The two sisters sat looking through old school photographs.  Faces from the 1930s stared at the camera with a freshness that could have come from that morning.  It was hard to imagine that the lacrosse and hockey teams had probably been long ago called to a different league.

“My friend Kay used to play in that team”, said one sister.  At eighty-eight, she was two years the younger of the pair.

“Where did Kay live?”

“Oh, she and her husband still live in England”.

The younger sister pondered for a moment, reflecting on thoughts of Kay.

“Do you know”, she said, “Kay and her husband took their car and caravan across to France every year until last year.  I can’t think why they didn’t go this year”.

“Kay was in your class at school?” I asked, wanting to ensure I had understood the story correctly.

“Oh yes, we are the same age”.

It would have seemed the height of impertinence to have suggested that at eighty-eight years of age, Kay might have felt that her caravanning days were done.

It was a special moment. Watching the face of that indomitable little lady for whom age was no barrier whatsoever.

Driving southwards through France today, I will remember Kay and her husband, and pray for even a fraction of the spirit that would take an eighty-seven year old across the Channel with her husband and their car and caravan.