Abri: My Oasis

By Terry Dobson

Author tells story of renovating home, fighting for its survival

Terry Dobson releases second book, 'Abri'

WAKEFIELD, England - Recounting the story of working to save his family's home, author Terry Dobson releases his new book, "Abri: My Oasis" (published by AuthorHouse UK). The book is a series of stories bringing together the ups and downs and day-to-day family life as Dobson attempts to save their Abri, or shelter.

The home was a love-at-first-sight love affair between the author and the bricks and mortar, as the property was in a terrible state, boarded up and desolate, with the owners unaware of its dilapidated and deteriorating condition. The author began to tirelessly and passionately restore the property so it could once again become a treasured family home.

However, Dobson found he would also have to fight for the home when developers launched an initiative to construct as many as 80 homes on the same land. The green-belt-land designation was removed, making the land subject to development. Dobson says this is happening because the current United Kingdom political agenda is to build more affordable homes.

"This action is removing surrounding countryside by the acre," he says, "however, my story is unique in the fact that it is my life, my family with all its limitations is attempting to fight the cause."

"Abri"

By Terry Dobson

Hardcover | 6 x 9in | 414 pages | ISBN 9781504997812

Softcover | 6 x 9in | 414 pages | ISBN 9781504997805

E-Book | 414 pages | ISBN 9781504997829

Also available at Amazon and Barnes & Noble

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Feb 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781504997829

Terry Dobson

An Englishman’s home is his castle, a safe haven, a place of sanctuary, a very true statement indeed. If it is, a house, flat or bungalow, small or very large and you own it outright, incredible… On the other hand, you may have acquired an enormous loan, large or tiny mortgage or paying a low or extremely high rent or own it outright to live there... Whatever or wherever the property is located. It is your home, your castle, your Abri. This story is about just that, a structure, and a home, a home with a family and all its limitations… Not just any home, an architecturally designed bungalow constructed for the owner some 57 years ago and resurrected from certain devastation from the hands of despicable vandals by the author. Stood there, void, boarded up, ransacked, and dejected, for over four years, waiting, waiting… Waiting for that special someone to save it! The Author now living in harmony with the unique countryside surroundings for over four years, until… The time has come to fight and save it once again.

Book preview

AuthorHouse™ UK

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403 USA

www.authorhouse.co.uk

Phone: [phone]

© 2016 Terry Dobson. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/02/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5049-9780-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-9781-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-9782-9 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

This book is a work of non-fiction and based on the life and times, experiences and recollections of Terry Dobson.

In some very limited cases, the names of people and places, dates, and the sequence of events have been changed solely to protect the privacy of those that feature in this story.

The contents of this book are true; however, because of the timescales covered by the author, there may be some minor inaccuracies however, they should not affect the overall honesty and integrity of the work.

The author apologises for any omissions or recollections involving these stories and those adapted from previous works namely And then came Agadoo that may be remembered differently by others to the times and events covered in this work.

The author, his immediate family, and friends have supplied all photographs contained in this work.

A Dedication

Patricia Ann Firth

30.11.1968 - 17.6.2006

For my partner, Tricia the special mum of our son Liam.

For giving me the original spark and inspiration to put pen to paper and write about my life, the difficulties and time in the band Black Lace in a biographical story called -And then came Agadoo - and for giving me the inclination to continue further with my story in this work, Abri - My Oasis

Contents

Foreword

Chapter One: Ashes to Ashes

Chapter Two: A New Challenge

Chapter Three: Who is Tom…?

Chapter Four: Mister Twister

Chapter Five: The Search for Tom

Chapter Six: Finding Tom

Chapter Seven: Desperate Measures

Chapter Eight: And then came Agadoo

Chapter Nine: What a Predicament

Chapter Ten: Moving Home

Chapter Eleven: Round Trip

Chapter Twelve: Shock News

Chapter Thirteen: Linda and Me

Chapter Fourteen: The Chase is on!

Chapter Fifteen: Happy to be here?

Chapter Sixteen: A Birthday Surprise

Chapter Seventeen: FUTT (Feet under the Table)

Chapter Eighteen: Every Boys Dream

Chapter Nineteen: New Wheels

Chapter Twenty: Latest Edition to the Family

Chapter Twenty-One: Time’s Up!

