence, answering all our questions and assuring us that she or a colleague would always be at the end of the phone. It was a luxury having Kate, our doctor, just half a mile down the track at Potts Ghyll. She told us we could phone at any time, day or night. We already knew Joyce, our district nurse. She would be our point of contact for social services and all the other experts available to us. She was matter-of-fact but had a warm heart and proved an invaluable ally in the months ahead.
We had an early appointment at Cumberland Infirmary to fit Wendy for an electric wheelchair. It seemed huge, rather intimidating in fact, with a finger controller to allow her to steer it around furniture. The technician explained they didn’t want to keep changing it; this model would suit Wendy as her illness progressed. I didn’t need the reminder. I understood all too well the inevitable outcome and simply tried to give all the support I could. Wendy, on the other hand, read everything she could about the disease.
In February we were back at L’Escala, Wendy playing nine holes of golf with me as her caddy. Walking through woodland to the ninth tee, holding onto my arm, she tripped on a root and I was unable to prevent her falling. What was worse, she landed on her coccyx and bruised it badly. After that we went for gentle walks and played a lot of bridge. The advance of the disease was gradual. Wendy’s speech became slightly slurred. She found the stairs more difficult and the occupational therapist suggested an extra banister and grab rail but we were still sleeping on the first floor.
At the end of March, Joe and the family, the ‘Sydney Bons’, came over to stay with us and Wendy tried out a little wheelie trolley so she could keep going out for walks. She kept challenging her limits. She set out with some of her golfing friends one day to walk up Latrigg, the hill above Keswick. The path was marked as wheelchair-friendly but she soon discovered otherwise as she pushed her wheeled trolley along. There was lots of laughter as she struggled up and down the hill; such challenges could be joyous, even against the inexorable development of the disease. We were involved in a fight, sharing moments of intense joy at minor victories, making the most of every moment of happiness.
Walking slowly became more difficult, as did the stairs. We decided it was time to get a more practical vehicle and traded in Wendy’s Subaru for a bright red Renault Kangoo. It had a tailgate and the controls could be hand-operated so Wendy could drive. In the back was an equally red three-wheel scooter. Wendy took to this immediately, accelerating down the lane, round the corner and out of sight before reappearing with a delighted smile on her face. She had some independence back. We drove to Keswick to show our new vehicles off to Rupert and Ann. Walking beside Derwentwater, Wendy pulled away from us and the children chased after her.
That summer of 2013 we moved our bedroom downstairs to what had been Wendy’s teaching studio. She loved that she could see the squirrel feeder from our new bed. We adapted the adjacent bathroom to suit her needs and altered her old pottery workshop into a snug, with remote-controlled French windows so she could be as independent as possible, able to drive her scooter out into the garden. Various devices were delivered to help her upright and into her wheelchair. At least we had the space. I couldn’t help wondering how someone in a small flat would cope.
Rupert gave me incredible support, which became increasingly vital as Wendy’s illness developed. Another wonderful friend was Vera, from Wendy’s golf club in Keswick. She was a farmer’s daughter, strong and practical, as well as a sportswoman and made her living painting and decorating. Vera had decorated Badger Hill, inside and out. As Wendy’s illness developed she helped in so many different ways that we asked if we could employ her, and she agreed. We had help too from Hospice at Home, who came in once a week to bathe Wendy and give me the chance of a full night’s sleep. Crossroads, now the Carers Trust, came for half a day once a week to give me a bit of a rest.
I was still trying to keep up with my other commitments, attending Berghaus meetings, going on a short lecture tour and keeping up my voluntary work. I needed to, not only to keep money coming in, but also as an outlet for the pressure I felt at home. I found the role of carer challenging; everything took so long, requiring immense patience on my part, a quality I have always rather lacked. I experienced fatigue too, a problem that became more acute as Wendy’s condition worsened and she needed more physical help.
Her speech was becoming more slurred. I have never been the best of listeners and was sometimes driven to an exasperated outburst because I couldn’t understand. Then I would be engulfed with guilt and regret, profuse with apologies, even tears as I regained my composure and sought to reassure her. At this stage we only had partial support, so there were a lot of times when we were on our own, particularly at night. I loved her so much, was, deep down, so terrified of losing her, and yet felt so inadequate in the practical expression of that love.
