My fiance Bones vanished without trace seventeen years ago today.

I was at a re-enactment of the Battle of Camlann in Tintagel - only Bones could climb round the end of Rocky Valley in a monk's habit and a pair of army surplus boots, drinking horn in hand and dog-end between his lips... and simply never come back. He had his pouch of baccy, he had his Thor's Hammer round his neck... Lisanne later said he'd taken his Grave Goods with him.

He was twenty-eight years old and had cheated the big bloke with the scythe more times that I could relate - bike accidents and cyanide poisoning and outrageous alcohol abuse (and that's not even getting into the wacky stuff). I like to think that he found a friendly mermaid and a cave full of pirate brandy.

There are too many tales to tell - of his intelligence, his gentleness, his insight, his outrageous humour and his dysfunctionality... he was one of life's characters, mourned and missed by all. 

Days like this, I wonder who he would have been at forty-five.

Rather freakily, this photo was taken about twenty minutes before he disappeared: -





Wassail.

Wherever he is, I hope he's happy.