Chapter Twenty-Two: Wrenthorpe’s Got Talent

Chapter Twenty-Three: If’s But’s and Maybe’s

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Wrong Funeral

Chapter Twenty-Five: Star Gazing on the Mount

Chapter Twenty-Six: Identical Suitcases

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Leaves, Leaves and More Leaves

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Cherished Number Plates

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Catch-22

Chapter Thirty: What a Day!

Chapter Thirty-One: A Chip off the (very) Old Block

Chapter Thirty-Two: Direct Opposite

Chapter Thirty-Three: Difficult Times

Chapter Thirty-Four: Ghostly Going’s On!

Chapter Thirty-Five: Friday 28/11/2014

Chapter Thirty-Six: Coincidence

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Arrangements

Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Week that Was!

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Feeling Gutted

Chapter Forty: Thursday 18-12-2014

Chapter Forty-One: Past Present and Future

Chapter Forty-Two: Potholing in Wrenthorpe

Chapter Forty-Three: A New Beginning

Reflections

Epilogue

Abri

My Oasis

An Englishman’s home is his castle, a safe haven, a place of sanctuary, a very true statement indeed.

If it is, a house, flat or bungalow, small or very large and you own it outright, incredible…

On the other hand, you may have acquired an enormous loan, large or tiny mortgage or paying a small or extremely high rent or own it outright to live there…

Whatever or wherever the property is located.

It is your home, your castle, your Abri.

This story is about just that, a structure, and a home, a home with a family and all its limitations…

Located at the top of a three-acre green belt farmer’s field in an almost rural setting some 150 metres from the main Bradford Road to the north of Wakefield West Yorkshire…

Not just any home, an architecturally designed bungalow constructed for the owner some 57 years ago and resurrected from certain devastation from the hands of despicable vandals by the author.

Stood there, void, boarded up, ransacked, and dejected, for over four years, waiting, waiting…

Waiting for that special someone to save it!

The Author now living in harmony with the unique countryside surroundings for over four years, until…

The time has come to fight and save it once again.

This time from total destruction, developers who wish to wipe the family home from the face of this earth and build a multitude of properties on the land.

A story with many twists and turns, recalling the many vicissitudes of a somewhat complicated family life…

A number of unique tales that compliments the intimate and successful biography And then came Agadoo.

Foreword

E veryone has a dream; something planted in your furthest reaches, maybe that one thought emerges and comes to fruition.

The lights suddenly come on and hey presto; you are there, or at the very least on your way…

My dream was that one day I would design and build my own house, not too startling a proposition, like wanting to be an astronaut, a train driver or aspirations to be in the armed forces, no, a very simple, but positive vision.

Nevertheless, like all visionaries, and as a Piscean, I definitely fit into that category, and however uncomplicated, the truth, the realisation of that dream, may turn out to be very different.

Over the years, I have partly fulfilled my dream, yes; plenty of, restorations, alterations and building extensions to properties that I have owned or rented, or employed by others to carry out work, but sadly and frustratingly never completed my very own primary vision.

Of course, in my case it is very easy to comprehend, fully understanding the raison d’être, and yes, believe it or not, even fully embracing them, that is why over the years, I have not totally fulfilled all of my dreams…

Now, as an up and coming pensioner, all I can do is look back with some very minor disappointment at the potential that has either been lost or misguided that has allowed this veracity to come about.

The stories in this and my previous work, And then came Agadoo tell a histoire and life, although not the intended route originally envisaged, a few detours here and there, even a few unstable pathways, that in my lifetime, although maze-like at times, have still remained satisfying.

Enjoy the read…

Terry Dobson

Chapter One

Ashes to Ashes

I quickly arranged a repeat journey down to Dartford, a window of opportunity had come my way, a weekend with no band gigs and the start of Liam’s half term school holiday.

It is almost a year since my last unforgettable trip, dad Toms funeral, December the 18th 2014, seems a lifetime ago now, lots have happened since then, some things I would sooner forget, put to the back or far reaches of my mind, others I have to say, very pleased about the outcome.

My latest brand new car, an identical replacement of my three-year-old four-wheel drive Tiguan, all be it a change of colour, black instead of white, handling exceptionally well in these appalling conditions.

