My grandfather lost his battle with cancer yesterday morning, and I think it is the only battle he has ever lost. Like a true soldier, he faced the disease with dignity, honor and courage, although I would expect nothing less of him. This means changing of plans and leaving the farm weeks earlier than expected to return home for the military funeral and then to my grandmother’s house to help clean and pack.

I was getting coffee on Tottenham Court Road, after a day of just aimlessly wandering around for real reason, just one of those days where you just walk and walk and walk. After meeting some friends to knit in the morning I walked through Soho, past the sex shops and the veg market and the flocks of pigeons. Eventually I ended up at Picadilly Circus, dodging the tourists taking photographs of the Eros statue, my feet taking me down to St. James’ Park, where I used to always go whenever I was feeling sad or restless.

I haven’t actually been to the park in ages, but my feet remembered the way without my head adding too much input. Soon I was walking on the path by the pond, listening to the leaves crunch under my feet and the geese squawking at tourists trying to steal their lunch. I made sure to spot the pelicans, whose presence never fails to amuse me, sitting like confused sentinels so far from the sea. Then past the palace and back up to Regent Street and on to Oxford Circus.

So after this, I put my free hand (my other hand holding my just purchased almond soya latte) in my pocket to check my phone and immediately knew what had happened when I saw there was a new voice mail. After a day of flaneury on London streets, they seemed much more cold and isolating post-bad news, as I stared at my feet, tears plopping on the cement, one young boy saying ‘don’t cry’ as I walked past.

I ended up at St. Paul’s Cathedral, to light a candle for my intensely devout Catholic grandfather, but wasn’t able to because of the barriers put by staff to keep tourists out. It was surreal being surrounded by happy tourists belting out different languages, taking pictures, reading brochures, with a puffy tear-stained face, trying to hide my coffee which for some reason my hand wouldn’t let go.

Whereas usually the anonymity of the city breathes life and ideas into my head, yesterday it seemed almost overwhelming and alien. When I got back to my dear friend’s flat (after navigating the subway in rush hour, trying to not make direct eye contact) I called my family and made arrangements and heard their voices strong yet shaken on the other end.

Today I’ve been restless around the flat, drinking tea and eating toast and feeling like someone stuffed my head with cotton wool. Tomorrow I’m going to the Diane Arbus exhibition at the V+A , because I need to get outside my own head and take in the noise of the city instead of thinking about loads of unanswered questions and sorrows and hugs that I want to give only my arms won’t reach.

In honor of him, I will be making this cable knit hat for Head Huggers. I picked the pattern because a) it is for men, and b) cables scare me and my grandfather wasn’t scared of anything. So, if you’re reading this, and have lost someone you love to this disease, consider whipping out your craft supplies and creating something to help those currently fighting remember that they are not alone, and that their courage is unparalleled. G’Pop, I’ll miss you fiercely, but never will forget your courage and your endless love.