For many, the Great War has never ended

But for many this was a war that never ended.

They were the maimed, the blinded, those who had lost limbs. Or, like Simon Evans, had been gassed, causing terrible damage to his lungs from which he never recovered and struggled on as a rural postman in Shropshire until finally succumbing at the young age of 44.

Then there were the scars nobody saw - the mental scars. It was a characteristic of veterans of the Great War that they rarely, if ever, spoke to their families about what they had gone through. They did not want to be reminded, and their families would never understand anyway.

The story of Simon Evans, who achieved fame of sorts, was one that intrigued researcher Paul Minton, who has a loose and indirect family connection with him.

"Like so many tales, it started with a drink," he said.

"I had been perusing the local bottled ales at a Telford farm shop when one name caught my eye. Brewed by Hobsons of Cleobury Mortimer, it was called 'Postman's Knock'. It even had a picture of an old fashioned postman on the label to confirm its credentials together with the amusing caption, 'A beer that really delivers'.

"On the reverse of the bottle, a brief summary was provided to explain the inspiration behind its memorable moniker. This proved to be the first time I had heard of the man known as Simon Evans.

"Simon had been born in 1895 and was brought up in Tynyfedu, Powys, before his father moved the family to Merseyside in search of better employment. At the outbreak of the First World War, Simon enlisted in the 16th Battalion of the Cheshire Regiment and by the age of 20, he had been promoted to the rank of sergeant. He spent most of his time in the trenches but in the summer of 1918 he was gassed and sustained serious wounds to his legs. Although he resisted suggestions of amputation and battled his way to recovery, his lungs were permanently weakened by the effects of mustard gas.

"He continued to suffer ill health for many years after the war, culminating in a six month stay at a convalescent home for former soldiers. When he was finally discharged, his doctors recommended plenty of exercise and fresh air and as luck would have it, in 1926, he was able to secure a job as a country postman in Cleobury Mortimer. The medical professionals cautioned against the arduous 18 miles that constituted his daily round but undeterred, he set about proving them wrong.

"It was an occupation that was to shape his future. Throughout his time among this thriving rural community, he wrote a series of books, mostly describing the colourful local characters and the countryside surrounding the village.

"Although she had lost touch with them, my mother revealed that one branch of the family had run the Post Office at Cleobury Mortimer for many decades. After extracting some dates from her and performing some rudimentary subtraction and addition in my head, I calculated that my great-great-uncle, Henry 'Fossett' Downes, would have been in charge while Simon Evans was out delivering his letters.

"Although he had died many years before I was born, my mother remembered Uncle Fossett quite clearly. I had sight of his photograph once in a local history pamphlet but there was no hint of recognition, no discernable family resemblance apparent to me. But then I came across an image of his father, my great-great-grandfather and another of Cleobury's former postmasters, Thomas Downes. I was shocked to see the face of my own grandfather staring back at me!

"I began to track down Simon's books. He wrote just five in all. Four were memoirs of his experiences as a Shropshire postman while the fifth, 'Applegarth', was his only novel.

"According to Mark Baldwin's fascinating biography, Simon wrote much of his work in his postman's rest hut. This was seemingly a corrugated metal affair, which was at the furthermost point of his round and afforded him the opportunity to regain his strength, and dry his clothes, if necessary, before starting the long trek back to Cleobury. While there, Simon would have been expected to fulfil other duties, such as selling stamps and receiving letters, although he probably spent most of his time reading and writing. He produced various pieces for the Post Office Magazine and after some encouragement, he was persuaded to submit articles to other periodicals. It wasn't long before he caught the attention of the BBC, which invited him to give interviews and short lectures on the radio."

After several books, Simon received a letter in 1937 from a young singer called Doris Aldridge, who asked if he was a genuine postman.

"She had apparently sung on the radio before one of his broadcasts and had noticed that his shoes were not what she had expected of someone in that profession. As a result of this correspondence, the two formed a close friendship, which blossomed into romance and they were married in 1938. His final book of reminiscences, entitled, 'Shropshire Days and Shropshire Ways', was dedicated to her 'and to the memory of a most excellent pair of brogues'.

"It seemed they were destined for an idyllic life together and the couple bought a plot of land in Cleobury Mortimer on which to build a new home they had designed themselves. Sadly, ill health continued to dog Simon and by 1939, he had had to abandon his role as a postman. In 1940, Simon was admitted to a hospital in Birmingham but his already damaged lungs were ill-equipped against the ravages of tuberculosis. He died in August of that year, the day before what was to have been his 45th birthday. His widow left Cleobury Mortimer for good soon after and died in 2006. She never remarried.

"While not particularly well known, Simon Evans's name does live on in Shropshire. Obviously, the Hobson Brewery honours him by virtue of their excellent ale and a walkers' pathway was opened in 2006, which traces his postal route through the countryside around Cleobury Mortimer. A road in the village also bears his name. His books, though long out of print, can still be found in obscure topography sections of certain secondhand bookshops or on the Internet.

"But that is not quite the end of this story. While searching for the last of Simon's books to complete my collection, I spotted an autographed copy of 'At Abdon Burf' on a booksellers' website. I placed my order and awaited its arrival. Several days later, the package dropped through my letter box. Sure enough, it was signed by the author. The unexpected handwritten inscription read: "To H F Downes, Postmaster, C.M. Yours very sincerely, Simon Evans, Cleobury Mortimer, Shropshire, 4th Oct 1932.'

"The book had clearly once belonged to my great-great-uncle and after a journey of over 80 years, it had now found its way to me. Perhaps it was just as well I had not bought this book in person as it seemed only fitting that this most treasured of all my copies was delivered by, who else, but a postman."