THE date is 2 February 2016: it is the first anniversary of Christine’s funeral. I wept a little today. Not the sobs of grief, but the gentle tears of sadness coloured by appreciative recollection. I was thinking of Christine, naturally, and recalling some of our travels and our years together. Such happy memories, such fun! It’s a good sign, when I can think of her and smile on such a significant day.

Life is for living, we agreed, and live it we did, where ever we found ourselves. Over the decades we had countless adventures and one of my earliest memories of Christine is also one of the most vivid because it showed the depth of her character and accomplishments.

The scene: a cattle ranch in Northern New South Wales where we’d gone for a weekend of riding with Richard and Anne, our Bondi neighbours and good friends. The two ladies, having just mounted, were wearing sensible riding helmets, a fact which provoked some amusement with a nearby group of crass Australians who made some reference to “Pommie lady riders.” One of them thought it fun to slap Christine’s horse on the rump, sending it off on a gallop that would have been dangerous had the rider been less accomplished.

Christine quickly settled into the saddle and a rhythm at one with the horse, bending low as it raced away from us, heading towards a five foot high fence. There was not the hint of a pause; Christine half-stood in the stirrups and, giving the horse his head, guided it over the fence in a graceful jump before disappearing from view. A minute later we heard the thundering of hooves and horse and rider re-appeared as they jumped back over the fence and galloped towards us.

She reined in near the Aussies and said: “Not bad for a Pommie lady rider, eh mate? Let’s see you do that.” A sheepish grin was the only response.

Christine said later she had been scared for a moment but realised that her horse was going so fast it would have been dangerous to try to pull up before the fence. “So I had to jump it and the horse knew this; he responded. If I’d hesitated there would have been an accident.”

Had she won the Grand National I couldn’t have been more proud but it was typical of her courage, I would discover. Nothing fazed her; she refused to be intimated by people or events, public or private. She would tackle the most daunting situation.

Most of the other memories are more amusing than dramatic, although all are of the happy genre. Like the night in Nice when we became hopelessly lost on a post-dinner stroll around town. She insisted upon walking and, leaving the restaurant after sharing a bottle of good wine,

I thought we should have turned left “down there”. Christine thought the opposite, so I didn’t argue. She was, after all, renowned for her navigational skills in strange cities and always found a way back to the familiar.

So I went along with it until, after thirty minutes or more exploring, I ventured to suggest that perhaps her intuition had failed her this time. She looked a little sheepish and confessed that perhaps I was right, for once.

“Let’s get a taxi,” she suggested. Except that it was now quite late and there was little traffic about, certainly no taxis, in what appeared to be a very quiet part of town, not dangerous, perhaps, but just a little unnerving at that time of night.

Then I had an idea. I could see what appeared to be the lights of a bar further down the street. “We’ll call in there and have them ‘phone a cab,” I said.

A sound idea, she agreed, so in we went. It turned out to be a small jazz club on a quiet night; dimly lit, slightly dingy but oozing atmosphere, with something George Shearing-style coming from a pianist in the corner. It wasn’t quite Ronnie Scott’s but it was better than any port in a storm.

Perfect: except for one thing: “We can’t simply wander in and ask them to ‘phone a cab,” I said. “We’d better order a drink first.” So we did. And an hour later we were in stitches of laughter, exchanging tales with a suave, bilingual Algerian barman with a big mop of hair who probably doubled as the club comedian.

He had been most welcoming when we strolled in and fascinated by our reason for being in a part of town he said was probably not even on the city map. “Not many tourists around here,” he told us. “Tell me, where you from?”

So one thing led to another until, after several glasses of wine and countless tales of our travels and sharing jokes, it seemed we were the only people left in the place, apart from a waiter who had now joined us. After another half hour or so I finally got around to asking the question that had prompted our presence.

A taxi, perhaps? Certainly: “Where to?” He could barely believe it when I gave him the name of our hotel, the Carlton on Boulevard Victor Hugo. “You walk here?” he asked, almost incredulous. We simply smiled. He phoned for a cab and when it arrived he came outside with us and gave the driver strict instructions about where to take us.

We exchanged hugs all round, and thanked him for his company. It was the sort of night of which we’d know many, but not perhaps the type enjoyed by the average tourist.

“We should get lost more often,” Christine said, smiling, as we snuggled up and headed back to the bright lights and our hotel. She had the look in her eyes said the night was not over yet, not by a long chalk . . . What a girl! I’m still chuckling at the memory.
***
Christine adored Lisbon and the nearby resort of Cascais and we had happy memories of both places. A couple of events come to mind here: equally memorable, they could not have been more different.

