Bat walks with Pete

Remembering an old friend and birthday buddy

The first time I met Pete, he commanded the undivided attention of an audience of 200 from the lofty heights of a park bench. Like the Bearded Piper of Dulwich Park, Pete lead this rally of bat enthusiasts and newbies through the twilight in search of an elusive rattle on a bat detector and a flash of grey against the darkening sky. He instilled a spectral calm amongst the crowd as they pricked their ears, listening for the tell-tale detector rattle that told them to look to the sky to see pipistrelles dart across the inky blue.

He held us in thrall with descriptions of the “clouds of bats” that once gathered at dusk above the Thames estuary, how numbers had declined so far in only a couple of generations that the sight had become an urban myth. Something most people would never believe existed in London until they came on a bat walk or met a bat enthusiast such as Pete.

Every time I see a bat, I think of Pete.

A few years later, I had the privilege to work with Pete—to share the joy of kicking off a new project with him and the excitement of what was possible before the day to day grind wore us both down. 

Even in the worst of times, he took joy in his work. He took me to see the reserves where he was king. He told me with great pride about the fabulous volunteers who had worked for years to build the best boardwalk in West London—walking so fast while he talked that, as he stepped onto that boardwalk, he slipped and fell sideways into the marsh—something for which I was forever chastised by colleagues and volunteers. 

“I hear you pushed Pete over” they said. And I feigned horror while giggling at the joy and camaraderie of good friends and colleagues who can tease each other without love and no edge.

Every time I see a boardwalk, I think of Pete. I judge every one according to his standards. Very few measure up.

On that same visit, Pete introduced me to his “flying cattle” the herd of small giants that was “flown” to the reserve to graze at key times of year, then moved off to another site by their herdsman when grazing became damaging. He told me how, when introduced to a new field, the cattle would work their way around its edge to discover their boundaries before they return to the start and begin to munch.

Every time I’m reminded of boundaries and how important it is to know where they lie, I think of Pete’s cows. Every time I see a cow traipsing its way around a new field, I think of Pete.

Before he became know as the Batman of the South East, Pete had a long career as a BBC sound engineer, creating the intentionally tinny “sound of Radio 1”. He told me how he’d argued against deliberately downgrading the station’s sound quality but had been overruled. He talked with affection of John Peel, Tony Blackburn, and other DJs he’d been privileged to work with. He told me too, that it was thanks to his generous BBC pension that he could afford to indulge his love on the natural world and work in the pitifully poorly paid world of conservation.

Always a tech-head, it was Pete who first introduced me to the wonder of HTML—patiently explaining to someone who had always been told she was neither technical nor academic, who at the time could see no need for the information, how those coded instructions translated into what we saw on a website screen.

Through Pete’s eyes, I suddenly saw the beauty of coding and the possibilities it afforded. Years later, when I first began to explore web and digital design, it made sense that bit faster because of the insight he’d given me years before. The care with which he had explained something about which he was so passionate, gave me the confidence to explore tools that would develop my career beyond the printed world.

Every time I struggled with at a piece of coding, I’d think of Pete. Even now, when I think about how much the online communication has changed over the last 25 years, I think of him. I have no idea what he’d make of the world now. I wish I had the chance to talk with him about it.

Pete could be dogmatic, even forceful in his beliefs. But if he didn’t know something, he’d ask. When you took the time to explain something new to Pete or present an alternative view, you had Pete on your side. Even if he didn’t entirely agree. He listened as well as he explained and didn’t believe a difference of opinion was cause to end a relationship. 

With Pete on your side you could do anything. People listened to him. They valued his experience and his insight and he always drew people to him through his quiet care and enthusiasm.

On Pete’s 50th birthday, he chose to come to my own birthday picnic. We were born one day and 25 years apart. He said nothing about his own birthday until, when the picnic was over and he and I were on a bus that took him home and me to the station, he quietly confessed. He had spent the day with a mostly-younger crew, soaking up the sunshine, smiling and observing the idiot youngsters with as much affection and care as he observed the natural world. 

I was thrilled that he’d chosen to spend that day with us, sad that he’d held back the significance of the day until everyone else was gone. I would have liked to truly share the day with him.

Every birthday, I think of Pete. 

