Life is a sequence of coincidences that only solidify into narrative with time
A life rarely announces its shape while it is being lived. Denis Kilcommons spent the early 1970s chasing a traveller's freedom across Europe with a young family and a failing van, only to find that the dream dissolved somewhere in Germany — and that what replaced it, a 51-year career at the Huddersfield Examiner, was assembled from a series of accidents too small to have seemed significant at the time. Now writing for Huddersfield Hub in retirement, Kilcommons offers a quiet reminder that the patterns of a life become legible only when there is enough distance to read them.
- A European adventure collapses in Germany when a nine-month-old daughter and a bridal veil repurposed as a mosquito net make the limits of romantic idealism impossible to ignore.
- A dying van engine on the M6, saved by a Birmingham mechanic's improvised fix, ends the journey at a parents' house in Timperley — and with it, the dream of becoming a wandering writer.
- A clairvoyant's warning about a green estate car's front nearside tyre, dismissed with laughter, proves accurate enough to unsettle a man who had been driving that same road at reckless speed every day.
- A job interview in Huddersfield is quietly decided before it begins — the news editor had known Kilcommons from East Africa, and the editor-in-chief simply gave him the salary he asked for.
- Fifty-one years at the Examiner later, Kilcommons now writes for Huddersfield Hub, watching the accidents of his past harden, at last, into something that looks like a plan.
Denis Kilcommons left the Blackpool Gazette in the early 1970s with a young family, a worn-out VW van, and a conviction that life could be lived differently. He and his wife Maria, with their nine-month-old daughter Siobhan, set out through France and Belgium with friends in a caravan, intending to push on through the Alps into Italy. Germany ended it. Maria pointed out what they both already knew — a travelling van could not provide what a baby needed. She had been using her bridal veil as a mosquito net. They turned around.
The journey home had its own indignities. A dawn departure from a roadside lay-by, a suburban traffic light, and a busload of commuters staring into the van revealed Maria asleep and uncovered in the back. Halfway up the M6, the engine gave out. A young RAC mechanic filled the gearbox with heavy engine oil and said it might reach Manchester. It did. The van was sold at Kilcommons' parents' home in Timperley, and as a final act of defiance, he spent the rest of the year trying to become a novelist. The manuscript ran to 60,000 words and wasn't very good. Short stories for Men Only and Mayfair — thirty pounds each, a week's wages — kept the bills paid. His editor at Mayfair, Gerald Kingsland, offered encouragement before eventually leaving the magazine at forty-nine to live on a desert island with a woman he'd found through a newspaper advertisement. Oliver Reed later played him in a film.
The family moved to Blackpool to live with Maria's mother, and Kilcommons took work as chief reporter on the Blackburn Times, driving back roads at speed in a Vauxhall Viva Estate. Maria visited a medium named Doris Stokes — then the most prominent clairvoyant in the country — who warned her about the front nearside tyre on a green estate car. Kilcommons laughed, checked, found the tyre worn, and the following day, driving at a careful pace, watched it burst while parked outside the office rather than at motorway speed. The sequence of small events that might have gone differently stayed with him.
When he applied for journalism positions, three offers came at once. The Huddersfield interview was effectively settled before it started: the news editor, Peter Hinchliffe, had worked in Nairobi when Kilcommons had been in Uganda. They already knew each other. The editor-in-chief, Dick Harrison, offered tea and the salary requested without negotiation. In 1972, the family moved to Huddersfield. Kilcommons wrote a column for the Examiner for fifty-one years, retiring in 2023. He now writes for Huddersfield Hub, looking back at the chain of accidents — a broken van, a mechanic's improvisation, a medium's warning, a forgotten colleague — that quietly assembled themselves into an entire life.
Life arranges itself in ways you don't understand until you're old enough to look back and see the pattern. Denis Kilcommons left the Blackpool Gazette in the early 1970s with a young family, a worn-out VW van, and the conviction that he could live differently. He and his wife Maria had a nine-month-old daughter named Siobhan. They were going to travel through Europe, camp under stars, write, think, become the people they imagined themselves to be. It was a dream that lasted until Germany.
The van was ancient—probably old enough to have carried Wehrmacht troops in the First World War, Kilcommons would later write. It had a panel in the floor where ammunition might once have been stored; they filled it with bottled baby food instead. They traveled with friends Mick and Maggie, who had a caravan. Siobhan rode in a backpack on her father's shoulders, high enough to see everything, though other mothers pushing prams looked at the arrangement with something between curiosity and disapproval. France and Belgium were manageable. Germany was where Maria pointed out what they both already knew: this wasn't working. A nine-month-old baby needed things—hygiene, health, stability—that a traveling van could not reliably provide. Maria was using her bridal veil as a mosquito net. They turned around rather than attempt the Alpine pass into Italy.
