The day after I finished the ride, I caught a bus to Santander and had a day before my ferry back to Portsmouth left. It rained. I wandered about, visited the cathedral, killed time.

Back in the UK, I had a few days with my mum. And a few beers with my brother Chris. Then a flight back home, although for how long was still uncertain: my mum was not doing so well.

A few pleasant weeks back home, with my lovely wife, enjoying the Canadian summer weather. Unfortunately, I had missed the raspberry crop from the garden but, all things considered, I didn't have any complaints. Not that anyone would bother listening to, anyway.

But then Mum went into hospital and I was back on the plane. At least no bike to carry this time.

By the time she came out of hospital, she had been in bed for five or six weeks, not responding to requests to get up and about from the staff: she just seemed to have had enough of (this?) life, was no longer interested in making an effort, and was ready for it to be over. A hospital bed was delivered to the flat, in the living room, and Mum was deposited into it upon return from hospital.

We had a bad start: after she was brought home, Mum decided she wanted to go to the bathroom under her own steam – I tried to help but as soon as she was not supported by the bed, her legs buckled, and I couldn't support her. We were both on the floor, Mum helpless and myself wondered how to wind back the clock a few seconds. I did eventually manage to lift her, a surprisingly heavy ragdoll, back onto her bed. It wasn't elegant, not particularly safe, nor totally painfree for Mum. Or for my back, for that matter.

Then it was time to sort out Mum's new life. She could no longer live unassisted. Carer's came in four times a day, to change, clean and feed her. These Somalians were very caring but hardly trained. We all settled into a routine but when things went slightly awry, a minor hiccup, Mum would demand an ambulance to take her back to the hospital. This was not an option, I reminded her: she had explicitly stated to the hospital that she didn't want to return there, shie wished to be allowed to die at home. Pain medication, yes, but nothing to prolong her life.

Communication was difficult, too. Mum would respond, but without comprehension often. When she chose to respond! The mental deterioration, although not as pronounced as the physical, was definite.

I could not live there permanently and Mum could not be left alone overnight, so Chris and I started looking for a long-term care home. The first we saw was pleasant enough, although I wasn't sure how Mum would respond to exhortations to get out and be sociable which seemed to be a feature of this home. And it was an awkward distance from where she lived; it would not be easy for visitors.

The second place we viewed, close to home, didn't feel right. Although one attendants name tag provided me with some immature amusement: "Johh Batty - Care Assistant"

We struck gold with the third place. The most comfortable, the least institutional, a short bus ride away. And, surprisingly, the most inexpensive of the three.

Mum still wasn't keen on the idea of moving to a home but I'm not really sure how much she was aware of, of how much she was registering. I explained that it was for a trial period, to see how she liked it. And she seemed OK with that.

All went well. Or appeared to. Mum had good days, when she could communicate, and others when she couldn't (or wouldn't).

Bev came over from Canada for a week or so, for what was expected to be a last visit with my Mum. Over the years, they had become very close.

Nicolas came over to visit too. On the day of his arrival in England, he was having a sleep in the flat before going to see his grandma, when we got a phonecall that Mum had died. Nick and I went up to the home, to join Chris who was already there, to see Mum looking finally at peace.

A funeral arranged. A couple of relatives came from Switzerland, Bev and Andrea from Canada (Nicolas had gone to the Canary Islands for a couple of weeks while Chris and I sorted out the funeral). We contacted, or tried to, those people who might want to attend but, when you're in you nineties, many of your friends have already passed. Or are unable to travel.

The funeral was small but nice. I struggled through a eulogy, choking up, especially when I saw people in front of me doing the same. But the sadness was for ourselves really, those who would never see her, or benefit from her upbeat wisdom, again. She was, is, in a better place now.

Bev, Andrea, Nicolas and I flew home to Canada. Nicolas on a different airline, from a different airport, be we managed it all in one cab. In time to get ready for Christmas.

Finally back home for a stretch, of winter. I got some medical stuff sorted. Sort of. X-rays for knees and ankle followed by MRIs on the same. Privately. This meant I had to pay but the alternative was a wait of about eighteen months. I had lost only a little weight after my four and a half thousand kilometres on the bike and then the time in the UK, caring for Mum, packed more than that back on. I was as heavy as I'd ever been. Clearly, riding wasn't going to solve the issue so I talked to my GP about Ozempic – he was very enthusiastic – and we jumped through a few hoops to get it covered by Alberta Health Services. So far, so good. Down about ten pounds, appreciation for food and wine much diminished.