How privileged I have been to discuss and write about the Bermuda of over 100 years ago by someone who lived it, who could remember it and who could discuss it in great detail. I have certainly been blessed to have known Brownlow Place.

There he was at the end of his phone line in St David’s, and me sitting in my home here in Somerset. He would often say: “Mrs Simmons, you have the time to write, but I don’t know how much time I have to remember.”

He was the perfect gentleman and never once did he address me by my first name. He did apologise profusely the day he called me “girl”, to which I hastily responded, “but Mr Place, you are 27 years older than I.”

“That does not matter,” he said. “It is still impolite.”

Once I asked him the secret to his longevity. I expected him to say that it was his diet and the exercise regime he maintained, but he answered quite simply, “I have been blessed.” And in actuality he took care of the blessed vessel that housed his body and his mind.

When I delivered his Cup Match tickets to the front desk of King Edward VII Memorial Hospital on behalf of the management of Somerset Cricket Club, I knew that he would not be able to attend, but the people of Somerset wanted him to feel valued and remembered. This year I certainly missed him sitting with his daughter, in his preferred spot on the upper veranda of the club. Despite his absence this year, he had in the past recalled attending the event as a child — on a boat which docked at a small pier on Long Bay opposite the Salvation Army Church in Somerset and walking with his mother to the Royal Naval Field.

Over the years we have covered many areas: the arrival of Marcus Garvey and what he looked like standing at the stern of his ship from which he was not allowed to disembark; we discussed the burning of a ship called The Bermuda and how frightened he was because heavy smoke filled the neighbourhood and he did not know The Bermuda everyone was talking about was the name of a ship. He thought it meant his island home was on fire. He described in detail where his father took him to witness this disaster.

Mr Place was a remarkable man with an astonishing ability to describe events, but then again, his father was the Editor of the Bermuda Recorder newspaper and he had been a journalist — details probably came naturally to him.

He, in his calm way, reminded me to continue writing from the Black experience, which he firmly believed had been neglected — and so off we went on a journey into the past.

He was born during the era of the First World War and the Spanish flu pandemic of 1918. He often described Bermuda covered in forests of cedar trees and how he felt their destruction had changed weather conditions in Bermuda.

We talked about modernisation from his era of outside pit latrines, to life without electricity, to cleaning lanterns with glass covers, to collecting firewood for cooking and the brick oven. The topics were numerous. He described all the little bridges and the route to his job at Ferry Reach, and we discussed the politics and politicians of yesteryear and today. No topic on life in Bermuda was foreign to him.

One day I called and he was anxious to talk about his mother’s preparations for his first day at school 100 years ago that day and exactly how that felt. We talked about his attendance of both the Anglican Cathedral and the Salvation Army Sunday schools. This included his feelings as a child growing up during segregation.

We covered his daily ride at age 13 to the Astor Property at Ferry Reach with his friend, the famous actor Earl Cameron, to their plumber’s apprentice jobs — they left Hamilton at 5am to make 7am. We talked of Christmas, Easter, November 11 traditions and, towards the end — because I was a nurse in a former life — we chatted freely about his declining health, and often we laughed about the various ways our bodies were letting us down.

When he was 104, we discussed the dreaded driving test at TCD. I was about to take mine and was seeking comfort from him.

“Well,” he said, “I can’t help you this time because I will not be taking mine. There are too many people on bikes overtaking on the inside and doing various antics that are unnerving me.

“I know I can still drive, but I do not need the aggravation. I know I will be safer on the bus.”

With this realisation, off he went on a new chapter in his transportation life.

Bus rides took him into St George’s and once he relayed the story of the young man in the town who recommended he stick to a vegan diet if he wanted to have a long and healthy life. Naturally I asked: “Did you tell him that you are 107?” “No,” he replied, “I told him I eat pork, and all parts of it, too!”

Several months ago, Mr Place complained that he was not hearing very well on his phone and so I called 411. A very professional young man answered and I explained that because Mr Place was 107, I did not want to assume that he was hearing-impaired. While keeping me on the line, the young man called and patiently explained to Mr Place how to increase the volume on his phone. That it seems was the cause of the problem, but, the young man added, “Mr Place, I will still have a technician come out to check your phone.”

Just when I was beginning to feel that customer service was on the decline, this young man from BTC showed that all is not lost and Mr Place, despite his age, was not being taken for granted.

When the annual TL Seniors Cup Match Tea took place on the Monday before the Annual Classic, there was a moment of silence in memory of Mr Place. Although I had never attended before, it was as though I could visualise him moving agilely about the tables in his Bermuda shorts and crisply ironed shirt with Somerset colours attached. I could actually see him with his engaging smile and hear his usual greeting — “I sure hope you’re being good!”

I could even hear the peals of laughter from other guests much younger than he and I began to miss him immediately. Yes, I will miss him, but I would be selfish to want him to stay.

I did smile when I saw the Gombeys at his funeral and remembered the time as a child, he got so enthralled by the Gombeys that he followed them from the old Hamilton Police Station as far as Spanish Point. He got himself in quite a bit of trouble with his mother, but he smiled and said, “it was all worth it, as I had a lot of fun”.

He would have been happy that the Gombeys were there to see him on his way.

I thank his daughter and family for allowing me the privilege of being his friend and for allowing me the freedom to write about this remarkable chronicler of old Bermuda. I would also like to thank The Royal Gazette for allowing me the space over the years to present this humble man to Bermuda. He was for me and many others a Bermudian treasure.

On July 23, 2024, hours before his 108th birthday, I know God looked down, smiled and said to Brownlow Place: “Welcome Home, My Good and Faithful Servant.”

• Cecille Snaith-Simmons is a retired nurse, historian, writer and author of The Bermuda Cookbook