Alf Oswald
Alf was my oldest friend. Fifty four years ago we met, both just out
of the army, both new members of the KMC. He had been an infantry
second lieutenant in the East Lancs regiment, sent out to India just
as the war ended. It was thought necessary to keep the men occupied
so they didn't get up to mischief and to Alf, fresh out from Blighty,
fell the unenviable task of taking sweat-stained veterans of the
Burma campaign out for Bren gun practice.
This interlude was soon followed by the chaotic horror of the
partition of India into separate Hindu and Moslem states. Alf was on
policing duties, trying to assist the flow of thousands of refugees
fleeing from one side to the other, while attempting to keep the
warring factions apart, not always successfully.
He returned home and joined the club to which we both owe so much. He
could play the piano and it was recognised that such talent meant a
fast track to membership. He could sing, too and when out walking
would yodel to call up those who were lagging behind. We did the
Lakes Three Thousanders together. By this time, Alf was Club
Treasurer, one of the senior members. Then he met and married Freda,
his pillion passenger on camping weekends, beginning a fifty-year
companionship of unfailing affection and support. He got bitten by
the sailing bug and built a boat in Norman Revitt's shed; bought a
bigger one and started racing; sailed to Ireland several times as a
crew member.
Meanwhile, he had become manager of an apparently-thriving tile
factory. It was he who got the cast terrazzo windowsills (designed by
John Castick) made for Ty Powdwr in the early struggles to get the
Hut going. Then disaster struck. Suddenly, he was declared redundant
with, literally, half a day's notice. Undaunted, he set up his own
partnership and by sheer dedicated hard work pulled himself back to
prosperity again..
That same determination was needed when he had a heart bypass. Gentle
exercise was needed for recovery. Alf rang me and suggested we make
a regular date for a weekly walk. I jumped at the chance and so, for
eleven years we walked the length and breadth of the Peak District,
rain or shine. Our mileage increased, paying off in improving
fitness, though when we jumped down from a stile Alf said our
vertebrae rattled like railway trucks in a shunting yard. When Bob
Anderson and then Iain McCallum joined us on Thursdays Alf christened
us the Downhill Walking Club. But inevitably the time came when his
heart couldn't keep up with his spirit any more. The walks became
shorter, we cut out the hills as much as possible until he had to
call it a day and restrict his rambles to his home patch.
In all those days on the hills, blown by the wind or burnt by the sun
(it rarely rains on Thursdays) we never had a cross word. He was the
best boon companion a man could have. He died, aged 75, of cancer.
Freda, who cared for him to the point of exhaustion, followed him two
days later.
Their joint funeral, on a bright, sunny Thursday, was attended by a
good turnout of older KMC members and later their ashes were
scattered on a hillock near the Snake Road summit.
Derek Seddon
March Newsletter Index.
Copyright © 2003 Karabiner Mountaineering Club
|