Two years later, while I was on sick leave from work, I visited Pete in hospital. I wasn’t there when he was admitted. The others told me he’d been declining for weeks. His GP had fobbed him off repeatedly. He’d complained quietly to colleagues but didn’t have the energy to fight for himself the same way he did for others. Alex, a friend and colleague had been the one to take him in. Alex had driven to Pete’s house to pick him up for a reserve visit and found him standing on his doorstep, looking small and frightened. 

“I think I need to go to hospital.” 

So Alex took him. 

At the hospital, I was directed to a bed by the window and found Pete dressed in a light pink hospital gown. I almost didn’t recognise him. Shorn of his trademark woodsman’s beard, he’d lost a startling amount of weight. His legs, encased in dark blue DVT socks pulled to above his knees, were stick thin and seemed far too fragile to carry the weight of the man I knew.

In the past, we’d talked about our shared love of Bill Bryson, and I’d optimistically brought him a copy of the recently published “A Short History of Nearly Everything”. Despite the title, this is not a short book. He looked at it with something marginally short of despair.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to read that.”

When I took my leave, I left the book with him, still hopeful he’d find time and energy to read it. 

The day of Pete’s funeral everyone met outside his house. In true Pete style, the only vehicle was that carrying his coffin. The entire funeral party walked the journey from the house to the crematorium. I saw my work buddies for the first time in weeks and we clung to each other as we processed through the tree-lined streets of Wimbledon. I don’t remember much of that walk, except that the sun shone for the first time in weeks. After what had felt like interminable months of unrelenting grey, the sky cleared to a bright and brilliant baby blue and I turned my eyes up to the sky, soaking in the autumn light that fractured through yellow autumn leaves above our heads.

At the crematorium, mourners stood cheek-by-jowl in the aisles and spilled out of the door onto the forecourt. Hundreds of people whose lives had been touched by Pete, crammed together as tightly as they could to share their love for the man. Together, we marvelled at his sister who delivered her eulogy with overwhelming strength and love. And we smiled and wept at his chosen final record—a recording of his beloved bats.

Afterwards, back at the house, we gathered for sandwiches and more reminiscences. But I didn’t stay long. As I was leaving, I saw the Bryson book. Carefully tucked into a bookshelf in the hallway. Its dust jacket was immaculate, the book unopened, unread. 

I still miss you, Pete. Happy Birthday.

I turned 49 this week and spent the day overseeing the Southern Water contractors tasked with digging up our link to the water main to resolve a months-long brown water problem. They replaced the pipe. But the water is still brown. By the time my partner and I headed out for celebratory evening meal, I was in a deep birthday-hating funk. 

Months of haranguing Southern Water—the need to delay our own plans and be present to ensure the contractors did what they were supposed to do—a less than happy conversation with the only family member who phoned but then failed to actually wish me a happy birthday—I was so over the whole day. 

But then we found a new pub in a new-to-us village that predates the Domesday Book. We ate and drank well, explored the churchyard of this overlooked gem, and the day ended a good deal brighter than it had threatened.

The following day, we both took the day off and travelled west toward Chichester and beyond, exploring new history, new beaches and revelling in the first true day of summer. Pickle found a blue spade that was too precious to use so dug his way across the sand with paws alone. A post-birthday day out, once the pressure of the day itself has passed has always been my preferred form of celebration. I’m always gently aware that another birthday should have been celebrated that day.

Next year will be my own 50th birthday—and Pete’s 75^th.

I’ve seen a few people who’re approaching a significant birthday set themselves a task for the upcoming year. I’d like to do something similar. An achievable daily something that will take me into 50 with a greater sense of well being—something that’ll ingrain a habit of putting my creative work front and centre of my mind and practice all the time—not just when other demands abate.

But my lack of trust in my own ability to follow through is hampering me before I even start. What daily task can I set myself that will achieve this goal and that has enough inbuilt risk/reward that I won’t end up just hating myself a year from now if/when I fail to follow through? 

I’m working on it. At the very least, I want to get back into the habit of writing daily and publishing weekly. Can I maintain that for a whole year? Can I live with publishing the inevitably less-than-polished posts? 

I’m going to ponder on this in the coming week and devise a plan. If you have any ideas on how to stay on track for a year-long commitment to yourself, or have done something similar, let me know.

Whatever my plan, “Be More Pete” will be at its heart.