Bill Bryson’s books were a source of many hours of happiness. His constant good humour and eclectic choice of subjects made his writing compelling reading. There were moments when his description of the absurd and sometimes surreal moments of his life prompted laughter aloud. More than once the sudden chortles have prompted others to look at me quizzically.

The Road to Little Dribbling was among my Christmas presents from my former wife at the last Christmas we were still together. It lay unread because I could not cope with humour. A black cloud of depression had descended the previous autumn and even with medication there seemed a lack of light.

The days of early-2017 were a fog. A ski trip to Austria brought a fall and three broken ribs. It seemed an experience that reflected my state of mind.

Sustained by the excellent care of my GP, I seemed to stumble along, unsure of how I might escape from the gloom.

Easter passed and the brighter days seemed to offer a prospect of happier times. Trips out together continued. Trying to be affirming, my wife would come along to events. The European Rugby Cup semi final between Munster and Saracens was one of the last sporting occasions we attended.

Then came the fall from grace, or perhaps it is better described as a denial of grace, for it was an abandonment of everything that I had believed and everything that I had held dear.

Beset by guilt that for thirty years I had neglected my parents who were now in their eighties, a relationship with a woman in England whom I had known since school days pushed me over the edge. It brought the end of my marriage and of the vocation that had given my life meaning for more than thirty years.

Of course, the relationship did not work and at the end of it all there was nothing, just an empty wasteland, not even happy memories that might have made the crass, destructive selfishness seem worthwhile.

Economic necessity had required a change of career and I became a teacher from scratch. I had become untouchable for the church. When I tried to return to my former diocese, the bishop who had given a reference for a former sex offender and who accepted a gay couple in his diocese, gave excuses for not considering me for any of the positions that were vacant. Even in recent months, an inquiry I made about a clerical appointment in Dublin went unacknowledged.

Not thinking myself the worst of people, to be regarded as a pariah has been difficult. Life has become about work and study and getting by.

Coming to Somerset for this week, I arrived at Dublin Airport last Saturday morning and discovered I had left my bag at the flat, in it were the books I had intended to read. Searching my mother’s house, I found a selection of Bryson books, including The Road to Little Dribbling. Starting to read it, I told myself that the road back has to start somewhere. As Larkin says in his poem about the dead hedgehog, one needs to be kind while one can.