I was born too late to remember where I was on the day JFK was killed in Dealey Plaza. Of course, there are other random more or less historic moments which remain unforgettable: the shooting of John Lennon; the Argentine invasion of the Falklands; Thatcher's resignation; the start of the Gulf War; Eric Cantona's kung-fu kick; Princess Diana's death. Yet none remotely approaches the intensity of 11 September 2001. I was working in my office at Exeter and, since it was a warm, late summer afternoon, I rang a friend to ask whether he wanted to come out climbing on Dartmoor that evening. He was incredulous that I had not heard the news, ‘It's all going off; you need to get yourself to a television set now.’ I checked the Internet and was startled by the images of the Twin Towers. Later that evening I did go out to Dartmoor, bouldering on the harsh granite of Saddle Tor. The evening was limpid with long views over the moor to the west and out east over the shining sea; sky larks sang above. There I met some other friends who were also out climbing. ‘It is a beautiful evening,’ I said as we talked in the car park. ‘Except if you are in New York,’ replied one of the climbers. In that tranquillity, the turmoil in Manhattan was quite unimaginable. It was inconceivable to think that 3,000 people had just died in a deliberate attack.