Six Months On: A Birthday and Winster Wakes and remembering Dad

           

People often say that time changes grief. I think that's true, although perhaps not in the way I expected.

It has now been six months since Dad died, and life has carried on at its usual hectic pace. Sometimes it feels as though I have to deliberately make time and space to stop and think about Dad and how losing him has changed all of our lives.

Recently, our family went to plant more flowers on Dad's grave. It gave me the chance to reflect on just how wonderful his funeral was.

Everything about the day felt so personal and so Dad. The flowers and the casket were filled with little details that reflected his life and the things he loved – boots, logs, a compass, a train, a jigsaw, boules, and so much more. Even now, the arrangement remains on his grave, which sits beside a footpath. Walkers staying at a nearby holiday cottage often stop to ask about it, and somehow that feels very fitting. Dad is still sparking conversations and stories.

One of the most emotional moments was Mum singing a song that Dad had requested many years ago. It tells the story of a folk singer who loved walking, but who reached the point where he could no longer "climb up them there mountains." He wrote the song while sitting and waiting as his wife and sons carried on walking. Dad cried the first time he heard it, and it clearly stayed with him. Hearing Mum sing it at his funeral was incredibly moving.

The church was full, which meant so much to us. Thank you to everyone who came, to those who changed holiday plans, travelled long distances, watched online, and to the carers from Meadow View who joined us. Your kindness and support meant more than words can say.

We tried to capture every part of Dad's life – from Morris dancing and the Guisers to boules and Onzain; from walking and Rangering to quiz nights; from life before Winster and everything that followed. Dad lived a wonderfully varied life, and that was reflected in the people who came and the stories they shared.

And there were so many stories.

Each one reminded us how many lives he touched, how much laughter he brought, and how deeply he was loved.

It was, of course, a sad day, but it was also a beautiful one. A day filled with love, music, memories, laughter and community.

A farewell Dad truly deserved.

Since then, we've reached two significant milestones: Dad's first birthday without him, and our first Winster Wakes.

I'm not sure which was more emotional.

Dad's birthday falls just after Winster Carnival, and this year I found myself stepping into his Witch's shoes. I am so grateful to everyone who came to give me a hug over the weekend. Your kindness meant a great deal. I could also feel how much the whole village had been affected by the change in their village's Witch. It made me incredibly proud to continue a tradition th

at Dad loved so much and to help keep Winster's traditions alive.

For many years when we lived opposite the burton institute (winsters village hall), we held a birthday gathering on the Sunday after Carnival Saturday, finishing off anything left from the Winster Morris feast. Dad was usually in charge of buying the barrel of beer, and naturally it had to be finished over the weekend! I have many happy memories of Mum singing, Dad enjoying a pint, and putting the world to rights. The celebration of the end of Wakes went on late into the evening.  Then even later around our kitchen table. Those kitchen gatherings haven't happened for many years (mainly because we moved house!) but it still filled my heart with sadness knowing that Dad would never again be part of another Wakes weekend.

A few days later came Dad's birthday.

We visited his wildlife grave again and planted more flowers. His boots and little trains are still there, watching over him. Afterwards, Mum, my sister and I spent time talking about Dad.

This time, we didn't tell the stories everyone had heard at the funeral. Instead, we remembered the everyday moments from the years he lived with dementia.

We talked about visiting him at Meadow View and the wonderful people who cared for him. We remembered the way he would sit smiling quietly to himself, perfectly content. We laughed about how, if he'd had enough tea, he would carefully tip it into someone else's cup because he knew we'd encourage him to finish it if it stayed in his own. We remembered him proudly telling the staff that he liked three sugars in his tea, despite never taking sugar in his life. And we smiled at the memory of how he could dismantle absolutely anything—even toys that claimed to be indestructible.

Those are the moments I find myself missing now. The ordinary moments that became precious without us realising.

Life has carried on, and it is different now.

This blog will gradually return to being more focused on reflexology, but Dad will always be part of my story. I miss giving him reflexology, watching him look at me with those bright blue eyes, telling me that "it's going up and down." Those quiet moments together are memories I will always treasure.

Six months on, the grief hasn't gone away—it has simply changed. It now sits alongside gratitude.

I feel incredibly privileged that he was my Dad.