Peter Huntley memorial service

Friday 2nd March @ 3:45pm, I arrived at the crematorium in Preston to pay respects to a man who was due to be part of the Trek team; Peter Huntley. A man who had died in a fall from a 200ft crag whilst training.

On Friday my day had been varied; up early for a gym session with Paul the PT, followed by a visit to Rushfirth Creative to learn more about http://www.stepteam.org/ and their 'enterprise pack' for year 5's.

After spending a little too long chatting away with them about that (and my entry in the Yorkshire Mafia Conference supplement) I had to get to Starbucks in Batley to meet Peter Hornby, a friend I'd not had much chance to catch up with over the last 12 months for a variety of reasons, but someone I respect.

He didn't have long (given I was 20 minutes late) as his son had fractured his wrist skiing, so Peter was heading over to Manchester in time for the surgery. Then it was home to eat, pack for a night away and, of course, to drive to Preston.

Up to that point then it had been a hectic, fun, no-time-to-dwell day and it was only when I got to Preston that my mind started to drift to my thoughts and feelings about what was about to happen.

I arrived to find a full car-park due, in no small way, to two buses (one an old fashioned double-decker) parked with people currently disembarking.

I checked with one of the passengers that they were there for the service for Peter Huntley; indeed they were and, as I followed the 40-50 people from the buses, we joined a crowd probably as large already stood in the sunshine. I knew no-one and really didn't feel it was appropriate to try to join in any discussions as I didn't know Peter particularly well ... but it felt right to be there and I had said to one of his daughters (via email) I would try to attend.

Lots of smart business people dressed in black, the odd dark suit contrasted with a outrageously bright multi-coloured tie in the crowd, and me; black jeans, black polo shirt and black Helly Hansen jacket and yet, I didn't feel the odd man out. I was stood, taking my own counsel and allowing my thoughts to ebb and flow about the tragic accident.

Just some of the people already at the crematorium

There were a few glances from people, clearly unable to 'place me' in the circle of friends and ex-colleagues; a man who didn't quite fit-in, taking the occasional photo with his mobile, but I didn't try to 'fit in' nor did I try to become part of the crowd.

I decided to walk down to the entrance of the crematorium and found Becky Huntley, the daughter I had swapped emails with, and introduced myself. She was unexpectedly in a wheelchair, had no voice and was wearing a hospital ID tag around her wrist. I didn't pry but a couple of people joked it was a pleasant relief she couldn't talk. I explained I would be there for a short time but didn't intend to stay for their service as that was for family and friends.

After returning to my 'spot' nearer the car park, I was surprised and happy that Peter's partner Jenny then came to find me, thanking me for taking the time to attend. In her hand she held 2 pieces of A4 paper with a printed speech on them. She smiled warmly but was obviously and understandably fighting to keep a brave face.

Jenny told me she remembered the last time she and Peter were together at the weekend; they'd gone to Martin Mere Wildfowl Reserve for the afternoon and walked home; Peter dragging a tyre behind him.

I said the thing that's so obvious, which was how sorry I was, but quickly switched the conversation from that to I knew the organisers, Charity Challenge, had been in touch with Peter's children and we would be taking something of Peter's with us to the Pole.

It was at that moment I felt my emotions beginning to overwhelm me and found myself fighting back tears, trying hard to hide the 'wobble' in my voice. I'm not sure whether it was talking about Peter and thinking about how this woman must be feeling with an unexpected void in life; whether it was memories of my father's memorial service suddenly flooding back into my mind, or simply the fragility of life suddenly hit me.

This woman had been out walking with her partner, no doubt enjoying day to day life and had probably wished him "Have a good time training" before he set off on that fateful day and now, here she stood, no doubt struggling to comprehend how life had so suddenly & tragically changed.

I can't begin to imagine the emotional tidal wave that must have struck her when she found out, and yet here I am, sat typing this blog entry and finding raw emotions re-surfacing for me. I gave Jenny a hug before she walked back to join the Huntley family.

People around me were chattering away, the sun was still shining and I took my mind elsewhere for a few minutes to provide me with some respite from the silence in my head.

Within a few minutes I saw the funeral car pull into the driveway, at speed, and an employee of the funeral providers strolled purposefully up the driveway to meet it beyond the waiting crowd. Few others had seen the car as the noise level continued amongst the crowd of (I estimated) 120 people, but within seconds everyone noticed as the man in black hat and suit walked slowly and respectfully in front of the car, parting the crowds as if with huge unseen hands.

Silence fell. Complete silence. Even the sound of the breeze in the trees and the birds that had been chirping seemingly fell quiet in unison, not wishing disturb the moment of reflection and sobering respectful humility.

The car glided slowly by, a beautiful wicker coffin in the back. Silence apart from the gentle rumble of the tyres on the driveway. Everyone looking on sombrely.

A small airliner suddenly broke the silence; some heads turned skywards (including my own) as if to identify the culprit and scowl at the intrusion, this trespass on such a personal and deeply moving event. The echo of the engines crescendo'd as the jet banked and flew into the distance just as the car arrived at the entrance.

Then, without prompting, people slowly (almost militarily) formed a silent queue. Hands clasped together, no words spoken in silent tribute and expectation, waiting to take their seats in the building.

A man walked by quickly with a projector screen in hand, no doubt wanting to prepare it for the speeches and celebration of Peter's life, and a few people began talk quietly. A man with a briefcase arrived in a taxi and, as quickly as possible without drawing attention to himself, strode down to the join the very back of the queue as it all but disappeared into the crematorium.

That was my cue to turn and leave. It didn't feel right to intrude on their reflections, their tears, their memories that would celebrate Peter's life. I strolled back to the car and saw a third old-fashioned bus, carefully adorned with a wreath and black ribbon.

As I arrived at the car I looked up at the original bus I had noticed and took a photograph of its digital destination display.

And so I climbed into the car and sat in silence for a few minutes before the demands of my day surged back into my head, and I drove away, a little more careful about and a lot more conscious of the real dangers that lurk in every day life. Dangers which seemed even more evident and consequences that seemed very real.

Peter, you'll be with us as we fight our way to the Pole ... and beyond.

Photograph courtesy of Alan W Chambers MBE FRGS