Author: Joshua Geer

Read by Joshua Geer on 16.09.2024 at the funeral of Ronald Louis George Geer, 6th December 1930 – 12 August 2024.

I want to thank you all for gathering here to celebrate and remember the life of a remarkable man, my Grandad Ron.

By the time I entered his life, he was already approaching his seventies, yet his spirit was vibrant, having lived a life rich with experience. Some of my fondest memories are wrapped in the tales he told about his life before I knew him. Through these stories, I’ve come to understand the incredible journey that shaped the man we all came to love and admire.

Many of you here today were woven into those stories, and it is in your presence that we honour his life.

Born in 1930, Ron entered a world almost unimaginable to us now—the roaring twenties were drawing to a close, King George V was on the throne, and the internet was still more than half a century away. Raised by his parents, Emily and Reginald, a police officer, Ron’s early years were spent at Priory Road School.

True to the Geer spirit, he had a deep yearning for the outdoors, which led him to an apprenticeship at James Bro Builders.

At 18, Ron enlisted in the army. Initially contemplating a role with the Royal Signals but wary of a potential posting to Durban, he chose the Airborne Parachute Regiment, only to later discover the posting would have been Durham.

This decision took him to Egypt, Cyprus, and into the Korean War. Those experiences were undoubtedly challenging, yet his army scrapbooks also reveal the good times and playful moments with friends. Facing life’s most painful moments early on, he developed a profound sense of duty and a stoicism that defined him throughout his life.

Returning home in 1954, Ron joined the fire service and soon met my lovely Nan Violet, marrying her in 1956. In 1968, they welcomed a baby, my dad Graham, and returned not long after to Priory Road, just a stone’s throw from where Ron had gone to school. Ron and Violet’s union was a beautiful testament to eternal love, marked by 68 years of shared adventures, and the lessons they instilled in Graham, Caroline, Matt, and me.

Together, they explored the Lake District, where one memorable day, after climbing Haystacks, Ron realised he had forgotten to put film in his camera. Naturally, determined to capture the moment, they climbed the mountain again the next day. Their travels also took them to snowy slopes in Switzerland, Austria, and France.

As we reflect on Ron’s remarkable life, it’s impossible not to be struck by the profound qualities that defined him. His resilience, dedication, and unwavering commitment to serving others were evident in every aspect of his life.

It’s often the small, everyday moments that we will miss the most. I remember how my Dad would enjoy a cup of speciality coffee with Ron, and the walks we all took together to admire the view from the west hill. These simple but cherished moments were filled with warmth and connection.

With this was a willingness to give his time and attention. I remember with a smile how he would attentively listen to me play “Three Blind Mice” on the recorder, just as earnestly as he enjoyed my brother Matthew’s expertly delivered piano renditions of his favourite music by Ella Fitzgerald and Glen Miller. It’s a testament to his kindness and dedication, giving equal attention to both performances with a patience and enthusiasm that made us all feel valued and cherished.

These acts of service were a constant throughout his life, whether it was helping my mum sweep car parks in one of her first jobs or joining in our family football games, playing along with me, my brother, and Dad. Even at 80, he was a better goalkeeper than me. His willingness to lend a hand, no matter the task, was a constant in our lives right up into his nineties.

Such kindness and humility were evident in everything he did. To him, it was always about how you acted, not your status or background. This resilience, playful spirit, and humility have left an enduring legacy that will continue to guide and inspire us. Ron’s example of selfless service and genuine warmth will always be a part of who we are and how we strive to live our own lives.

In closing, I want to express my deepest gratitude to my wonderful Grandad. A life of 93 years, marked by unwavering strength and boundless kindness, is a remarkable legacy. His 63 years of marriage to Nan Violet, filled with enduring love, and his compassionate nature that touched everyone around him are testaments to a life well-lived. Grandad Ron exemplified the very qualities I aspire to embody—a life of humility, service, and generosity. He leaves me with a great sense of stoicism and calmness, which as I walk the path of life is the ideal I strive to reach. Thank you, Grandad, for inspiring us all and for leaving behind a legacy that will guide and uplift us forever.

