I wrote him a letter. A bizarre and old fashioned thing to do I know, but I had not seen or spoken to my Dad's brother since I was very little. A cold call was too daunting a prospect and his ancient e-mail address produced only automated failure messages from the server.
I told him that I would soon be travelling with my girlfriend in the South of France and asked if we might call in to see him.
Dad told me not to expect a reply. 'He's had nothing to do with anyone in the family for twenty years,' he said, 'and he probably doesn't even open his post.'
It was only three days before we were due to leave when the reply appeared. It was curt to say the least, but positive, if only in the sense that Uncle David said we could visit him and even stay awhile, but that his facilities were barely modern.
'Be careful of the old bastard' Dad said, unwilling to soften his position. 'Probably best to wear orange jackets in case he shoots at you as you climb up the mountain.' I laughed; so did Mum. Dad was deadpan.
When I was tiny I remember, Uncle David used to speak to me as if I was a grown-up. He said the most cryptic things. I always missed the sense of it but his steady deep voice held me fascinated. I clearly recall the looks exchanged amongst the other adults as he spoke to us children. The prospect of seeing the mysterious black sheep-in-exile suddenly became, for me if not for Anne, the most exciting aspect of the holiday to come.
There are places, even in Western Europe, that are difficult to get to without a car. There are towns on the edge of the Pyrenees where the trains no longer stop, and beyond them stretch valleys served by infrequent buses if at all.
Further still from the main routes there are ways where although hitchhiking is possible most of the journey must inevitably be walked. I kept hoping that the next vehicle to pass us would be the battered truck of some hippy keen to stop for hitchhikers. No such luck. With one car passing us every two hours, we walked all day.
If the valley where Uncle David lives is remote, it is also a place of breathtaking beauty. By late afternoon I had said 'Wow. Anne just look at that view' so many times that she had begun to cut me off mid-sentence with a punch on the arm. Still, she was as preoccupied with the wildlife as I was with the landscape. I soon lost count of the numbers and species of birds and butterflies she spotted and confidently named as we rounded innumerable hairpin bends in the woods.
'This must be the lane' I said. It was nearly dark but I could still make out the map. In truth I was not certain, but the time it had taken us to come here from the last village felt about right, and something about the hopelessly battered letter box at the side of the steep piste spoke to me of Uncle David.
'Let's give it a try' she said, 'if it's not this one we'd better find somewhere to put up the tent.'
'This is it' I said and took off, a little faster than before despite the slope, up the little road and on to the dirt track.
Two jays flew across the track a little way ahead of us. Under the tall beeches on either side it was already dark. Nearby a woodpecker hammered on dead wood. Otherwise it was quiet. My imagination worked on every shadow. I longed to see a light; a house; to reach our destination.
The piste turned and turned again, each time robbing us of hope as we turned one bend only to see another ahead.
'I hope that your uncle doesn't share this valley with too many bears' Anne said, half-joking.
'They don't come here very much.' The response came suddenly out of the darkness at the last bend of the piste. My heart jumped into my mouth; Anne grabbed my arm and stepped towards me. I think that if Uncle David had stepped out as he spoke we would both have screamed.
'You must be John's boy.' And now he came from the darkness into the thickening twilight. 'My place is this way. Come on.'
He spoke not another word for nearly five minutes. We left the piste behind and followed what might once have been a path deeper into the woods. I caught glimpses of my Uncle's face whenever the fading light allowed. His long full beard dominated his other features.
'You'll stay in there' he said as we reached his house. It was a cabin; long grass grew on the roof. He was not pointing at the cabin door though, but at a little outbuilding of stone and timber. A metal chimney protruded from its slate roof.
With that he seemed to lose all interest in us. He went off across the yard, closed up a chicken house and put some food down in front of a huge dog. It did not bark but just watched us closely and confidently. Having done that he went straight into the cabin without a backward glance.
'He's a cheery sort' Anne said without bothering to whisper.
'Sshh. He might hear you.' I set down my rucksack and immediately felt the sweat begin to cool under the back of my shirt. With half an eye on the monstrous dog, I opened the door to the outbuilding. It smelled fresh inside, like straw. It was profoundly dark in there.
