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Last Friday we caught the train up to famously flat Cambridgeshire and, at a sodden Ely station, found the taxi we had booked to take us to the church in Soham. “You gents look very smart,” said the driver to my partner and I. “Off anywhere nice?” While this could have been jarring, he was sort of right: we were going to a church service celebrating a life. And as our friend, Peter, had been cremated earlier that morning, even the driver’s gothic-novel chit-chat didn’t faze us. “Round here, when the earth gets this wet, you can’t bury folk; soil falls in the hole as fast as you dig it out. When my mother-in-law died, we had to keep her out of the ground for weeks.” I was only surprised that he didn’t have a crow on his shoulder.
When someone has died too young it leaves people feeling lost. Peter’s younger brother, Mark, spoke during the service about this sense of injustice, yet his words also made clear that this was not a moment to dwell on that. Knowing that he was going to die, Peter, a successful, skilled designer, had also been able to help shape the day – make sure it was to his taste. The vicar said that she had also been firmly instructed not to make things “too religious”. She also revealed that Peter and his partner, Martin, had quietly married before his death and, with those words, a congregation of locals, family and friends cheered and clapped. Even Oscar, the dog, with a front-pew position on Martin’s lap, stirred from his slumber. It was a celebration of a life of good deeds, impeccable taste, love, a husband, family and a faithful dog too.
These services are, however, jolts of a different kind for the living. “Do you think you would get a turnout like this?” one friend asked me while we drank champagne at the wake. Crikey, I thought, do I now have a different type of deadline to worry about being ready for? Honestly, as long as nobody includes a typo on my headstone (there’s a potential rude slip with “Tuck”), I am OK with whoever wants to pitch up.
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Saturday morning, I went to Mallorca alone (the other half was going to the US for work). Late October can be an amazing time on the island. The package-tourism season is in its final throes and lots of the resort hotels are already shuttered. But in the city, in Palma, there’s a renewed calmness – apart from the squawking cherry pickers being used to put up Christmas decorations and the cruise-ship guided tours jamming the streets up to the cathedral. The weather is still warm; after spending time in rain-lashed London, it was good to be back in shorts and Birkenstocks. And a T-shirt too, of course.
I have become a little obsessed with my adopted city, with its architecture, its culture and its way of doing things. It’s a place whose soul, for outsiders like me, can feel elusive – so much happens out of sight and earshot (Mallorquín, a Catalan dialect, is the real language of the island). It knows how to protect its private life. But, just as when you pass a door that has been left ajar to reveal a hidden courtyard in the medieval city, every now and then you catch glimpses of that soul. My only strategy is to go full flâneur, walking and walking – and taking endless pictures. And last weekend, as I coursed through its long-shadowed alleyways and dappled streets in the soft autumn light, Palma felt like it was letting me in on at least some of its secrets.