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Thank you for taking the time to read my tribute to my Grandad Ron. More tributes can be found here.

Written by Joshua Geer. Edited by Genevieve Redgrave.

Humans are obsessed with getting to the highest points of places, regardless of whether it is the best place to be. Take, for instance, the thousands of tourists who every year flock to climb Wales’s tallest mountain, Snowdon, despite there being arguably more beautiful and quieter peaks nearby.

A desire to be the highest and seek out the good view that normally comes with it, conjoins humans happy to part with £32 to go up London’s tallest skyscraper and those willing to spend upwards of £60,000 to climb (and queue) up Mount Everest.

I, like the rest of them, am a sucker for such heights – particularly when I find myself in a new place.

Last summer, while on holiday on the Italian island of Ischia with my girlfriend Esme, I was drawn to the highest point of the island, Mount Epomeo. What I found there was something I never could have expected.

Nestled in the northern reaches of the Gulf of Naples, Ischia provided a serene respite from the bustling chaos of nearby Naples, just 19 miles away. Famed for its local wine, hot springs and luscious hilly landscape, Esme and I enjoyed its simple tranquillity.

Known as Pithecusae to the Greeks and Aenaria to the Romans, Ischia boasts a rich history as a vital trade hub, a retreat for Roman elites, and a pirate fortress. Having spent two days lounging in a beach club next to the island’s stunning Aragonese Castle, I felt the pull to explore more of the island, drawn by that innate human instinct to conquer the highest point.

However, getting to the base of  Epomeo was more challenging than the hotel receptionist had promised. She claimed it was easy on the bus, and her charm made her very believable. But the bus that was supposed to take me to the town of Fontana, the starting point for my hike, was nowhere to be found.

After trudging several miles in the sweltering heat, I decided to hitchhike. Thankfully, an elderly gentleman in a Fiat soon pulled over. Despite the language barrier, he gestured that he was headed in the right direction and graciously offered me a lift. His driving style was at odds with his slightly docile personality. Maybe his fast and furious driving was one of the few things that kept him young. The narrow roads, hairpin turns, and steep drops made for a nerve-wracking ride, but the breathtaking views managed to distract me from my fears.

When I arrived in Fontana, proud to have not soiled myself, I picked up a Fanta from a shop – mainly because a Fanta in Fontana sounded catchy – and started following the signs to Mt. Epomeo. After navigating a steep tarmac road, I veered left onto beaten tracks. The path was quiet and deserted, and I passed an abandoned Vespa outside a spooky cave that looked like the ghost set of an Italian mafia film.

I emerged onto a wider track where a fruit seller was parked with his old truck, hoping to catch tourists in need of refreshment on the two-mile trek from Fontana. I think I was his first punter based on the warm welcome he gave me. The going was steep but manageable. I bought a peach with the spare euros in my pocket; it was delicious and hit the spot.

The next section was a small path and it was littered with lizards, small to large, catching the morning sun. Thankfully, the lizards were timid and quickly scurried away with each step I took.

Nearing the top, I encountered the surprise: a bizarre sign claiming the summit of the mountain was a portal to Middle Earth. It listed this location along with others around the world, such as Kentucky’s Mammoth Cave and the Nuclear Bomb test site, as places where one could enter the land of advanced races. As wacky as it all seemed, the sign did say: “whether the myth is true or not is irrelevant”. This resonated with me despite being a sceptic of astrology, alternate medicine and all things mystical.

And as any good portal to Middle Earth should have, there was naturally a cafe at the top. I enjoyed a lemonade, which tasted extra good in the heat, before scrambling up to the pinnacle. I suppose it makes sense to have a refreshment before going to Middle Earth, I thought.

The final stretch to the top was a rocky outpost atop a chapel built into the rocks. Emerging at the peak, the views were absolutely spectacular. As the top was situated in the middle of the island, I could see its entire edge and the beautiful blue coast below. Maybe I did find Middle Earth. It was tranquil, I felt calm, and I was in a position where I could see it all. From that vantage point, the entire island lay at my feet.

The metaphor of Middle Earth felt fitting: a hidden world accessed only by those willing to venture to the heights.