Christmas was something we could look forward to; Joe and his family were flying into Manchester. Vera was hard at work in Wendy’s office upstairs, storing all the records of her widely varied interests. Rupert’s family arrived and Emily tasked herself with transforming Badger Hill into an animal hospital, with notices stuck everywhere. My picture library became the animals’ ward; the main office was the consulting room. The Sydney Bons reached Badger Hill late on Christmas Eve. It was a shock for them to see just how much Wendy’s illness had taken from her, but it was joyous as well, having the whole family with us. I had ordered a goose, and Joe, with his love of cooking, was in his element on Christmas Day, the rest of us helping as his sous-chefs.
After a walk down the lane, with Wendy in the lead on her scooter, she was able to join us for dinner though only able to spoon down soft foods; then she retreated to her recliner chair in front of the fire, where some of us kept her company through the rest of the meal. The Keswick Bons came in the early evening with Ann’s parents and family. The children were delighted to see each other. Will and Edie, who are close in age and have similar senses of humour, got on particularly well. They dragged Wendy and me into their games. Every one of the ten days Joe and Jude stayed was precious.
Wendy had been finding it increasingly difficult to swallow for some time with food often going down the wrong way into her lungs leading to painful paroxysms of coughing and choking. Tim Williams, our consultant, had warned us of this and suggested that at some point Wendy might be better off with a tube going straight into her stomach through the skin and stomach wall, what’s called a percutaneous endoscopic gastrostomy tube, or peg-tube. Wendy had thought it through carefully, as she always did, and suggested it at the MND clinic we attended just before Christmas.
I drove her across to Newcastle in January and since she was going to be in hospital for a week booked myself into a local hotel so I could be with her as much as possible. She was in the neurological ward and had a room to herself yet it was all very open and friendly. I was told I could stay day and night, as long as I wanted. Once she’d had the operation I had to learn how to feed her, using the peg. It made a huge difference; she was no longer choking and coughing when eating, and once we had learned the routine, it was easy to deliver.
She was discharged quite late in the day and by the time we got back to Badger Hill it was dark and raining heavily. There was no one at home. To get her into the house as quickly as possible I used the wheeled walking frame but it kept getting stuck in our muddy parking area as the rain lashed down and the wind buffeted us. I felt alone and vulnerable; Wendy was quietly stoical but tiring fast. We barely made it to the kitchen door and into the warm safe shelter of our home. I got Wendy settled in our big comfy recliner armchair and for the first time fed her through the peg without anyone nearby to call for help or advice.
At last, in bed, I could snuggle up against her, getting every bit as much assurance from her as I could give to her, by our close physical contact. Her illness was biting harder and harder. She could no longer talk; indeed barely make a sound. Wendy would ring a little bell to get attention and then write down whatever she wanted to say. She tried an application on her iPad, which synthesized her typed notes into speech, but it didn’t suit her. Her handwriting was clear, easy to read and expressive. I have kept dozens of reporter’s notebooks recording her needs and her side of conversations.
She suffered also from something called restless leg syndrome, a neurological condition not necessarily associated with her MND. It’s like an uncomfortable itch but experienced inside your legs, so scratching does nothing to help. The reflex response was to kick, but that did nothing either. It made sleep very difficult; Wendy found it hard to lie or sit comfortably. Walking helped, as did some drugs, but it took a while to control. I find it difficult to conceive what it must have been like for her, facing this relentless decline and increasing dependence. She never complained and, right to the end, was always thinking of others, gesturing to remind me to offer one of our carers and visitors a cup of tea or a comfortable seat.
We got more help from social services, with a carer coming in four times a day, but they were on a tight schedule and out in the country that was difficult. If the carer hadn’t been to us before, they had a job to find us. It meant you could never be sure just when they would turn up. At this stage it wasn’t critical because I could do everything on my own without support, but it became increasingly tiring, particularly when she needed to get up during the night; she needed help to get out of bed and back in again.