The VW emissions scandal had not put me off this particular make or model, my fourth new VW, however according to the latest news, VW car sales have plummeted, and no doubt, the company will incur further losses and costs when the multinational legal companies get their teeth into the climate compensation claims.

This particular automatic Tiguan Match model has as a built in satellite navigation system, no more TV sized portable sat-nav’s stuck to my windscreen, taking up most of my right eye - centre line vision, although the location of the screen taking a bit of getting used to, now having to glance over to the central area of the dashboard.

It had not stopped raining all night and here we are heading south on the A1 at 7.00am on an extremely wet and windy Friday morning.

The very long articulated heavy goods vehicles taking up most of the inside of two lanes, and looking at the registration plates, most of them appear to be European, a sign of a growing economy, perhaps…

At least the outside lane was reasonably clear, although almost impassable with spray from the lorries, the torrential rain and blustery weather, a good two hours of a bum cheek pinching experience if ever there was one.

It appears that the A1 motorway is not on the radar to become a four lane smart motorway just yet, but watch this space, I am sure it or at the very least sections of it will be on the agenda in the not too distant future.

Not my usual radio 2 Chris Evens morning show while heading to work, Liam, my youngest son and front seat companion for the journey insisting we to listen to Capital, a more up to date music show, songs that he can relate to…

I suppose he can have his way today, I had listened to radio 2 for almost two years since moving offices to our new HQ in Castleford, it would make a change to pay attention to what thirteen year olds give me the impression they are tuned into.

The itinerary for our short stay in Gravesend almost in place, Premier Inn booked, a change to our usual hotel at Dartford Bridge, a message left for dad Tom’s friends, Den and Dora saying we were coming down and would be calling around to see them.

In addition, I fancied a trip to Lower Halstow, a very small village somewhat central to Rainham, Upchurch and Sittingbourne to see my relatives, Steve and Hillary, a message also left for them to contact me if available.

The unknowns for a social call were, Brenda, for some reason her number had disappeared from my phone, no doubt saved to my old sim card, and when replaced, this number, and others I am still not aware of, no doubt went with it.

Brenda only lives a short distance from the Premier Inn, so no problem just bobbing around to see her, if she is out, I could scribble a message to say we are about…

We were going around to the home of Karen and Tony for tea, so that visit already in the bag, all sorted, a telephone conversation I had during the week confirmed our after work Friday social call, apart from what choice of take-a-way we were all to eat, that would be sorted on the night.

Would it be Chinese, Indian, Italian or Mexican, who knows, nonetheless, plenty of choices from the local restaurants and food outlets in and around the Dartford area?

I am easily pleased when it comes to food, anything and everything, my taste buds are either none existent or sterile, however, Liam not too sure of what he would like, touching on the subject of food in general while travelling.

Nevertheless, our first stop was to Bourne’s Funeral Directors in Dartford to pick up dad Toms remains, Debbie at the funeral home taking my telephone call earlier in the week.

I was very surprised how she had remembered me, Karen, and our visits, although I too remembered them for all sorts of reasons.

Debbie must have dealt with hundreds of funeral arrangements from our last visit, strange just to remember our family, unless she is the same with all her customers, either way, we must have made an impression…

Not a visit I was particularly looking forward to, but necessary all the same, although once I have Toms remains in my possession, what to do next.

It had been almost a year since Tom’s funeral and this was not the first time Tom’s ashes had been the centre of discussion.

Mum and me, had chatted about where would the best placed to spread them, deliberations too with Sandra, Karen, Tony and Hillary and my relatives in Norfolk too, what to do, what to do.

Three hours and fifteen minutes, almost a record, no traffic to mention heading south that is, must have been in between the heavy commute to work runs, however, miles and miles of tailbacks on the M11 heading north due to an accident…

The Dartford crossing QE2 bridge and tunnel tollbooths now removed, cameras now evident, a number plate recognition system now in place, must remember to pay my two-way online charge, asking Liam to remind me once we had confirmed our reservation at the hotel, otherwise a hefty fine would be coming my way.

Debbie giving me, and then Liam a huge hug, beckoning us into the warmth of the reception area in Bourne’s main road office…

How are you both, saying it was nice to meet you Liam, I have heard all about you…and how are you too Terry, an infectious smile on Debbie’s face, removing all my uncertainties in an instant.