The crossing from Calais was delayed. Kilcommons pulled into a country lay-by to sleep, waking at dawn with his wife and daughter still asleep in the van's back bed. He drove on toward London, and at a set of traffic lights in the suburbs, he noticed passengers on a nearby bus staring into his vehicle. A glance over his shoulder revealed Maria, topless and asleep, the covers pushed down to her waist. The dream, such as it was, had become something else entirely.
Halfway up the M6, the van's engine failed. A young mechanic with a Birmingham accent, working for the RAC, filled the gearbox with heavy engine oil and said it might—with luck—get them to Manchester. It did. They reached Kilcommons' parents' home in Timperley. The van was sold. The dream was over. As an act of defiance, he took the rest of the year off and tried to become a writer. He produced a 60,000-word manuscript that wasn't very good. To pay the bills, he wrote short stories for magazines—Men Only and Mayfair paid thirty pounds per story, equivalent to a week's wages. His first published piece was called "War Games," which appeared in Mayfair. His editor there was Gerald Kingsland, who offered encouragement and told him to keep a level head. Kingsland later left the magazine at age forty-nine to live on a desert island with a twenty-four-year-old woman he'd found through a newspaper advertisement. Oliver Reed and Amanda Donohue starred in the film version of that venture, titled Castaway.
But the idea of being a hippy writer didn't pay rent. Maria had supported him throughout, as she always did, but Siobhan needed stability and they needed a proper income. They moved back to Blackpool to live with Maria's mother. Kilcommons took a job as chief reporter on the weekly Blackburn Times, commuting through back roads at high speeds in a Vauxhall Viva Estate. One afternoon, Maria visited a medium in St Annes with an old friend, a hairdresser named Peter Lunn. The medium was Doris Stokes, the most prominent clairvoyant in the country at the time. She gave Maria a reading and warned her about a green estate car—specifically, about the front nearside tire, which she said was a danger. When Maria told her husband, he laughed and checked. The tire was worn. The next day, driving at a sensible speed rather than his usual reckless pace, he parked in front of the office and the front nearside tire burst. Maria had known the car needed new tires; Doris had simply read the anxiety in her mind. But the timing of that burst, the fact that it happened when he was parked rather than moving at speed on a motorway, suggested something about the randomness of existence—how a different sequence of small events could have rewritten everything.
Kilcommons applied for several journalism positions. He had offers from the Evening Telegraph in Blackburn, a newspaper in Kent as assistant news editor, and the Huddersfield Examiner as a reporter and feature writer. The interview in Huddersfield was essentially decided before it began. The news editor, Peter Hinchliffe, had worked at the Daily Nation in Nairobi when Kilcommons had been at the Nation in Uganda. They knew each other. He had tea with the editor-in-chief, Dick Harrison, a gentleman journalist who offered him the job at the salary he asked for. In 1972, Kilcommons, Maria, and Siobhan moved to Huddersfield. He wrote a column for the Examiner for fifty-one years, retiring in 2023. Now he writes for Huddersfield Hub, looking back at the sequence of accidents and choices that solidified, over decades, into an unalterable life.
Notable Quotes
The dream wasn't working. Not with a nine-month-old baby and demands of hygiene and health.— Denis Kilcommons, reflecting on his failed European travel attempt
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
You could have crashed that car on the M6. You could have died.
Yes. And then Maria and Siobhan would have had an entirely different future. That's what struck me about it—not that a medium predicted a tire, but that the smallest things determine everything.
Do you think you would have stayed in Huddersfield if you'd gotten the Kent job instead?
I don't know. But I didn't get it. I got Huddersfield because I knew someone there. Because we'd both been in Uganda. That's how these things work.
The European dream—do you regret it?
Not for a moment. We had to try it. We had to know it wouldn't work. Maria understood that. She always did.
Fifty-one years is a long time to stay in one place.
It is. But by the time you realize you've stayed, you've built something. A life. A reputation. People who know your name. You can't replicate that elsewhere.
What would you tell someone leaving a job with big plans?
Take the reference. Check your tires. And understand that the life you end up living is rarely the one you planned—but it might be better.