Things came to a head in mid April 2014. I had dozed off but was as usual on edge in case she needed me. I was suddenly aware that something was wrong: she wasn’t lying beside me. I hurled myself out of bed but she ran out of strength before I could reach her, slumping to the floor from her walking frame. I wasn’t strong enough to get her back into bed on my own and had to phone my brother Gerald in the village. He managed the task easily. It was good to snuggle close to her and drift off to sleep.
Next day, we held a big meeting in our living room with Joyce, our district nurse, in the chair, one of the other nurses, and someone from social services. Rupert, who had already done so much, was there too. Joyce said we definitely qualified for full twenty-four-hour NHS home care. We understood it would take a little time to arrange everything and in the meantime Wendy could stay in our local hospice in Carlisle for a week or so. Wendy had a big room with French windows through which she could drive her scooter and see green fields. I was allowed to stay all day and as long into the night as I wanted. We had plenty of visitors and could go out for walks in the park next door.
Then we had the next crisis. The nurse reported one morning that there was blood in Wendy’s urine. The hospice could only give palliative care so she had to go into hospital. We both hated that idea but discussing it was obviously difficult with Wendy having to write down her thoughts. We accepted the decision. At first, it wasn’t too bad. She was in the gastric ward and had a nice single room but next morning I discovered she’d been moved to a crowded open ward. The beds were close together and it was incredibly noisy. The nurses were obviously stretched and I found it difficult to find anyone to answer my questions though I could see for myself Wendy was on a drip. I was also told I would have to observe visiting hours. When I returned that afternoon I was told they were deciding whether to examine Wendy by endoscope and until they decided weren’t feeding her: hence the drip. I returned home in an agony of worry.
Next day there was still no information and Wendy was looking very pale and wan. She had not been fed for two days. I was frantic but did what I should have done in the hospice: I phoned Yvette, our MND nurse in Newcastle. When I explained what was happening, she immediately said that an endoscopy might well kill her. There was no point in her being in hospital: any surgical intervention would be fatal.
I made my mind up immediately, explained to Wendy what Yvette had said, found the ward sister and told her I was taking Wendy home. It took another couple of hours to sort out the paperwork and then I drove Wendy home in the Kangoo. We both resolved she would never again leave home. Our full support system was nearly in place, although it still needed me or a family member, usually Rupert, to be available at all times since we now needed two people to help Wendy move.
She now slept in a hospital bed, installed in our downstairs bedroom; I had a single bed beside it. I could no longer snuggle up close to her but at least I was there, could hold her hand and help in the night. If Rupert or a friend were staying I’d sometimes slip upstairs to get a full night’s sleep. I still kept up with some of my work. I needed to, to keep my own balance. Even now I feel guilty about needing those breaks.
We got to know our carers, learned about their lives, offered them lunch or supper; we became like a family. There were also all the other specialists and our dear friend Vera doing regular slots, although she now had to be employed directly by the care contractor. There was no time for sadness or reflection. My richest memories were our walks, exploring the tracks and quiet roads within half an hour’s drive or so. We often went up to the Solway; the nature reserves had scooter-friendly paths and there was a wealth of birdlife. We could watch waders feeding on the mud flats and gulls wheeling in the sky with such effortless freedom to the other side of the firth. Behind the shore were the Galloway hills where we had wandered so often in the past.
In early summer Wendy became weaker. We decided to get Joe over from Australia as soon as possible. He arrived in June and though he could manage only a few days it was important to them both. He was devoted to his mum, yet on the other side of the world had inevitably felt isolated and out of touch. Even the practical actions of feeding through the peg or helping her out of her chair had to be learned when the rest of us were doing it all with the ease of practice. Yet his presence and love meant a huge amount and his departure was a sad one, for they both knew they were unlikely to see each other again. It was so hard on him.