Anne shook a box of matches at me as I peered hopelessly into our new quarters. In the flash of matchlight I saw why the place smelled of straw: half a dozen bales were stacked against the back wall. There was a large bed that consisted of a strawbale base under a mattress; a little round-bellied wood-stove; a table with an oil lamp and a wash stand, again a strawbale construction, with a large enamel bowl on top. There was a little window with a closed wooden shutter. In the grate a fire waited to be lit.
With stove and lamp alight a golden glow came over the bales and the space seemed all the warmer for it. It was an odd room, but snug.
'Your Dad did tell you not to expect much didn't he?' Anne said as she stretched out on the bed. 'I wonder if we'll see him again tonight.'
'I don't know.' I shook my head and sat down. I caught myself looking to see if there was a lock on the door and started nervously as, at that very moment there came a knock.
'If you're hungry' Uncle David said from outside, 'there's some food here.' I jumped up and opened the door; he thrust a wooden tray into my hands without another word and he was gone again into the night leaving the smile feeling odd, out of place on my face.
The moon had risen and I had seen his face again before he retreated. It was familiar. There was definitely something of my father there, but more strangely, I saw there a sort of wild hairy version of my Grandmother.
In the days that followed a pattern developed. Anne and I would explore the valley and, when we appeared again around Uncle David's cabin, he would see that we were fed. As far as we could tell nothing that he gave us had come from a shop. We ate the produce of his garden and eggs from his chickens. The bread was heavy and dark; it obviously originated in the earth and stone oven that squatted massively near his front door.
After the first night we were less anxious. We slept well and enjoyed the mountain air. Only the odd behaviour of my Uncle remained to disturb us. At first I worried for Anne. I noticed that although he kept himself to himself there were times when he was quite clearly watching me. I had seen him on the edge of my vision as I crossed the yard. I was anxious the first time Anne used the little wooden shed that housed the solar shower but she did not seem at all concerned. She was spot on: for all that he stared at me, Uncle David was a model of discretion with his first female guest in goodness knows how long.
'He's a bit weird isn't he?' I said as Anne dried her hair in the sunlit doorway.
'Oh he's just been in the mountains for too long.' After a few days of good food and rest Anne seemed to feel nothing but sympathy for the old boy. She had a generosity of spirit that I could not often match.
'He watches me' I said vaguely.
'He hasn't seen any relatives for years has he? You should try to speak to him. Introduce yourself properly.'
'Well, we have been here for nearly a week' I laughed, 'if I don't try soon I guess I'll miss the chance.'
'Go and knock on his door tonight. See if he'll open up a little.'
'Well you had better pack the bags in case he goes mad and chases us down the mountain.'
She stood up straight and threw her hair back. 'It will be fine' she said matter-of-factly.
And so getting to know Uncle David moved into a new phase. I was nervous when I knocked on the cabin door. I had left Anne reading John Irving; she thought that two people at his door might freak my Uncle out completely.
'Are you alright?' Uncle David asked as he saw me standing there.
'I'm fine thank you Uncle' I said, and I could see the surprise on his face to be addressed like that. In six days I had not had the chance to call him anything at all; "Uncle" had seemed like the best place to start.
I had been working on a plan; what to say and how to say it. Standing there I was dumbstruck. I stood and looked at him. I could see his little book-filled living space behind him. The great mountain dog was suddenly at my side as I waited to see what the next long moment would bring. It sniffed at me and, as he occasionally did, my Uncle clicked his fingers and summoned the beast inside.
Uncle David was more than a little uneasy. 'Do you want to come in?' he asked finally as if he had only just managed to remember a phrase in a foreign language.
'Er, thank you. Yes. Yes please.' It seemed that this would be anything but easy.
He had to clear two great piles, one of clothes and the other of books, to free enough sofa space for me to sit down. He returned to a gnarled rustic rocker by his woodburner, the focal point of the cabin. He said nothing. He just looked at me. I wondered what to say. Each moment grew longer than the last. I wanted to get up and leave. I nearly did.
Ways of escape were cluttering my mind when he finally spoke: 'You look like your Father did when he was your age.' I thought perhaps there was just the suggestion of a smile deep within the beard.
