A goodbye and a hug

Yesterday people gathered in Tunbridge Wells to affirm Heidi's life. We were late. We missed the actor reading Manley Hopkins' Pied Beauty, missed Joe's choice of hymn, God Moves In A Mysterious Way (minus the dodgy verse), but  heard Caroline and Jenny Bush celebrate their mother in quiet voices. Ending with four lines from Milton's Lycidas:

And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,
And now was dropt into the western bay:
At last she rose and twitched her mantel blue:
Tomorrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

As one who regards the possession of a soul as an unlikely luxury, I was comforted by the celebration's general view: that the only permanence is how others remember us. VR had described Heidi as "cheeky" in facing life's difficulties. I remembered Heidi's face challenging me in conversation; best not to be a fool because she didn't suffer fools gladly. A challenge I happily accepted.

Beyond the chapel, Joe emboldened by painkillers against his wretched ailment, wearing a tie, moved down the line of celebrants. I dared myself to hug him - the first time I've ever hugged any man in my life. And he, catching at the awkwardness, drew away afterwards in mock surprise: "Robbie!"

At the house we shared brief memories of Breton holidays with Joe's children, Pippa and Toby, now ridiculously assured adults. But after less than an hour VR and I had to be away. Joe protested, he wanted to talk about "writing". I chided him: now was no time to recreate a Blogger's Retreat dialogue, to exclude his other friends.

But we had another reason for leaving, heavily ironic. To do as much of the return journey in the light. For light had been the curse from Hereford to Kent. For nearly five hours I had driven east, against a capricious low-lying winter sun waiting in ambush round each curve of the road. A glare so intense it was like entering and re-entering the doors of a furnace, blotting out all reference points, my streaming blepharitic right eye trying to cope,  picking out shreds of reflection, a quarter-second view of the kerb.

Made worse by a satnav which took us down short-cuts choked by commuter traffic. On a dual carriageway near Bracknell we entered one of those jams which only south-east England can nourish, a long, long, constipated turd of a jam in which all our marginal time was dissipated. At this rate we would miss everything and we talked of turning back. Suddenly the reason for the jam became apparent, we were through and the satnav - performing heroically - took us round tiny rural roads on TN's outskirts delivering us quarter of a hour late.

The return journey went smoothly, Until, out on the M4, I recognised a legacy of the morning's excesses: milli-second pauses when - at 70 mph - I kept falling asleep at the wheel. Does coffee help or is it a myth? A bowl of Costa Americano, toxic in its strength, worked a miracle.

Changed into my PJs at home I was remarkably relaxed. An ordeal but glad we persisted. I reflected on "ordeal" and noticed it resembled the far more evocative "odyssey". A journey made against difficulties towards a worthwhile and emotional goal. Turning back would have been a weak end to the day. The act of a timorous fool. And fools... As I say, I agree with Heidi.

The above exceeds 300 words. But I'm making an exception here.