by Jack Woodruff
In a small village hall kitchen, between being shushed because people-are-sleeping-next-door and laughing at whatever nonsense was passing as a conversation topic, Damien asked me whether I was considering offering to be Northern’s leader – with the full knowledge that both he and I knew this question had already been asked of me several times by several people – such is the way of these things. In response to my quandary over whether I would have time to do the leader role, he said how when he was leader, it was also the year they changed the national curriculum so he was extra busy at work and said “well you just make time for these things”.
Not to reduce my decision to one comment in the midst of the-last-night-before-Walsingham exhaustion but that was one of the moments that had me going “well okay then”. And thus I became Northern’s leader.
The next memory that comes to mind is helping him cook vegetable tomato pasta in another village hall, this one with a bigger kitchen but no cooking appliances. But, Damien being Damien, was prepared with plug in electric cookers (I won’t comment on the length of time it took Damien to make said pasta, that is besides the point – but don’t ask me what the point is).
And another memory of him driving the recce with his encyclopedic knowledge of these Nottinghamshire, Leicestershire and Norfolk roads. And the joy of telling us about the year Northern discovered a pedestrian underpass for a busy A road.
Or sitting on a nature reserve deep in the fens in the back of the support car with Alec and Damien in the front, listening to whatever thing they were analysing in (unnecessary) miniscule pedantantic detail – and thinking, how did I end up here?
Then looking at the Northern sign up spreadsheet, and seeing his sign up time as minutes after booking opened (but missing out on the first spot by a mere 4 seconds – Northern is full of keen beans).
Standing in Keyworth, him arriving in his red car that will become the beacon-of-hope on those fen roads, because when we reach that car We Get Lunch.
Hearing the same story. Again.
Sat in a pub mid-recce watching him play Wordle and thinking not even a bot could predict these guesses (The word was psalm, he didn’t get it).
WhatsApp messages on Northern’s chat with someone asking for help/prayers/support and him being one of the regulars to respond.
That deep rumbling Old-Git-Laugh.
Ever present on those long Zoom calls during lockdown.
At a reunion, discovering that, should Damien be prime minister, the only 3 flavours of crisps allowed would be ready salted, cheese & onion and salt & vinegar.
Interrupting me mid-traffic briefing to point out the detail I was about to say.
In a church hall, surrounded by new people, watching This Guy light a candle with a blow torch (thinking what have I signed up for?!)
Memories of pedantry (or if you’re writing your CV – attention to detail), kindness, care, service to the leg, laughter.
Northern Leg is a crossroads of people that society doesn’t normally throw together, but they-are-my-people. And I’m so glad that at this intersection I met Damien.
Northern Pilgrim 