Yesterday Peter and I went for a walk along the Ystwyth Valley, taking a route we had never tried before. We had a map, though nevertheless managed to become lost. But it was such a beautiful afternoon, and after all there’s little to fear in being lost in such bucolic surroundings, especially when you know food is waiting at home once you’re back on track.
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Our dear friend David Lewis died peacefully in his bed on Thursday night, his family around him. Though mortally ill, a bare ten days before the end he had hopped onto his motorcycle and sped off to have tea with a neighbour. I love to think of him bowling along, the high hills streaming away into the wide blue yonder on either side of the ridge road. To the end he continued to be the man he had always been: intrepid, life-affirming, generous of spirit and quick to laughter. A paediatrician, farmer, ceramist and cello player, he was in all senses a great man, though in the gentlest and most unassuming way. I can’t think of anyone more boyish in enthusiasm than David, and yet wise and brimming with humanity. Whenever I spoke with him I never felt that there was anything on his mind more pressing or interesting than whatever thoughts I was sharing, no matter how trite. He never looked distracted or preoccupied, but gave his all to whoever he was with. Everything to David was ‘marvellous’ and ‘wonderful’ and ‘interesting’. He was full of grace, full of energy, unafraid of his approaching death. When we asked him, he said that the thing he felt most about what was to come, was curiosity.
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His absence leaves a hole in our hearts you could park a jumbo jet in.