I cannot say that we talked into the night or that the family's ghosts were laid to rest. He told me a little of his everyday life: the practicalities. He asked me about what I did and told me that we could stay as long as we needed to. That emphasis on need rather than desire struck me as odd at the time, but that is Uncle David all over. We drank a little sweet potent home brew. One glass was enough for me. When I left he put his hand on my shoulder and said 'Goodnight'. That, I thought, meant a lot coming from him.
'So what did your mysterious Uncle have to say?' Anne laid down the book she had been reading and smiled at me as I came in.
I shrugged. 'Not much. We talked mostly about fruit trees, chickens and vegetables. I learned a lot about bees.'
Anne laughed. 'Was he happy to see you?'
'I think so. You're right, he's been up here alone for too long.'
Still, my Uncle asked us to eat breakfast with him the next morning. We sat in the yard. He brought out olive oil in a bottle thick with dust; we drizzled it over bread, tomatoes and garlic. The sun rose into a clear blue sky. He did not speak as we ate.
As he picked up the remains of breakfast though, he spoke. 'I make a pretty good curry' he said sounding just like my Dad, 'why don't we all eat together this evening?' He did not look back at us after he made the offer and I was not sure if he was embarrassed or afraid that we might say no. He was halfway back to the cabin door and Anne answered for us. 'That would be lovely' she said in that sweet voice reserved for special occasions, 'Thank you very much.' At that Uncle David did turn. He nodded. For his efforts he received Anne's sweetest smile and for perhaps five seconds the frown lines on his forehead seemed to ease away to nothing.
He was true to his word. His curry was excellent. A couple of glasses of the beer worked their social magic on the three of us. Uncle David talked to Anne about the local wildlife and he listened intently as she talked about her job; the state of conservation in England and matters ecological in general.
I was desperate to unearth something about the family but equally I was afraid that if mentioned Dad or my Grandmother I would shatter the warm spell that guarded the cabin that night against the influence of old secrets.
At the very end of the evening another anxiety crept up on me. I knew that Anne would try to give Uncle David a kiss. She would want to thank him for the meal, but more so to offer him the human warmth he had for so long avoided.
When the time came, I shook his hand and fervently hoped that Anne would follow my lead. Some chance of that. The need to safeguard and renew social ties with the embrace or the kiss is hardwired deep in the female psyche; in any case when did Anne ever follow my lead?
Much to my relief Uncle David took the kiss very ably. Now I was sure there was a smile somewhere there amongst the hair.
Later, we found ourselves finally relaxed enough, at home enough and at ease, to make love on the bed of bales. I remember that cabin and that night with a fondness I do not have for the rest of the holiday as pleasant as it was. Afterwards I fell into a deep and contented sleep. I dreamed of Uncle David.
I dreamed that he decided to come with us. I dreamed that he wanted to come back to England to see his mother and his brother; to mend things and to start afresh with his folks. I saw him smiling and locking up his cabin; putting a battered old backpack over his shoulders and coming with us down the piste, a spring in his step.
When I woke up in the morning, warm, wrapped around Anne, the dream had been so vivid that I lay there for some moments satisfied that it was true; that it would happen; that he would come with us when we left.
But that is the thing about dreams: they rarely manifest themselves in reality and it seems that the more one wants them to do so, the less likely it becomes.
We had no more evening meals with Uncle David. He withdrew a little after that one night as if it had been too much for him; as if he was scared to further risk the carefully built defences of his decades in the mountains.
The morning we came to leave he was not in the yard and the cabin was deserted. Finally I realised that he did not want even to say goodbye. Reluctantly I left him a note of thanks and we took to the road.
A few weeks later when we got back to England I still entertained the hope that Uncle David might have been in touch with Dad, or sent some word to my Grandmother that he had had us to stay, but no letter had come, and none came later either.
Perhaps Uncle David had really been too long in the mountains. Or perhaps redemption and forgiveness are, for some families, impossible mountains or not. Some stories do not reach resolution except for the ultimate conclusion when the people involved die and the origins of the painful tales are lost forever.
