In the late ’90s, I was 35 — a paragliding instructor living and working in the French Alps. I’d just returned to the UK to complete my osteopathy degree, which I had started in France. Back in England, I was living in Maidstone, Kent.
Maidstone. Land of oversized chicks in undersized clothes, fueled by cheap booze. On any freezing Friday night in January, if you were brave enough to venture into town, you’d witness a spectacle: Lycra stretched tight over thighs like two baby seals fighting over a fish. Thunder thighs. It wasn’t quite the chic Alpine villages I was used to. Snobbish, maybe. But it was my reality.
To make matters worse, I’d just been dumped by my girlfriend, Sabine — my first ever heartbreak. I wasn’t used to being on the receiving end. My ego was devastated. Looking back, I think my grief was more about my ego than my heart. I responded with the classic male strategy: distract, deflect, and, well… go shag. Seek and inseminate.
Gatecrashing Sevenoaks
It was during this fragile, feral phase that I was invited to a posh Halloween party in Sevenoaks — allegedly full of film stars. The girl who invited me was working the event. I thought, why not? Could be glamorous. Could get lucky.
The Disguise
It was a costume party. Luckily, I had a full-size plastic skeleton — a handy osteopathy study aid. I threw on a white lab coat, shoved the skeleton’s arm into one sleeve, squirted ketchup down it for gore, and left my own arm hidden inside the coat. That was it. I drove to Sevenoaks and sauntered into the party.
The Party
It was relaxed, easygoing. People were friendly. Pot, coke, and drinks circulated. I spent most of my time dodging the advances of the girl who invited me. Then, I saw her.
She stood in the middle of a group, gesturing animatedly, holding court. Blonde. Beautiful. Magnetic. I noticed her posture — slightly hunched forward. Without thinking, I walked up behind her, placed my thumb on the apex of her back, and said, “You’re far too kyphotic. Your posture’s crap. Stand up straight, woman!”
Not exactly subtle. But it got her attention.
We talked. And talked. And kept talking. She was half French. Her mother had come to England after the war; her father had fled both the Germans and Russians in 1940. Her story was rich, complicated — and we spoke mostly in French. It was easier for me, after ten years abroad, and maybe it felt more romantic, more us.
By morning, we were inseparable.
Brighton
On a whim, we drove to Brighton — a town I knew well from my flying days at Devil’s Dyke just outside the city. We strolled the Lanes, browsed music shops, drank trendy coffees, gazed at shiny things. Dream time.
I called my friend Tim, a fellow paragliding instructor. The wind was on. He had a tandem wing in his van. I wanted her to see my world.
Up at the Dyke, we stood on the hill’s edge, strapped together by karabiners and 20 metres of lines. I pulled the paraglider into the wind. The wing rose above us, inflated, then — lift. The breeze took us into the sky.
The sun was setting in fiery reds and oranges as we soared above the hills, circling gently, weightless. Half an hour later, we landed near where we’d taken off. It was our first leap of faith — quite literally.
Bonfire Night
From that moment on, I just had to be with her. Her name was Noni. We spent weekends together, mostly at her place in Kentish Town, near Camden Market — dreamy days of love.
On Bonfire Night in Maidstone, I remember watching her in the flickering light of the fire. Her face in silhouette, her hair catching the glow. Fireworks exploded behind her, and then she moved closer. I said those three fatal words. She repeated them. And then it was fireworks — real and metaphorical.
Pregnancy and New Zealand
Within six months, she was pregnant, and I had accepted a job in New Zealand. Out we went, to gestate and begin again.
Shortly before Phoebe was born, Noni’s mother — her soulmate, really — was dying of cancer. Noni flew back to England at seven months pregnant to be with her.
Two months later, we were in a hospital in Hemel Hempstead. Phoebe entered the world at 8 a.m. — cone-headed, squirming, and perfect. In that moment, everything felt right again.
Back in New Zealand, we were three. Noni had lost her mum, but gained a daughter. Phoebe filled that enormous void. They were inseparable.
Marriage, Twice
Noni was pregnant again, and I realized — during her flight to her dying mum — that I wanted to marry her. I called and mumbled something about a big party. Somehow she understood the subtext. She said yes.
She was Catholic (lapsed), and I was… not. To satisfy both sides, we married twice.
Marriage One: Alpine Vows
In the French Alps, after my tandem flying season ended, friends and family gathered at Peisey Nancroix. We climbed to Aiguille Grive, over 2,300 metres above sea level. Noni, very pregnant, didn’t carry a paraglider — just JJ in her belly.
We launched off the mountain together, soaring in thermals, dancing in the sky. I pulled spirals for show — until she reminded me she was carrying our child. “Keep your legs together, then,” I joked.
We landed, and my friend Adam, acting as our bilingual priest, conducted the ceremony in English and French. We said our makeshift vows. Then we partied.
Marriage Two: Church Aisle
Weeks later, in Harpenden Catholic Church, we walked the aisle. Phoebe was our bridesmaid. I was clean-shaven, suited up. My wedding speech opened with: “I’d like to thank Noni for coming today.” Not many got the joke. I may be a Ward Smith, but I sure ain’t no Wordsmith.
The Drift
Back in New Zealand, life got serious. I built a business; Noni raised the kids. Slowly, we drifted. When you’re parents, love changes. A man’s language is often physical. A mother’s love, after childbirth, becomes all-consuming — and not in the bedroom.
I felt unwanted. She felt unseen. Eventually, I strayed. A short affaire — weeks, not months — but it was enough.
The Affaire
She found out.
Ironically, it saved us. We went to therapy, talked properly for the first time in years, and rebuilt something functional. Not perfect, but real. We found a new kind of love.
Until life stopped again.
The Crash
A policewoman knocked on our door. I’d crashed my paraglider and was in a coma at Waikato Hospital.
Noni rallied the world. She activated my Facebook, called in monks, friends, strangers — even contacted the woman I’d had the affaire with and asked her to pray for me.
That’s beyond love.
I believe it helped. I had strange, esoteric dreams in the coma. I believe love — hers, everyone’s — pulled me back.
Aftermath
I survived, but changed. Head injuries don’t always show. I looked normal, sounded normal — but exploded with stress. I struck out. Slapped Noni twice. Got too rough with JJ. I fell from hero to villain. Our home was a living hell.
Then, another blow.
Broken Brains
Noni was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. Her mind — the centre of everything — began slipping away. Treatments failed. Over 14 months, we watched her disappear.
The kids were nine and eleven. Too young to lose their mother. They still carry the scars.
She died on August 8th, 2011. Her last breath was long and rattling, and then — peace. Relief, even. I longed for that moment. Not for myself, but for her. I saw in her eyes, the grief of not being able to reach her children.
After Noni
For years, I replayed it all. Could I have done better? Yes. But this isn’t guilt. It’s just truth.
Our passion gave way to chaos, but those brief shining moments — they remain. They live on. They release me from the years of dysfunction.
And Noni? She lives on too.
In Phoebe’s eyes.
In JJ’s grin.
In the love that was once wild, imperfect, and real.