Alf Oswald
By Derek Seddon
Alf was my oldest friend. Fifty four years ago we met, both just out of the army, both new members of the KMC. He had been an infantry second lieutenant in the East Lancs regiment, sent out to India just as the war ended. It was thought necessary to keep the men occupied so they didn't get up to mischief and to Alf, fresh out from Blighty, fell the unenviable task of taking sweat-stained veterans of the Burma campaign out for Bren gun practice.
This interlude was soon followed by the chaotic horror of the partition of India into separate Hindu and Moslem states. Alf was on policing duties, trying to assist the flow of thousands of refugees fleeing from one side to the other, while attempting to keep the warring factions apart, not always successfully.
He returned home and joined the club to which we both owe so much. He could play the piano and it was recognised that such talent meant a fast track to membership. He could sing, too and when out walking would yodel to call up those who were lagging behind. We did the Lakes Three Thousanders together. By this time, Alf was Club Treasurer, one of the senior members. Then he met and married Freda, his pillion passenger on camping weekends, beginning a fifty-year companionship of unfailing affection and support. He got bitten by the sailing bug and built a boat in Norman Revitt's shed; bought a bigger one and started racing; sailed to Ireland several times as a crew member.
Meanwhile, he had become manager of an apparently-thriving tile factory. It was he who got the cast terrazzo windowsills (designed by John Castick) made for Ty Powdwr in the early struggles to get the Hut going. Then disaster struck. Suddenly, he was declared redundant with, literally, half a day's notice. Undaunted, he set up his own partnership and by sheer dedicated hard work pulled himself back to prosperity again..
That same determination was needed when he had a heart bypass. Gentle exercise was needed for recovery. Alf rang me and suggested we make a regular date for a weekly walk. I jumped at the chance and so, for eleven years we walked the length and breadth of the Peak District, rain or shine. Our mileage increased, paying off in improving fitness, though when we jumped down from a stile Alf said our vertebrae rattled like railway trucks in a shunting yard. When Bob Anderson and then Iain McCallum joined us on Thursdays Alf christened us the Downhill Walking Club. But inevitably the time came when his heart couldn't keep up with his spirit any more. The walks became shorter, we cut out the hills as much as possible until he had to call it a day and restrict his rambles to his home patch.
In all those days on the hills, blown by the wind or burnt by the sun (it rarely rains on Thursdays) we never had a cross word. He was the best boon companion a man could have. He died, aged 75, of cancer. Freda, who cared for him to the point of exhaustion, followed him two days later.
Their joint funeral, on a bright, sunny Thursday, was attended by a good turnout of older KMC members and later their ashes were scattered on a hillock near the Snake Road summit.
Derek Seddon
