This is the beast that keeps needing food. So said my Dad to me somewhere in a field in Wiltshire. A beast conceived as an excuse to write and post photos instead of sending emails and attaching images on the presumption that recipients want to read all about my new life in Australia. A beast born in 2006 and promptly copping censure for making a mockery of my last day at work in Hanger Lane. As if working in Hanger Lane isn’t mockery enough.

I went to Australia when I was still in my twenties (just), had mostly black hair, and talked of peppers and courgettes instead of capsicum and zucchinis. It opened up a new world, new horizons, adventure and opportunity. Plenty of blog feed. But the old world never really left me, such was the green blood of Plymouth coursing through my veins.

It was a world where I moved as a kid with my brother, sister, Mum and Stepdad. A world which is still there in abundance but also comes with a deep absence. Our family has grown, our world has expanded but it has also depleted.

It has been a year scarred by loss. It hurts us and changes us and forces us to confront realities. But it also strengthens us and brings us together and magnifies the joy of simple things, of making the most of what we have, of treasures to cherish and memories to make. It is the contrast between night and day.

There is despondency in the cold and gloom lifted by the parting of clouds and the tinkle of birdsong among springtime growth. There is warmth as the daytimes lengthen and the astonishing weather soothes though some blessing from above. There are fond, happy recollections of days past and future recollections made anew. There is, finally again, a magnificent cream tea that would’ve been enjoyed in any world, at any time, by anyone.

Whether unplanned or not, four weeks in southwest England would always provide plenty of feed. Cornish coastal capers, pasties and sausage rolls, Dartmoor ramblings, Devonshire cream teas, Wiltshire walks and whopping great pub lunches. And one day soon I will probably share some of them, in bite size chunks.

But for now all I want to do is remember those little things, those quieter moments, those intimate connections. Central Park trees, lambs in fields, burnt barbecue sausages with extended family, and other animals. Morning cuppas at the decision table, what do you wants on car journeys and Argyle trophies among happy people. Good, decent, caring people. My people.

Plymouth loses one of those people, our family loses one of those people. But he will never really leave us, he will never really leave me, part of the green blood still coursing strongly through my veins.

Bob, Dad, Grandad, Percy Baldpatch. Forever rest in the sun and enjoy the birdsong.