I had always found it difficult to talk with Wendy about her approaching death; early on in her illness she indicated she wanted to be cremated and her ashes to be scattered to the winds on top of High Pike. Shortly after Joe’s visit she wrote she wanted to have her funeral in our village church and be buried in the churchyard. Her dad, Les, had died in his early nineties and had his funeral service there too. His vicar, Colin Reid, was a friend. He and Les regularly went walking together and had long discussions on philosophy and religion. Wendy and Colin planned a church service for Les with poetry and songs rather than psalms and hymns. It had been a celebration of a long and at times difficult life, which, in its last twenty years in Caldbeck, had been happy and fulfilling. I’m sure Wendy was thinking of a service along the same lines for herself.
I called Malcolm, our current vicar, and he came up to see us the following morning. Malcolm has a warm, energetic manner and he sat beside Wendy, who was lying on the couch, held her hand and spoke to her. I told him of the funeral service we had planned for Les. He responded gently but firmly that he would have to observe the Church of England ritual, but there were plenty of readings from the Bible, psalms and hymns he was sure Wendy would approve. He couldn’t have been kinder, but he was insistent. He asked Wendy how she felt. She wrote: ‘I will think.’
We didn’t talk about it that day, but next morning she indicated she had something to tell me and wrote: ‘Marie-Elsa.’ I understood at once. Why hadn’t I thought of it? Marie-Elsa is Melvyn Bragg’s daughter. He had been brought up in Wigton and had a holiday home near by. Marie-Elsa had been close to her grandparents growing up and Wendy had known her since her childhood. They had become especially close in the last couple of years, when a close friend of Wendy’s was dying in London. Wendy would stay with Marie-Elsa in Hampstead Garden Suburb when she came down to visit. They shared the same philosophical and spiritual curiosity, often talking long into the night; Marie-Elsa was also a Church of England priest. I phoned her that morning and explained the situation, asking if she’d be prepared to conduct Wendy’s funeral. She consented immediately, provided she was available and of course that Malcolm was happy about it.
It was turning into a humid summer and it became ever more difficult to get Wendy comfortable and to move her from one resting place to another. Her snug, at the end of the house, with its French windows and daybed, was a peaceful room. But she was getting so terribly weak. We had to use the hoist more and more to move her, a relentless loss of independence. She was having increasing difficulty in writing, her notes becoming shorter and more difficult to decipher.
Rupert was now staying at Badger Hill most of the time, as Wendy’s condition worsened. On 21 July there was another meeting with Joyce, the district nurse, Louise, the manager at her care company and other specialists, standing around Wendy, seated in her armchair in the living room, able to understand every single word and nuance of conversation, but unable to take part. Some of the group made the effort to involve her, but all too easily it slipped into a conversation over her head. There was talk of moving her hospital bed into the living room, of fitting a catheter, of using the hoist at all times. Then the meeting dispersed and we were left feeling a little stunned.
Next morning Wendy indicated she’d like to go outside and look at the garden. We sat her in her big electric wheel chair. Rupert needed to help her operate the finger control and we carefully navigated our way through the living room and snug, out onto the patio and into the garden, up onto the lawn where she went slowly from plant to plant, gazing intensely at each one. She seemed to be saying goodbye. I think we both had to hide our tears.
We spent the rest of the day quietly, carers coming and going, feeding Wendy through the peg, Rupert and I doing what we could to help her get comfortable. That night it took her a long time to settle but eventually Wendy sank into a fitful sleep. Around midnight she woke up again. The carer and I did what we could to make her comfortable and she fell asleep again but her breathing was now very shallow. She seemed to be slipping away. I told the carer to wake Rupert and he came down quickly. I also phoned our doctor Kate to tell her I thought Wendy was dying. She said she’d come straightaway.
Then I crouched on my single bed holding Wendy’s hand; Rupert was on the other side holding her other hand. I can remember very little of the detail of those moments. I don’t think we were in tears at that time, but united in intense love for Wendy, trying to protect and shelter her, as her breathing grew weaker and weaker and finally became imperceptible. Did she hear our words? Feel our hands on hers, our arms around her? I want to think she did.
