I have known Mick since the 1960s when we both frequented the Crown, which at that time was the only pub in Manchester where males with long hair were allowed to go. In the 1970s by a circuitous route, because of a chance meeting with somebody in Devon, I finished up living in a town on the Lancashire and Yorkshire border called Colne. After I'd been there a few months I found to my surprise that Mick was renting a farmhouse about 3 miles away and our friendship was renewed.

Throughout the 1970s, while the 'city people' moved on to the latest fad or craze, Colne remained in a time warp, a last bastion of hippiedom. This suited me because my heart was with the hippie movement. I wanted to grow my hair as long as possible but found that no matter how long-haired and wild looking I became Mick always looked wilder.

Towards the end of 1970's Mick moved to Australia. He would come back to England once every three years to see old friends and to visit Glastonbury for the Solstice. When he came to England he would always find time to fit in a trip to India and Nepal, where he would usually spend at least six weeks. I remember feeling just a little envious of his lifestyle and his ability to maintain it.

Over the years his appearance didn't change much except maybe that now because he spent most of his life in sunnier climes his skin took on the quality of parchment.

In the early Nineties Mick turned up again but this time there was something wrong. Colne is a town of many hills and he could only get up them with the greatest difficulty. I lived on a steep hill like everybody else in Colne and when we went out walking Mick had to continually stop to rest. A lifetime of heavy smoking appeared at last to have taken its toll and when he went back to Australia I wondered if I would ever see him again.

In 1997 I was diagnosed with MS and the next year Mick arrived looking wilder than ever but what I found amazing was that his health had improved! Apparently the problem had been blocked arteries. The reason for his remarkable recovery was that veins had been taken from his stomach and put them into his legs. So now our positions were reversed, it was me who was struggling. He told me that the main reason for his visit was to pick up some Northumbrian pipes. They were being made for him by the legendary Ickornshaw Pete and he had ordered them the last time he was in England.

In 2000 I had a bad relapse and finished up living in a bungalow on a quiet cul-de-sac. I hadn't been living there long when sure enough Mick turned up again. He was in England to pick up the Northumbrian pipes which hadn't been ready for him on his last visit. He told me Pete had been avoiding him and that he thought the pipes may not be ready yet.

I said with an incredulous voice, "You ordered them six years ago surely they must be ready by now?"

Mick jumped to Pete's defence, "He's the best in the business. There's a long waiting list for his pipes." I retorted with, "If it takes him so long to make them I'm not surprised!"

I've never known Mick to get angry, he's not the type, but I thought I detected a hint of irritation as he said, "Pete's good but he's always stoned!" He then had a therapeutic blow on a penny whistle that he carried around with him at all times.

We talked of various mutual acquaintances before he said, "Do you get out much?" I told him I had been living in this house for the last three months and apart from a day trip to the dentist I hadn't been outside. He looked out of the window and said "The weather's not so bad, would you like to go for a walk?" When I asked if he was sure he replied gesticulating with his arms "I'm over here and I'm fitter than I've been in years, so use me, use me!" Well if he put it like that how could I refuse?

To get out of the cul-de-sac you had to turn right outside the front door. The sun was shining, breeze in my face, fresh air, it felt good. The street we went along now went downhill, nothing steep but definitely downhill. At the end of the street was a quite busy main road. As we approached this main road I started to feel uneasy. I could hear Mick wheezing behind me and could tell he was having trouble controlling the chair. We got to the bottom of the hill safely much to my relief and turned right. Things were better now because we were on the flat but I could tell from the sounds Mick was making he was still struggling. The town where I was living wasn't particularly big and the pavement soon petered out and became a grass verge. We walked towards the traffic which was heavy. Wagons sped by us and I began to feel worried as visions of Mick losing control of the wheelchair and me careering under a juggernaut went through my mind. What a daft away to go!

Over my shoulder I shouted above the sound of the traffic, "I don't think there's much up here, shall we go back?". I think Mick realised he had bitten off more than he could chew and didn't need asking twice. At the bottom of the hill leading back to my house was a bench and when we got there Mick sat down to gather his strength for the final ascent. We sat there for a long time in the sunshine and it was very pleasant. It's nice to have friends.

Mick is due to come over to England again next summer. He's hoping to pick up some Northumbrian pipes!

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