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Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.
My grandad, born in 1898, was none of these.
But what he was, was a walker.
🧵
My grandad, born in 1898, was none of these.
But what he was, was a walker.
🧵
He was only ever in his waddlesome old age, when I knew him. Grumpy, but kind to me, his smallest grandchild. Him, waiting for a knee replacement & me with callipers, both of us similarly lame. I was a willing captive audience for stories of his steadier youth.
He was a man who felt like he’d never done much. He survived Passchendaele, when most of his regiment didn’t, but not because of any battlefield heroics, but because he caught Spanish flu & was sent home to recover.