Would you like a drink of tea or would you like coffee Terry, tea will be fine Debbie, and what would you like Liam? Just tap water thanks…

Please take a seat said Debbie almost nodding to an area with a small sofa, a couple of single chairs and coffee table in the corner of the reception, and I will be back shortly.

Liam whispering, she is a nice lady, now also very much at ease, sitting back in the double seat.

Do you take sugar Terry, Debbie calling from a back room.

Almost an hour had passed in the Funeral reception area, Debbie making the both of us very welcome, it was now time to say our farewells.

We had enjoyed a cuppa, Liam his glass of water, a long chat, had a few laughs too, some at my expense, discussions around my present and former band Black Lace, ex-wives, and my current situation.

We also chatted about our immediate families, the joys and tribulations that they bring, and Liam taking part in the conversation too, not left out one bit…

Debbie enquiring about his drumming and card magic before clearing up our teacups and sauces and the one remaining biscuit, seems a shame to leave just the one, said Debbie, there you are Liam, just for you…

Now returning from the rear room holding a purple coloured carrier sized canvass bag, Debbie making a minor adjustment to the handles giving me a discrete look at the contents.

A white card looking square box, dad Tom’s remains, and a few photographs we had provided for the preparation of the service sheet.

Suddenly the laughing and joking ended, this part of the meeting very poignant as I took charge of the bag from Debbie, the handles just fitting into my outstretched right hand, instantly realising the reason why we had called to the Funeral Home in the first place.

It was very emotional, a heart-breaking moment, Debbie fully understanding the situation, giving me a hug once again.

I am sure you will make the right choice when it comes to deciding what to do with Toms remains, said Debbie, and with that, we were on our way to our next port of call, dad Tom’s friends, Den and Dora.

The Premier Inn receptionist was thankfully expecting us; my online application was a success after all.

Although I had had my doubts, as the website did not appear to be as straight forward as others I had used in the past, but hey ho, the room looked well, except once again, the bed settee was not made up…probably my mistake; perhaps I had missed ticking a box or two…

I did offer the window side of the extra-large double bed; Liam insisting on sleeping on his own, sharing a room is one thing, but sharing a bed with your dad…no way!

Actually, this was not the first time this had happened; in fact, every hotel chain we had used had made the same mistake by not making up the bed settee, so perhaps it was me after all.

Empting our suitcase and hanging up a variety of clothes, uncertain what the weather conditions would be like.

Our usual phone calls home, my mum and Liam’s nana to say we had arrived safely and now settled in for our overnight stay in the southern regions.

Kent is a lovely area of the UK, but not today, not so far, still pouring down as we dodged huge puddles in the hotel car park making our way across to the Beefeater restaurant for our lunch.

Tucking into our steak and chips, mine cooked to perfection, although a little on the small side taking into account the long wait, and the cost.

Liam’s steak also going down a treat, cooked just how Liam likes it, medium rare…a good appetite, and his favourite meat dish.

Our conversation, before, during and after the meal, all about our visit to see Den and Dora, and how well they both looked, even though Den said he had just been diagnosed with terminal cancer.

So straight forward and to the point, I was shocked to hear the news, but Den just shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, nothing I can do, just accept it and move on, enjoy whatever time we all have left together.

He did say he is having some medication, and is currently feeling fine, nevertheless, this comment was reminiscent of Tom, he said the same when he too diagnosed with bowel cancer.

Den always gave Liam £5.00, and today was no exception, a crisp £5 pound note offered before we said our goodbyes, the pair of them insisting we do not leave it too long before we visit them again.

Our lunchtime meal finished, both plates free from left over’s and still a little space for whatever take-away meal we would be indulging in when at Karen and Tony’s home later this evening.

We decided to nip around to see Brenda, sadly, she was not at home, a message hastily wrote on an old envelope and pushed through the letterbox, just in case she was local and not at the families caravan in Wells next to the Sea, Norfolk.

Ok, what do we do now, our itinerary, Liam pointing out, my itinerary not making any allowances for this unfortunate occurrence…the what if scenario.

We had already been to the funeral home, also to Tom’s former home, a mid-terraced bungalow, part of an Independent Living Scheme, the slow drive past the front elevation bringing a vision of Tom stood at the patio doors, waving us off, memories flooding back.