As I descended back into the woods, the day became hotter, the clarity of the summit fading into the shadows of the trees. The descent was a return to the ordinary, but the memory of that peak lingered. I managed to thankfully find that bus on the way back.

Back on the beach with Esme, I cherished the experience. Laying there, now enjoying the warmth of the sun, it made me think that often the journey to the top is worth it. The highest point often leads to somewhere special. And looking at a great view can give clarity; a Middle Earth of our own making.

On June 24th 2023, David Watkins and I ran 107 kilometres around Victoria Park to raise awareness for the 107 people who take their own lives every week in England and Wales. Below are some reflections in which I have answered a few common questions about the project and considered what’s next. Header photo by David Watkins.

Why 107 kilometres?

The most common question Dave and I encountered in the lead-up to our run was, “Why are you running 107 kilometres?” The question often had two meanings.

Firstly, it was asked with bewilderment. Why would someone want to run around East London’s Victoria Park 26.5 times? Secondly, people questioned why 107 kilometres. The distance is not a widely recognised race distance, nor does it appeal to the desire to run a distance that is a multiple of ten.

It was on this second question that Dave and I were able to have the most fruitful and enlightening conversations. Explaining that the run symbolised the fact that every week, according to 2019 data, 107 people take their own lives in England and Wales was just as much of a shock to us as to those we spoke with.

But for the support networks and charities that deal with mental health crises every day, this figure is no surprise.

“One of the challenges is finding enough volunteers for our services,” explains an employee at the charity Shout, a 24/7 text support service for anyone struggling to cope.

It was on this basis that Dave and I decided to both raise money for Shout and also raise awareness about these suicide rates.

What sparked the idea for the run?

I had the idea about two years before the run. Mental health and suicide prevention are two things close to my heart, and I felt an urge to do something about them. To marry that urge with running, something that has greatly helped me and others through the highs and lows of life, just made sense.

Therefore, the idea to symbolise the scale of the UK’s mental health crisis through an ultra-marathon was born.

But it was partnering with Dave that gave me the impetus to grow the idea into a fundraising project, resulting in brand partnerships and raising thousands of pounds for Shout. I often think that if we hadn’t thankfully bumped into each other at our local run club, Your Friendly Runners, the idea would have stayed an idea.

We also decided to undertake the run only around Victoria Park, in order to make it more mentally challenging and so as many people as possible could get involved. There is also something to be said about running the 107 kilometres on paths well-trodden by people running, exercising and playing, often trying to find some sense of inner peace.

How did you prepare for the physical and mental challenge of running 107 kilometres?

Other than doing a few extra-long runs, my week-to-week training did not change dramatically, having run the 100-kilometre distance a handful of times before. People often suggested I should run multiple laps of Victoria Park to prepare for the monotony of the challenge. But having lived near the park for nearly seven years, I was already bored of its paved outer track, something that an extra 26.5 laps would not change much.

One way I prepared for the event, in a new way, was by thinking about nutrition. The nutritionist, Georgie Murphy, kindly offered to help Dave and me learn about how we should fuel our training to ensure the best performance. This certainly paid off, and on the day of the event, despite humid conditions, I felt well-fueled throughout.

All of this preparation was made easier by Your Friendly Runners and the running apparel company, Soar Running, who continually supported us with the training and events in the lead-up.

Did you encounter any unexpected difficulties or setbacks?

There were two major challenges that stood out, one mental and the other physical.

Unexpectedly, the day before the run, I was overcome with anxiety. My primal instincts were asking me the age-old question of fight or flight. “You are not capable of doing this,” “You are going to let people down,” and “What if no one cares?” were just a few of the fearful thoughts rattling around my brain in the hours before the run.

Thankfully, when I set off on the run, such fears and anxieties slowly dripped away.

The other challenge came at 85 kilometres, roughly nine hours into the run, when my toenail decided to detach from my big toe due to a blister that had been slowly forming throughout the day. Having not experienced major blisters on big runs before, I was surprised by this occurrence.

I briefly stopped and tried to patch myself up, but the damage was done. When I tried to run, the pain was unbelievable, and I realised that my run had come to an end. After coming to terms with this, I got on a bike next to Dave as he amazingly continued for the next 20 kilometres. We hobbled the final 2 kilometres together.

