I HAD to say goodbye to two old friends the other week.
They were both very dear to me. In fact, since we met six or seven years ago they and I had become almost inseparable.

Together we had tramped over the muddy fields of Wirral, strolled along cobbled streets in Yorkshire and gazed upon the lakes in Cumbria.
Together we had stood firm on a shimmering glacier in the ice fields of the Canadian Rockies, ears pricked for the 'white thunder' of sudden ice falls.
When we went salmon fishing off the coast of Alaska on a rickety boat with a thoroughly insane captain, it was they who accompanied me on my frequent trips down below to throw up in the tiny toilet.
And it was they who trod in the dusty footsteps of the Romans as we roamed together through the streets of Pompei and Herculaneum, finally climbing weary but awed to the top of Mount Vesuvius, to stare down into the gently steaming crater.
Closer to home, we spent many hours together digging, scraping and carrying buckets on an archaeological dig in Wales.
And in later years they helped me push first a pram then a pushchair through park and along promenade, finally progressing to walking with small scampering child following in their heels.
So it was with a heavy heart I had to admit that my old walking boots were no longer up to the job.
Rather worn at heel, a little bit scruffy round the edges, between them they had lost an eye, had gone through several pairs of laces and were starting to look their age (a bit like me, you might say).
But in the end I did the only decent thing. I waited until their soles had perished before I finally said farewell, consigning them to their wheely bin grave with a single tear and a nod of thanks.
And now the search is on for their worthy successors.

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