How quickly the delights of life can be ripped asunder! In
one instant I’m revelling in the experience of seeing a nest of baby turtles
released into the wild, then in the blink of an eye (figuratively speaking)
death rears its ugly head. A couple of days after my last blog post I returned
to Arambol, for a few days luxury while deciding where to spend my last six
weeks in India. Within hours of arriving an email arrived informing me my older
brother, Clint, had died. It was unexpected, though he’d fought illness for
many years his demise was certainly not on the cards. I can’t claim it shocked
me, after losing an eighteen-year-old son I don’t think other deaths can
compare, but it was a surprise I wasn’t prepared for. The news came within an
hour or so of his body being found by a friend. By the look of things he’d
settled back after rolling a joint, closed his eyes and gently passed away. He
had a heart attack, the only sign of having suffered any discomfort was a
slight clenching of his hands. (Photo: A rare shot of Clint in his late twenties - North Wales 1984)
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Throughout my life Clint has been around. We’ve always been
close and maintained contact through thick and thin. When Cai (my son) died it
was Clint who dropped everything, forgot his own predicament and came to
nursemaid me through the darkest of days in my life. He was three years older
than me, so he’s been around. We’ve had our ups and downs, we threw darts at
each other, I shot him in the head with an air gun. But we were young then,
we’ve shared many experiences together since and formed similar opinions of the
world at large. He became a grumpy old sod, but certainly wasn’t always like
that. Having suffered Fibral Myalgia for over twenty years it took its toll, he
isolated himself more and more, reducing his circle of friends to a select few.
Of those who did associate with him he was found to be a decent bloke, generous
and kind-hearted to those who mattered to him. (Photo: Hiding from the camera, Clint, me and baby Cai - Tregarth, North Wales, 1989)
Top of my To Do list was to phone him once I got to Arambol.
I’d been acutely aware of not contacting him for over a month, I knew how much
he valued my calls from abroad. It was always great to hear a pleasurable rise
in his voice when he realised who it was. I’d even wondered if I could get him
on the back of my bike when I got home, not something I’d managed for many
years. To have had such thoughts mere hours before his dead body was actually
found was a bit strange. I don’t trouble my mind over the bizarre events, just
get on and deal with what’s served up. And that’s pretty much what I did, even
to the extent of barging in and insisting to family members that I would take
charge of all arrangements. I didn’t mean to upset people, especially in their
personal grief, but there really was no doubt who he’d have wanted to put his
estate in order. Let’s just say certain aspects needed someone familiar with
his lifestyle and associates. And no, he wasn’t some dodgy geyser; it was simply
a matter of being too alternative for our overly conservative society. (Photo: Enjoying a rare spot of sunshine - Y Felinheli, North Wales, 1990)
It took two weeks to sort out everything, possessions,
accommodation, cremation and finances. For me it was a practical exercise, there
was too much to do to get in a flap over it. Many times I had to wonder whether
I was a little bull-headed in my dealings with people. Though I harboured an
uncaring attitude, I tried to accommodate as many people as possible. Those two
weeks in Yorkshire were filled with the companionship of many of Clint’s
friends, some of which I’d known for a good few years. During that time it was
slowly sinking in, my brother was gone, my link to Yorkshire, my bolt hole too.
When I returned the keys to the local council that would be it. It is weird
assimilating the full implications of a close death, if it concerns a person
you don’t have daily contact with it seems to take longer to sink in. Slowly it
did though, and by the time I turned the lock of his emptied house it was with
certain finality, I wouldn’t be going there again, I wouldn’t be visiting my
brother again. (Photo: Ashes to ashes, laying him to rest - Newborough Beach, North Wales 2013)
As those who regularly read my blog may have realised,
before I came home I was withdrawing a lot from the people around me, becoming
more and more insular. Though I hadn’t thought Clint’s death affected me to a
great extent I’ve grown to realise it compounded the cloud of lethargy that had
started to settle upon me. For a long time I’ve thrown myself forward, into the
thick of things, using this forward motion to maintain momentum and not give up
on life. It has kept me going for years, but I’ve run out of energy now. Some
time to allow events to catch up would be nice, time in which I don’t have to
plan and contrive, where I don’t have to face people, or life, if I don’t feel
up to it. And I haven’t felt keen on putting myself out there, anywhere. This
is all very well if you don’t give a damn about your life, but I do, and I’m
not happy to think of myself throwing too much of it away. The question then is
how long will I allow lethargy to gain the upper hand? Like never before do I
need to recharge the batteries and get on with life. (Photo: The new bike - Triumph Tiger 955i)Don't get me wrong, it wasn't all gloom and doom. Sad yes, but quite touching all the same. For a virtual hermit he did alright for friends who wanted to show their respect, we had a good turn out for the cremation and the wake. In Wales we spread the ashes, and I lay all that was left of him in the same beautiful spot we spread Cai's ashes. All in all it was a good send off, one he'd probably be embarrassed to be the centre of attention of. As for me, I've a new bike and plenty of time to do as I please, it needs to be exciting though, I need to invigorate myself.
