Being English, we don’t talk about death. We moan about
getting old, about aching and forgetting things, about going to work and
wishing for retirement, but we never discuss the alternative. We just pretend that
it will all go on for ever. And we always think there’ll be more time. Time to
spend with friends and family, time to laugh and cry, time to find out a little
bit more about that man you never knew well, but who always made you smile.
Except that sometimes there isn't more time, and it’s only
when it’s too late that you find out that a man you admired, is really called
Keith and not Dobbin; that he liked steam trains and fishing; loved holidays in
Scotland, and that he once dressed up as a woman to play in goal for a ladies’
football team.
And then you learn something more. You begin to see that sometimes
it’s possible to do so much more than work and sleep and pass a life away. That
it is possible to live a life that builds meaning around family and home; that
counts laughter and friendship as more important than money; that brings out a
whole village.
Shoreham is a special place; it draws the best of people
into its heart and cherishes them. And when it’s time to let someone go, it does
so with dignity and pride; with laughter, tears, and more than a little drunkenness.
Shoreham was exactly the right place for Dobbin to live, and, on Friday, as I stood
on the bridge over the river and watched 52 blue and white balloons soaring
into the sky and floating away down the valley, it was also exactly the right
place from which to say goodbye.