The week after Wendy’s death was filled with preparations and getting Joe and the Sydney family back to the UK. There was no time for grief. Marie-Elsa, though recovering from a bout of illness, came straight up to help plan the funeral. She was a wonderful, soothing, compassionate and practical presence. Malcolm, our vicar, was helpful in every way. Rupert sorted out all the many arrangements, with help from my wonderful secretary Margaret Trinder, and Frances Daltrey, who has run my photo library for so many years. Joe, Jude, Edie and Honor flew in from Australia and stayed at Badger Hill.
The undertakers arrived and took Wendy’s body to Carlisle but Marie-Elsa suggested she be brought home the day before the funeral. The coffin was opened and placed on supports in the snug, surrounded by her things. It was good having her there, lying so still and reposed, home for one last night. The hospital bed was taken away and I had our big double bed reassembled; all I could think was how empty it was without her beside me.
The morning of the funeral dawned cloudy; rain fell throughout the day. You could barely see High Pike. The hearse arrived, the coffin was closed and we carried it out to the hearse, Rupert and Joe in front, Rob and Marcus, their childhood friends, in the middle, my brother Gerald and I bringing up the rear. Once the coffin was in the hearse we led it on foot with the rest of the family to the beech tree at the end of the track and then drove to the Oddfellows Arms in Caldbeck where friends were waiting. Together we led the hearse to the church.
Marie-Elsa was there to greet us and guide us through the service. All of us took part: I gave the eulogy; Rupert and Joe talked of their mum and the four grandchildren read a poem they had composed, each taking a verse at a time. Wendy’s oldest friend Rosemary spoke, as did Paul Ross, who ran the Lamp Lighter coffee bar when she started folk singing, and Stephen Bolger, one of Wendy’s professional colleagues. Dave Goulder, folk singer, old friend and neighbour sang ‘The Carter’, and Margaret Walker, from our Bowdon days, played the harp, and we took Wendy on her final journey to her grave close to the church wall, as we listened to a recording of her singing, all of us in tears.
Gathering at the village hall to drink and reminisce, I found myself in shock, unable to get around to thank the so many people for their support and kindness. I just sat in a corner with a few close family and friends. The first real agony of grief hit me when Joe and the family went back to Australia and I was at Badger Hill on my own. I can remember walking ‘round the block’ howling. The decision to climb the Old Man of Hoy was to give my mind something else to focus on. On getting back from the Orkneys I began trying to meet my usual commitments but the effects of my prolapsed discs were biting hard. I had to move into our bungalow in Keswick, where Rupert could care for me. Things got so bad I was put on morphine and could only sleep on my left side lying against pillows with a hot water bottle pressing against my lower back.
Normally, in the summer, I would have led an annual walk for Berghaus, the ‘Bonington walk’, a bit of fun and to raise awareness among the staff. Wendy’s final illness made that impossible. It was postponed to October but now I was laid up and couldn’t make it. A scan showed how badly the discs had been compressed and the radiologist suggested a spinal injection of slow-release anaesthetics and steroids to reduce the pain. Rupert drove me to Newcastle and I hobbled into the operating theatre in my surgical gown, lying face down on the operating table. The radiologist was looking at an X-ray image to identify a spot as close as possible to the trapped nerves, and I experienced a sudden agonizing stabbing pain that almost made me leap into the air.
‘Bingo!’ the radiologist exclaimed. ‘Spot on!’
Rupert drove me back to Keswick and my back improved until I was able to take short walks down to the shores of Derwentwater. Finally, I drove myself back to Badger Hill. It was a bittersweet experience, getting back to the house where I had known so much love and which I loved so much, yet empty of the woman I loved. I walked around the familiar block, the track to Potts Ghyll, dropping down to the little stream that joins the Caldew that in turn joins the Eden to flow out into the Solway Firth.
Beyond Potts Ghyll I walked up onto the open fell, skirting the drystone walls leading back to the mine track from Nether Row. I found myself weeping as I walked the old familiar trail, the memories too painful to bear, big gasping retching sobs, but then I stopped and became aware of the quiet soothing beauty, on this border between field and fell, the sheep quietly munching the grass, the scattered houses of Nether Row partly hidden by the trees growing among them, my own Badger Hill barely visible. I was glad to be home again, even as I felt its emptiness.