Last week, my mum received a phone call from the brother of her eldest brother's wife to let her know than her brother had been made comfortable after surgery on his brain and was not expected to live through the day. 36 hours later her and I jumped on a plane and headed over to the UK.
I had been talking on and off about going over to see Hartlepool sometime later this year, the place where my mum spent the first 16 years of her life. She'd always mention how much she missed it, and it was always somewhere she felt she belonged. Although they were extremely poor, with a physically and verbally abusive step father and mother she always liked the idea of living there again one day and hopefully taking us to see the area.
Well, because of the unfortunate circumstances I was able to see the north of England. During the week we waited for the funeral we tripped around as far as we could - a total of 1000km was put on the rental car. We hung out on the headland, where she was from and told me all the stories about how rough it was, how they stayed out more than they stayed home, what trouble they got up to, etc.