A Wayfarer’s Notes has “upped and went”; which is not to say that it won’t ever complete a round trip and return*. Vincent is Australian-born. Those fellows go walkabout, perhaps for decades.
When I left Perth in 1946, the father I never knew remained there. Now I’ve discovered he’s still there, hale and hearty, aged 95. We’ve been so long out of touch, I thought he must have died. The tale is too long to tell, and not all of it can be authenticated, unless Larry will tell me, which I greatly doubt. I’ve no intention of troubling him by asking.
Where has Wayfarer’s gone to, and why? Perhaps I’m starting a new life, free of habit’s tramlines. Enough of blogging: but I cannot bring myself to desert such good friends and other readers who have been so kind and encouraging over the years; so wise, provocative and talented that they’ve always inspired me.
I like the idea of borderline fiction, tales that might be true in parts but you can never know whether or which. It’s kind of in my blood, since I don’t know how much of my own life-story, imagined or written, is true. imagined or written, is true.
Larry, alive and well in Perth, Australia; Vincent his firstborn, alive and well in Buckinghamshire, England; both photos taken in July 2017; mine being an awkwardly-managed selfie, held at arm’s length; his being a snap by my ex-wife Marian, in Perth for her nephew’s wedding. She looked him up in the phone book and there he was.
* As it has done since.
a wayfarer’s notes 
I don’t know how much of my life story is true, either. Perhaps it’s a more usual condition than we realize. Few people can name all their own great-grandparents. The origin we assume we have, the basis of our sense of self, is something half-absorbed, half-created, during those critical toddler years.
The discovery of a father, albeit an absentee father, must be quite a strange experience. My interest isn’t frivolous, I have been close to a couple of people who have either briefly met, or chosen never to find, their fathers. Shakespeare idealized the reunion of fathers (and children), and much literature has followed his lead. In life it’s often a different picture.
I feel like I’m late to the party and I’m not sure if the party’s over or if I’m even at the right address.
I like that idea of “borderline fiction” too.
Of course.