The Adventurer
For S.C.L.P. 22 March 1928 - 30 December 2024.
He always sought The untrodden path, the secluded spot, High on a mountain, deep in a cave, Remote on a moor, on the edge of a cliff, Down an overgrown track, paying no heed to Hedges, fences and brambles. He was happiest As far as possible from the rest of humanity (Except his own family or chosen companions) With a flat rock or soft grass to sit on And a good view of sea, lake, or river, Or the valley below. He studied maps Viewing the landscape in his mind’s eye, Perusing possibilities, to plan A good place for a walk or a lunch stop, Undaunted by the absence of marked paths Or public rights of way. He would ride off On his motorbike as a young man Into the hills, up the roughest of tracks, To explore, to walk, to camp out, Content with his own company Whatever the weather. He had a canoe, A two seater, of canvas and wood. In Ireland, he led his friends across the loughs; They camped on an island, but a storm blew up: Three days they were stranded with almost no food But wild blackberries. He met his wife In a cave in South Wales, so the story goes. Romance blossomed in the darkness Among stalactites and stalagmites Followed by a Scottish Island honeymoon In the mist and rain. He loved to camp In a quiet corner, on waste ground, Out of sight, without ‘facilities’: Even with very young children He went to great lengths to avoid Official campsites. He took his family Across Africa, an epic six-month trip With three young children, through Sahara sands, Savannah and scrub and Congo jungle, In an ex-army ambulance, long before the days Of tame tarmac roads. He bought a farm In rural West Wales, and taught himself Haymaking, hedge-laying, tractor maintenance, How to help a cow give birth to a calf, How to plough a field, how to live a self-sufficient life. He set off by train In later life, instead of quietly retiring, from South Wales to New South Wales, via Warsaw, Moscow, Trans-Siberia, Beijing, Hong Kong, Perth to Sydney, train after train after train, All on his own. He took more trains For journeys round Europe, South and East: A serial OAP Interrailer Staying in hostels and private homes, Sending only occasional postcards Home to his family. He lived fifty years With his wife on the farm they made home, Happy and content with each other. Now no more tents, caves, canoes, mountains, But many soul-memories, and still at heart An adventurer.
I read this poem at my father’s funeral on 14th January 2025, but I wrote it about a year ago, so he was able to enjoy hearing it then. He died peacefully in his sleep, at home, at the age of 96, having lived a good full life.
This photo is from July 1964, taken on the summit of Stac Pollaidh, in Sutherland, North West Scotland. We’ve assembled a memorial gallery of other photos here.