We had also been around to see Den and Dora, booked into the hotel, and had our just before mid-day lunch, and now what…where to go, what to do for the next couple of hours.

The weather had brightened up no end, in fact almost summer like, so why not a short drive down to the Gravesend Fort and battlements area, a brisk walk along the front…I suggested, although Liam saying this time around he would be more content in going back to the hotel…

This area of Gravesend has always been a favourite area to visit when dad Tom was in better health.

A steady walk through the leisure gardens and battlements, a stroll along the river embankment, a nice cup of tea and toasted teacake in the pavilion, a look at all the old photographs of ships that pass this location mounted on the café walls, to return to those times gone bye would be great, I thought…

Oh well…giving out a sigh.

Ok, hotel room it is then, we will go down to the waterfront in the morning, after breakfast, confident that the weather would hold and the view of the river Thames and waterfront area would pass on an hour or so.

My partner Linda telephoned to see how we both were, and enquired as to what we had been up to so far, Liam butting in to either finish my sentence or correct me when not precise with my explanation of the day’s events…

Afternoon TV was not brilliant, but it did pass a little time for me, in between nodding on and off while laid on the bed, the advertisement of the comedian, Lenny Henry, snuggled up in a Premier Inn bed came to mind, this bed was indeed very comfortable.

Liam busy, perfecting a couple of recently purchased card tricks, astounding me with his accuracy and sleight of hand…

What is my youngest son going to do when he leaves school, a drummer, percussionist or magician, who knows, but in my opinion, he is definitely going to be marvellous at whatever he chooses to be?

The planned short drive to Karen and Tony’s Dartford home actually taking us around forty-five minutes, hitting the commute from work traffic head on, the M2 and A2 out of Gravesend extremely busy at this time, no matter, it would all be worth it.

What an evening, our eventual choice of Indian food cooked to perfection, although not necessarily to Liam’s taste.

He did eat some of the food, the Naan bread and the chicken pieces, however not at all fond of the coconut, the consistency of the food not to the liking of his palate.

I enjoyed my food and the remainder of Liam’s meal too, a few leftovers also passing my lips, ravenous, you bet, although I should not have been, cereal for breakfast, steak and chips for lunch and an Indian for late tea.

It was almost a t total night for me, although I did have just the one bottle of alcoholic beverage, just to wash down my meal… honest.

We caught up on the past years events, laughing and talking around the dining table until our jaws and tummies ached, Liam too having fun with James, and a friend upstairs, his magical card tricks amazing the youngsters.

It was well after 12.30 before we left Dartford for our much-needed beds and sleep, the traffic virtually non-existent on the motorway as we headed east on our short journey towards Gravesend and our hotel.

Thoughts of the evening’s conversations, the plentiful delicious food, blending perfectly well together, pleased me no end.

Surprisingly, it had been eleven months to the day since we had been in each other’s company, and what an upsetting day that was, dad Tom’s funeral and wake.

Tom’s remains, his ashes suddenly came to mind, they were in the car boot, I had meant to take them indoors to show Karen and Tony, and perhaps touch on the subject once again of what to do with them, but I totally forgot.

Sounds so harsh, what to do with them as I am aware of all sorts of intricacies that can be purchased to save and remember a loved one such as, charm bracelets and necklaces, ornate urns and so on.

Not for me I am afraid, but what to do, do I take them back home with us to Yorkshire, or leave the remains here once again in Dartford…

Liam, Liam, I almost had to shout, the car radio quite loud; moreover, he had his headphones on listing to music on his iPhone, as I tapped the volume switch on the steering wheel.

Liam, now almost whispering, what do you think about scattering Tom’s ashes in the river Thames?

The thought had just occurred to me, and now wanting to verify my considerations with Liam.

We love to go to the river’s edge in Gravesend, don’t we, Liam nodding, and Tom worked on the docks for many years and regularly visited a local pub on the river’s embankment too, perfect, Liam smiling and nodding and giving me a thumbs up, in approval.

That is it then, sorted, in the morning that is what we will do, visit the battlements, walk along the front and find a suitable fitting place to spread Tom’s remains, his final resting place, the river Thames, you all ok with that Liam…mmmm, Liam once again nodding, headphones in place once again.

Already through the tunnel and heading north, just after 2.30 on a sunny Saturday afternoon and on our way home, our last few hours in the countryside of Kent a whirlwind of activities and emotions.