What’s next?

Neither of us are under the illusion that running around a park all day will solve the mental health crisis in the UK. But we do hope to have made a small contribution to the services that help those in crisis and raised awareness of the scale of the mental health challenge faced in the UK.

Because of this, we are motivated to continue this project, especially as suicide rates are not falling. The Office for National Statistics showed that in 2022, there were 5,642 suicides. This equates to over 108 individuals tragically taking their lives each week, an increase from the 2019 figures.

As such, Dave and I will relaunch the project this year with the hope of raising more money and raising more awareness.

Written by Joshua Geer. Edited by Jack Hanson and Genevieve Redgrave.

I have two homes: Hastings and London. The latter I chose, the former I didn’t. My fondness for both is equal.

Linking these places of my heart by foot has always been a desire. Whenever I make the journey by car or train, I often wonder what it would be like to traverse the mix of unkempt nature and neat suburbia which lingers in between.

So, when my dad asked if I wanted to watch Hastings United play at home one afternoon at the end of January, it seemed like a good excuse to finally make the pilgrimage down south. I asked one of my oldest friends to join me. Max grew up in the nearby town of Stonegate, and I was certain he would make good company.

Aside from being one of my best friends, he is also brilliantly available.

The original plan was to set off from our homes in Hackney to go ‘door to door’ or ‘H to H’. However, with the route from Hackney totalling over 65 miles (roughly three days of walking) and with only a day and a half to do the walk, we decided to start our trek from Orpington, the very edge of London. This cut the route down to 43 miles.

We arrived in Orpington just before 0900, having travelled against the morning commute. With nearly 30 miles ahead of us that day, we quickly escaped the station, cutting between BMW saloons and Range Rovers who angrily beeped at us for jaywalking. Cars continued to aggravate us for the next few miles as we marched down the A224, but thankfully, we soon veered off down a footpath across a golf course and into open fields.

As the pollution of cars drifted away, optimism fell upon us. The bright sun made this mild January day feel surprisingly warm. Away from the stresses of the city, we revelled in the fact that all we had to do was walk.

Finding ourselves stuck in a thorn bush outside a Ministry of Defence research laboratory quickly brought our optimism back down to earth. I feared we had become softened by the city. To escape the brambles, we diverted from the path to sneak through a back garden. We were thankful they were not the proud owners of an XL Bully but instead a small yappy Chihuahua. 

After crossing the unofficial London boundary of the M25, we made our way up a long steep hill to Sevenoaks. This is where the fifteenth-century country estate Knowle House resides. Just 25 minutes from London by train, we were truly in red trouser territory now.

We left the bustling high street and skirted along the edges of Knowle’s grounds, where we sought directions from an elderly couple on a power walk. Armed with carbon walking poles and streamlined sports glasses, the pair would not have looked out of place at Everest base camp. However, they were thankfully not ‘all the gear and no idea’ and promptly pointed us in the correct direction.

To reduce mileage, we had to walk some hefty road sections. One of these stretches was between Sevenoaks and Tonbridge, where we were forced onto a sliver of pavement. We became increasingly irritated by the lorries, which whistled by inches from our heads. At the very least, if one did plough into our backs, we’d be roadkill before we knew what had hit us.

Arriving in Tonbridge around 1300, we searched for lunch. Tonbridge is a sprawling blob of houses that make up the breadth of English society. In the space of a couple of miles, you can walk from the streets of upper-middle-class commuters to areas of deep poverty. This is harshly represented by Iceland and Waitrose, which share a carpark in the town centre. Not fancying a frozen lunch, we opted for Waitrose and ate outside the town’s thirteenth-century castle ruins, basking in the sun.

Continuing on the walk, it was not long before the cacophony of the school rush hit us like a wave- shrieking children, honking cars and the frantic energy of parents on a mission. Around three miles from Frant station, darkness fell with surprising swiftness, and with ten miles of shadowy woods looming ahead, a tactical retreat seemed the wisest course. We cheated and hopped on the train at Frant, shaving off a few miles by disembarking at Stonegate. 