One was part of a press trip to Cascais, a renowned area for golf, where we dined at the exquisite Hotel Albatross whose dining room overlooks the ocean. As were shown to our table a quartet of young opera singers arrived; two stunning girls and two swooningly handsome young men, as Christine described them. They had voices to match their looks and impeccable evening dress.

Walking from table to table, for more than an hour, accompanied by two violinists, they presented arias from various operas as the guests dined. They were trainee opera singers, it transpired, out on work experience, so to speak. The diners were enchanted. For opera lovers it was a glimpse of something quite extraordinary. It made a lovely meal utterly unforgettable.

The other occasion took place in Lisbon where Christine delighted in walking the narrow streets of the old town, admiring the architecture, window shopping, snapping photographs. It was lunchtime and we were peckish and looking for somewhere to eat when we spotted a quaint bistro in a back street. We went in to find it full of workmen on their lunch break, all wearing dusty overalls, some with caps, all munching away and sharing jugs of wine, baskets of bread and laughter.

Thinking Christine might find the all-male scenario a tad off-putting, I hesitated. I should have known better. “Perfect,” she said. And so it proved.

There was no menu; it was the Portuguese equivalent of plat d’jour, take it or leave it, a proper workmen’s lunch spot and a good one, to judge by the attendance. The course d’jour was a fish pie, served with freshly baked bread, a basic salad and a jug of wine, “cheese and coffee extra”. The atmosphere was a bonus.

A small corner table was available. We took it, delighted. The meal cost next to nothing, in our terms, but we spoke of it for years afterwards. It was more than simply a lunch; it was a celebration of life, pure in its simplicity and brimming with bonhomie, the very essence of natural existence.

In total contrast was the dinner, the occasion, we shared with three other golf writing couples at the famous La Palme d’Or restaurant, part of the Hotel Martinez on the Boulevard de la Croisette in Cannes. It’s one I think of frequently, one of the highlights of our time together, a sparkling event with attractive people.

Our partners included a French couple, an Italian couple and another from Sweden, all stylish, easy-going and appreciative of their good fortune to have an occupation that found them in such agreeable company on an occasion to be remembered.

Most Michelin restaurants we’ve known have been more show than substance, too formal and painfully restrained to the point of discomfort, with staff eager to show how clever they were, how superior. Not the Palme d’Or. Here it was a joyous celebration of dining at the peak of the culinary arts with service that received our applause and a request for the staff to autograph our commemorative menus. Yes, it was that good.

I found the menu recently in Christine’s box of personal memorabilia. It stopped me in my tracks, taking me back to that wonderful night.

Such memories, such places: a magical summer festival of golf in Kitzbühel; a hilarious week with Irish golf-writing friends in Agadir, Morocco; a VIP press trip with an inaugural flight to Paris where the champagne never stopped flowing and we were given the presidential suite at the famous Hotel de Crillon.

Then there was the week-long cruise down the Caledonian Canal in a five-star barge with three other couples, all American golfers to whom I gave a talk on golfing history after organising a playing programme for them at the request of the barge owner. He was an old friend, hence our presence. It was blissful.

The weather was glorious, the scenery breathtaking, our fellow guests highly appreciative. Christine, as always, was enchanted and enchanting.

***

And, as always these days, one moment I’m recalling the past and the next I’m contemplating the future although, in truth, the two are now conjoined for me. I can’t ignore the past, not the recent past at least, and the future insists upon poking me in the ribs, demanding attention.

I’ll make the best of whatever is left of it and it might even be fun! Christine would insist upon it. A little travel, a lot of golf, some writing, the occasional glass of vino: I’ll fill the days somehow.

What I will do, without doubt because it’s unavoidable, is commune on a daily basis with my beloved Christine, metaphorically speaking, of course. Because every nook and cranny of our home bears her stamp, as does the garden, and each day I stand for a minute or so overlooking the spot where her ashes lie. So she is in my thoughts for most of my waking hours, whenever the pace slackens or I am alone. I can’t forget her.

Nor would I want to; that would be a betrayal but it would also be impossible. Christine has found a permanent niche in my cluttered mind and not an hour of the day slips by when she doesn’t make her presence felt – in a buffeting gale force wind on the golf course recently I swear I heard her say: You must be potty, playing in this weather. She should know by now: of course I’m potty!

So I’ll go on loving her to the end of my days, and probably beyond because I’m sure she will have organised a party with a glass or two of bubbly and a hug when my time comes.

Being able to write about her like this, and to smile at the memories of our time together, is final confirmation that I really have turned that corner. I have accepted her death as a consequence of life. The ache is deep and constant and will remain so; my desperate grieving has at last abated but I’ll never cease mourning the love of my life, the very reason for my continued existence.

I hope my story has helped, that you too find an inner peace. May your God be with you on your journey to reconciliation.