Not too sure, about not having the tollbooths anymore, there are still umpteen queues of traffic, although now all patiently waiting in their respective lanes for the newly fitted traffic lights to apportion segregated movement through the tunnels, progress, mmmm, I think not.

The M25, busy as usual regardless of a working or non-working day, but certainly running free anti-clockwise, the M11 signpost now looming up for our turn off, good time, so far.

As is usual on my long drive home, cruise control set at 65mph, a reflective time, thinking about the events of my or our time while in Kent, on this occasion, just this morning.

Meeting Hillary and Steve at their home, before driving around to the dock for some lunch, not the usual pub, this time on a barge, the Edith May, somewhat semi-permanently moored just off the former brickfields site in a little tidal tributary in Lower Halstow.

Hillary explaining that the Edith May often took seasonal bookings, sailing out into the river Medway, the trip offered a full English breakfast, dinner and an evening meal while afloat, before finally returning to the dock at high tide.

Our meeting, the last time again almost year ago, was a catch up of all family things since aunty Flo, Hillary’s mum and dad Tom’s elder sister, passed away, now almost two years ago.

Tentatively touching on the subject of Tom’s remains, and what our overnight feeling of what we thought best to do with them, seemed to please them with our final choice.

Our light lunch going down a treat, a buttered scone for me and a tea, Liam tucking into a sandwich overflowing with salad and a choice of meat filling, Hillary and Steve tucking into Lasagne, the below deck, almost sauna like experience a worthwhile treat, and one we would be definitely taking up once again when next we visit.

Steve insisting we leaving them to walk the short distance home, a kiss and cuddle and we were on our way…

Nearly three hours ago since lunch and the A14 dual carriageway horrendously busy, and at this time too, not unusual during the working week, but surly not on a Saturday teatime.

Most of our roads appear to be gridlocked, even worse when an accident occurs, miles and miles of tailbacks, detours and the like, driving on the British road system becoming a nightmare whatever time of day you travel.

My breakfast now repeating, just a little, must have been the extra sausage, I muttered to myself, as my thoughts transfixed on leaving the hotel and our short drive to the waterfront.

Feeding coins into the machine, my parking ticket firmly placed on the dash, the bag containing dad Tom’s remains now confidently in my grasp, as Liam and I headed for the Thames riverside.

It was still quite early, not that many people about, timely, I thought, did not want an audience, today of all days.

The tide was well out, a bit disappointing, as it left a very large muddy area between the water’s edge and the embankment, and certainly not relishing the attempt to walk over this lot to the water’s edge.

We headed towards the Gravesend Yachting Cub jetty, the first of three visible landing-stages, all with-in a hundred yards of each other, the fast flowing river to our right, this could be just the spot I thought, what do you think, Liam.

There were a couple of adults and a few children feeding the abundant swan family, otherwise the coast was clear.

We headed past the external multi-gym and made our way along the jetty towards the water’s edge, taking extreme care underfoot on the slippery still wet timber surface.

A couple of steps still showing, the rest disappearing into the murky depths, although the tide did appear to be coming in as I placed the bag containing the square box onto the decking.

Carefully removing the lid and exposing a plastic bag containing Tom’s remains, Liam, tentatively looking on at my every action as I removed the flexible tie, bending over and beginning to pour the grey coloured remains of my dad into the swelling waters.

Upsetting, you bet, I had all on to contain my feelings, Liam more conscious than me of some approaching mature walkers, although they had not begun to walk along the pier, maybe sensing what we were doing, instead, hesitantly choosing to walk further along the promenade.

The contents were heavy, a consistent sort of minute gravel particles slowly and evenly poured from the plastic bag into the river.

I gently swished the icy cold water to ensure that all of Toms remains had fully dispersed before daring to turn towards Liam, my eyes awash making my vision a little blurry to say the least.

Are you ok dad, Liam holding my arm, yes son, ok now, I do hope dad Tom understands why we have done this, my voice a little shaky with emotion…

Come on then love, let us get on our way, Hillary and Steve yet to visit.

Four hours and counting, although our journey almost at an end, Wakefield 12 miles, the M62 not busy at all…10 minutes and we will be home.

Our home, all the work to renovate almost completed a task that I would not want to take on board again, well maybe not just yet.

