Dad

Today my dad would have been 98 years old! He always expected to live to a ripe old age as many of his ancestors had done, but instead he died at the far too young age of 65. He and my mother were on holiday on a cruise ship, returning from a visit to Norway's North Cape to see the midnight sun. He had apparently, according to mother later, been dancing "a very leisurely" eightsome reel when he felt unwell. He sat down for a moment - and was gone. It must have been a frightful experience for mother and a big decision to allow him to be buried at sea, though we all agreed it was how dad would have wanted it. I miss him still, despite his Victorian attitude to parenting: "What was good enough for MY dad is good enough for me!" he said on occasions. His dad was born in 1864.

They were both happiest when out on the hills, and had each stood on the summits of many of Britain's mountains. Scottish Mountaineering Club meets were frequently attended, and on holidays my sister and I were also taken to the hills, though I have to say dad always teased me about "peching like a grampus"! (In other words I puffed and panted my way to the tops!) However he was always proud of me when we reached the top of a hill.

I think this photo was taken on the top of Arthur Seat, the volcanic plug round which the city of Edinburgh grew! Well, it began to grow up round the Castle rock, a smaller volcanic plug, but in time spread out round the higher hill, taking in more and more small villages on its outskirts. We really grew up in the shadow of Arthur Seat, so it was an obvious choice for a first ascent! I was probably carried up there many times before I actually achieved it on my own two feet!

So whenever I am out in the countryside, I feel dad is there too, even at 98! He certainly would have been if he could have been!

Talk again soon.