Back on foot, we had a final three-mile stretch to Burwash through fields lit only by one bike torch between us and a full moon. A few steps into the first field, the night exploded in a chorus of angry barks from a nearby farm. We quickened our pace, praying the fences held firm against whatever furry guardians lurked within. In the next field, we continued to be spooked. Our torch illuminated pairs of eyes that blinked back at us. Sheep, we assumed, but nervous laughter betrayed our ease. Eventually, the welcoming glow of Burwash appeared.

After a short walk down its sleepy eighteenth-century high street, we stumbled upon our accommodation, The Bear Inn Motel. The air inside the inn was thick with the aroma of wood smoke and ale, a comforting warmth against the crisp night. The interior was an odd mix of old-fashioned charm and budget updates, a bit rough around the edges, but in the flickering glow of the fireplace, it was undeniably cosy.

A fresh-faced barkeep, still in his teens, led us to our accommodation out back. The motel-style room, a miniature echo of American roadside motels, was undeniably a bit shabby. The peeling wallpaper whispered tales of forgotten guests and budget constraints, the kind of setting that wouldn’t be out of place in a horror flick. But after a 30-mile trek, the threat of fictional slashers paled in comparison to the very real need for a hot shower and a soft bed.

Suitably refreshed, we emerged back into the inn, which was buzzing with the energy of locals enjoying pints and playing darts. During the day, we had fantasised about regaling the patrons with tales of our walk. But awkwardness and exhaustion conspired to keep us quiet and by 2200, our eyelids were drooping, and we retreated to our room.

I was woken up the next morning by the sun rudely bleeding through the cheap motel curtains, but all I could think about was how much my feet hurt. Three huge blisters were punishing me for wearing ill-fitting shoes. We both bandaged up our feet and started hobbling. Thankfully, the crisp morning air quickly washed away the pain. Fields and woods unfurled before us, making the first hour of walking surprisingly easy.

Today’s 13 miles was the hilliest stretch of our entire journey. From Burwash onwards, the route would rise and fall the entire way. However, the path was more gentle, consisting of paved lanes that meandered through charming villages. Yesterday’s sprawling suburbs were replaced by quaint cottages, and it became clear we’d crossed into rural England. Lycra-clad cyclists whizzed past, their weekend warrior enthusiasm a contrast to stoic toffs on horses.

The relentless hills chipped away at our energy, which was amplified by a lack of coffee. Finally, a familiar sight emerged: Battle Abbey. Aside from being the site of the Battle of Hastings almost 1000 years ago, it was home to a much more exciting event – my first ever job. Memories of tending gardens, guiding tourists and the haughty glares of the private school students who considered me beneath them flooded back. This has caused a chip on my shoulder, which I realised had softened with time but never quite vanished.

Reaching Battle was a full-circle moment, particularly because I realised we had completed the reverse trip of what William the Conqueror had done following his victory at Hastings. We refuelled in the familiar comfort of Costa Coffee and got on with the final few miles. This final stretch was the only part I had walked before, often as a teenager escaping work. Conversation flowed, and we happily grimaced through every step, revelling in shared accomplishment. One thought resonated strongly: the incredible ‘cost-to-adventure’ ratio. Spending next to nothing, we were experiencing an excellent adventure. A helpful reminder of what can be found on our own doorsteps.

Seeing the Hastings sign about an hour later brought smiles to our faces. Dad and his friend welcomed us, and soon we were lost in the roar of the afternoon football match. During the game, a wave of nostalgia came over me as the children mirrored my childhood memories and the familiar faces of my parents’ generation jeered amongst the crowd.

To the casual observer, our arrival was just another Saturday afternoon. No trumpets, no red carpets, just a quiet satisfaction that resonated deep within. The game itself, with Hastings United cruising to a 2-0 win against Hashtag United, was a fitting end to our walk.

The train journey back was a more frustrating exercise than the walk itself, thanks to a two-hour delay. But even that couldn’t dampen my spirits. A walk with a mate, blisters and all, had been an adventure that far surpassed the £20 train ride. And that, as they say, is priceless.