The house fully redecorated after removing walls, building a conservatory, making and fitting new fencing, decking and adjusting the garden levels… bloody hard work, but well worth the effort.

It did not seem almost six years ago that I had endured a similar feat when working on the bungalow, sadly this episode now a distant memory.

I had received notice to vacate the property, way back in February, moving out on April 15th, and the developers eager to make a start on a major development, the building of 88 new homes, including the demolition of our former home.

I think I am now over that experience, but the sad thing is, that the site is still development free six months on, not a sign of a start, disappointing when we could still be living there, enjoying another Christmas and holiday period in an almost countryside feel of seclusion.

Oh well, at home now, contemplating what would the reaction be from my partner Linda, would she question my motives, why had chosen to carefully decanted Tom’s remains into the Thames…

Why not put a little of dad Toms remains on each of the graves of relatives located in Swaffam or Norwich in Norfolk, or maybe Gravesend, or even Dartford or Lower Halstow in Kent…

I had that answer just in case.

Chapter Two

A New Challenge

A lthough not purposely looking for a challenge at this time of life, I have to say the temptation of this new and exciting venture would become just too much to ignore.

During one of our many walks around the village, me and my young son Liam ventured to the northern end of Wrenthorpe, coming across an almost derelict home, well I say home, a boarded up dwelling of sorts and if looked at from a layman’s point of view, I must say, quite unique in design.

The property located in the top left hand corner of a recently ploughed field, a sort of oasis, the building rising from behind very tall poplar trees and a shoulder high thorny hedge, about 150 meters along a track from the main Bradford Road.

Walking up the track, Liam, and me chatting about the day’s events, when I spotted a small white van parked up, now about 30 feet from where we were heading.

We were just about to step off the track onto the tarmac driveway of the property, when suddenly this chap emerged from the undergrowth, closely followed by two excited dogs, startling Liam and me…

Hello, I said, somewhat nervously, my son and I were just having a look around, taking a deep breath after the initial fright.

Hello, what brings you two up here, also startled at first, but now the infectious smile covering this chaps face, as we exchanged names, I’m Ken, said the chap, and these are my two dogs…pointing to the small white one, this one is Macey and the other Candy…

Ken went on to explain where he lived and how often he and the dogs came to this neck of the woods, he also gave me some fantastic information about the property, the land we stood on, the family who used to live here and what they did, or used to do for a living…

The Macaulay family, Ken went on to say, had this home built around 1957, Mr & Mrs Macaulay and family, two boys and a girl, used to live over there…pointing to the opposite side of the field.

My eyes not as good as they were, Ken seeing me squint trying to make out the outline, saying, that big white house behind the tree’s, you get to it from Potovens Lane, opposite my house, he said…

Oh, I see now, I was looking ever so slightly in the wrong direction, but finally focusing and taking in the view…

Liam stroking and patting the excited fussing dogs and not saying a great deal, however, I would find out later he had actually heard every spoken word.

This place has been empty for almost 4 years now remarked Ken…4 years, I repeated, looking around, yes said Ken, and believe me, it is a right tip inside.

Totally wrecked, vandal’s, scroats and thieves have taken anything and everything they could lay their hands on, fixtures fittings and anything of value from the property.

Ken now making his way back into the undergrowth, follow me, come and have a look, I’ll show you the gardens and maybe we can look through a gap in boarding covering the living room window…(Ken obviously had looked through the gaps before)

It was like trekking through the Amazon jungle… (Get me out of here) came to mind, long grass, shrubs, and thorny blackberry bushes galore…

They grew rhubarb in large fields all around Wrenthorpe continued Ken, holding a tree branch at bay for Liam and me to pass…

Traipsing through the wilderness and on to a path, yes and they used to own Wakefield 41 too; you know, over there, all that land, as far as the eye can see, pointing in a northerly direction to where Morrison’s and the Coca Cola plant are constructed, said Ken…

Bloody hell I thought, they must have been a very well off family, maybe millionaires, and all this wealth from growing rhubarb, but why would they leave a property as distinctive as this and let it fall into disrepair, almost total rack and ruin…beggars belief.

We continued to walk along the path, across the overgrown lawn, and up about half a dozen or so stone steps, which took us to a Yorkshire stone paved area to what I think, looked like the front of the house.

Now