Josie, Lauren and I are spending five days together in Elounda, a laid back and rather beautiful but pricy resort on the shores of the Gulf of Elounda. It has a huge seafront square and a pretty port bobbing with fishing boats, and others that ferry visitors across to the island of Spinalonga, one of the last active leper colonies in Europe (1903-57).

Its surrounding areas are steeped in the usual history of the island, with early fortifications to defend against raids by pirates, the scourge of the Mediterranean for hundreds of years, and of course, the influence of Venetian and Ottoman occupation. But these few days are for catching up and we’ve been mostly chilling by the sea, Josie and Lauren recovering from a few days of their friend’s wedding celebrations, and me just enjoying their company.

A year ago this week they were staying with me in Exeter for a few days and met my good friend, Mike Feighan. He and I were meeting for the first time in a long while because of lockdowns etc. and the four of us sat in the garden in the sun. They liked Mike, as everyone did, and he and I later went for a walk in the nearby Hoopern Valley, sharing a few beers in the shade and catching up.

Mike worked in the same team I joined when we moved down to Exeter in 2004. We became firm friends and enjoyed each other’s company. Sitting writing this I’m thinking of several long cycle rides we enjoyed together and one in particular. We’d cycled along the banks of the River Exe, ending up, as was often the case, in a pub (below), where we locked our bikes together and sat by the river for far too long.

We were far from sober but fit to ride back along the river bank. But as we prepared to mount up one of our lock keys broke and we ended up carrying our two bikes home, chained together, as we were, in our efforts to keep them and ourselves upright. We laughed and cursed all the way.

We recalled that night as we sat in the Hoopern Valley, but talked of much else besides: family, politics, work etc. and made plans to meet again when he came back from holiday. We were both pleased to have met up again and shared the same sense that much of the country must have been feeling at the time, that things were gradually returning to normal.

A few days later one of our former colleagues texted me to say that Mike had drowned in the sea off Cornwall, where he and his wife, Anna, and their sons, Charlie and George, often holidayed. Mike, the marathon runner, a strong swimmer. It was impossible but, as the days passed by, became real.

As Anna, Charlie and George said of Mike after he died, anyone who had met him, whether briefly or if they’d known him for years, would speak of the immense energy that he radiated. His enthusiasm to support and encourage others was endless, through sharing his love of the outdoors and exercise, mindfulness, or just being a listening ear. Sometimes it was simply his infectious smile and sense of humour.

So I’m sat here by the sea thinking of Mike who drowned a year ago tomorrow and of Anna and Charlie and George. He was a good man, ever thoughtful, kind and funny, and never more justly described, as everyone who knew him I know would agree, as one of those people whose presence lit up a room.

I miss him. He’d like it here and I wish he was.