Monday March 1st 2021, 23.10hrs. (approximately)
72 years 3 hours since, when 12 inches of snow lay on the ground outside Ashton Nursing Home in Sale, now part of Greater Manchester, I, David Nevell, joined the global population of the time, fourteen months after Britain’s railways were nationalised, and when King George VI was Monarch. I grew up in Sale, then in Cheshire, at age 20, moving with Mum and Dad to leafy Knutsford, not too far away. At 26, I had my own place in hilly Buxton, 1,000 feet above sea level, except that, where I have lived since 1975 is in fact, around 1,200 feet above sea level. Only now in lockdown (who would have ever thought that a global pandemic would upset the world’s apple cart) am I, with the help of a neighbour, beginning to explore the attractive terrain visible from where I live.
Tuesday morning, 07.57 hrs exact.
This time in 1949, I was not yet twelve hours old! The tradition of being named after one’s forebears was intended to be maintained, and thus was the intention to perpetuate the name of my grandfather on my father’s side, i.e. James Percy. However, being born on St. David’s Day, my sister tells me it was she who suggested that I should be called David (Mother always maintained that it was one of the attending nurses who made this suggestion). Not so long afterwards, I would be christened at an Anglican church at Rangeworthy, a village in South Gloucestershire near Bristol. The vicar there, Rev’d Jack Williams (“Uncle” Jack) was one-time vicar of St. John’s, Brooklands, now in Greater Manchester, where my father had become Lay Reader, and therefore had become, with his wife “Auntie” Millicent, life-long friends. Perhaps, with time on my hands due to retirement, and having no voluntary commitments at the moment, I may be able to write an entertaining account of the years between then and now. I have already coined the title of this yet to be written autobiography, I Wish I kept my Big Mouth Shut! That’s enough looking back for the time being.
The end of February seemed to be a jumble of events which I am less able to recall. This time last year, I was happily cruising north along the west coast of South America, but not oblivious to the impending pandemic; the term “coronavirus” was on the lips of many. Buxton’s first case of covid-19 was reported in the ship’s newspaper several thousand miles away. I spent much of this last weekend quietly, enjoying the initial signs of Spring, enhanced by vivid clear blue skies. On Sunday, my neighbour and I set off on a walk to some “pastures new”, past Hoffman’s Quarry, as we had done the week before, but this time ending up in Harpur Hill Industrial Estate, which, as the low sun dipped behind the distant hills, and the chill of dusk set in, was probably the least attractive place one could find one’s self in! Strangely, that was the intended route for the last Sunday afternoon of February.
Although we covered probably, less than four miles, this felt like one of our more arduous of walks.
St. David’s Day dawned much more misty and colourless than the previous day, and was one of quiet but very happy celebration. The sun did show its face in the afternoon, but the incentive to go walking again just wasn’t there!
Many thanks for reading, David, 2nd March 2021, 09.25hrs.
David's Cruise 