Most of you here will have precious memories of dad. We, his
children, would like to share some of our own.
First and foremost, Dad was a family man. I have a clear
memory from childhood of seeing the shape of his officer’s cap
through the mottled glass of our front door as he came back from
work, the whistle he gave to let us know he was there and the
great excitement we felt at his return home. When we went on
our summer camping holidays, Dad would be there, at the end of
a long day’s drive, pitching the tent, building a fire,
organising card games, again whistling tunelessly but cheerfully.
As we got older and had our own families, Dad was always
there for us, taking an interest in all of our lives. Through
our highs
and our lows, he offered emotional support, computer advice,
gardening tools, tents, books and films. He helped put up
shelves, move furniture, and always made time to play whole-heartedly
with his grandchildren. He accepted our sometimes unconventional
choices with unconditional love. And although we didn’t
always follow his path, he was our compass, he gave us bearings
and a way home. Dad was our true north.
Dad was a man of honesty and integrity. As teenagers, we
sometimes joked about Dad’s insistence on doing the right thing.
I think we saw it as hopelessly old fashioned and conservative.
But later on we realised how admirable it was that Dad didn’t
just take the easiest path, but chose the way he thought was
right. On a trip to Niagara Falls, Julia and I can clearly remember
being thrilled to find 200 dollars stashed behind the cistern
in the public loos. We were busy planning how to spend our windfall,
until Dad reminded us that it wasn’t ours. We dutifully
trooped down to the nearest police station and handed over
the cash. No doubt the police spent it on beer and cigarettes,
but
for Dad, what was important was that we had done the right
thing.
Dad was a soldier. He took immense pride in his Army life.
Dad believed strongly in the importance that the Army placed
on duty
and loyalty and he was particularly concerned for the welfare
of his soldiers. Dad once told Diana that he never had
a dream where he wasn’t in the Army. He looked so very handsome
in his uniform. And it was this handsome man who found himself
at a party one night in Bielefeld, Germany. There he spotted
the most beautiful girl in the room – our Mum, Penny Hughes.
The fact that she happened to be the daughter of a senior officer
didn’t seem to put him off. Within two years Mum and
Dad were married. And as we grew up there was never any doubt
in
our minds how much he loved her.
If there is one word which sums up dad, it is ‘explorer’ – an
explorer of places and an explorer of ideas. He had a huge intellectual
curiosity that took him on a journey from Holyhead Comprehensive,
to an MA in French language and literature at Birbeck College.
He loved literature, thrived on debate and even developed a passion
for obscure art-house films. He traversed the Pyrenees, tackled
South America on his own, and visited the former East Germany,
the Arctic and St Kilda in the Outer Hebrides to name a few.
But he was never just a tourist – he always wanted to understand
and be a part of the culture and country he was visiting. When
we moved to Quebec in Canada, he learnt French. When we moved
to Germany, he learnt German. We never moved to Spain, but that
didn’t stop him learning Spanish as well. He was a
man who was prepared to open his mind, to embrace the world,
and
attempt, with his faith, to understand it.
And it is on these travels that he sent emails about
his experiences. What follows is just a taste of what
he wrote
from his travels
in South America, 5 years ago this month:
“
You do not have to read these missives,” he wrote, “ Here
it does not seem at all strange writing letters not to
be read. I had three glorious days in the mountains although
the refuges
were a little more primitive than I am used to, but it
probably
does me good. It is strange lying in bed at night not
knowing whether it is Penelope Cruz or Adolf Eichman on the
next
mattress. The refuge is just below the glacier with fantastic
views.
The drive from Bariloche is two and a half hours over
a dirt road
and then there is a 1000 metre climb of about 5 hours
on foot. Isolated as it is, it had a good wine list and they
baked fresh
bread. The cook persuaded me to try his tenderloin pork
with
mushroom sauce at slightly extra cost, which I did. Dinner
was served by candlelight at 9:30; there was music playing
and some
of the young Argentinians started to dance. The dinner
was excellent and when I went to bed a party was starting.
I
am not sure when
the music stopped as I fell asleep. As I lay in the dark
I could see the stars through the window over the glacier
and
hear the
thunder as pieces of glacier dropped over the cliff.
Tomorrow I am hiring a bike for two days and doing a 65 kilometre
circuit of the lakes.”
On his travels, Dad had begun to find places where he could
sit and think of one of his grandchildren. He would then write
to them with a picture and a prayer from that place. Although
he didn’t have time to complete this task, I believe
the sentiment in the following letter is what he would have
wished for every one of his grandchildren – and for everyone
he loved. This comes from a stunning mountain range in Patagonia,
on the 20th of March 2004:
“Dear Rosie,
I stayed here when you were just a few weeks old. In the evening
I walked around the lake and sat on a rock and thought about
you and big brother Jake and Mummy and Daddy. I prayed that
you might know as much love as I have known, have as many opportunities
as I have had, meet as many kind people as I have met and find
the world as beautiful as I have found it. I thought that one
day on your travels you might like to come here and sit on
a rock and find that my prayers for you have all come true.
Love,
Grandpa”
Dad always liked to have his say, so I will leave the last
words to him – words he spoke to me during his final
week in hospital. Even during that last, tough battle, Dad
was brave, gentle and loving and his positive view of life
remained unshaken. From his hospital bed, he looked me in the
eye and said,
First and foremost, Dad was a family man. I have a clear
memory from childhood of seeing the shape of his officer’s cap
through the mottled glass of our front door as he came back from
work, the whistle he gave to let us know he was there and the
great excitement we felt at his return home. When we went on
our summer camping holidays, Dad would be there, at the end of
a long day’s drive, pitching the tent, building a fire,
organising card games, again whistling tunelessly but cheerfully.
As we got older and had our own families, Dad was 
always
there for us, taking an interest in all of our lives. Through
our highs
and our lows, he offered emotional support, computer advice,
gardening tools, tents, books and films. He helped put up
shelves, move furniture, and always made time to play whole-heartedly
with his grandchildren. He accepted our sometimes unconventional
choices with unconditional love. And although we didn’t
always follow his path, he was our compass, he gave us bearings
and a way home. Dad was our true north.
Dad was a soldier. He took immense pride in his Army life.
Dad believed strongly in the importance that the Army placed
on duty
and loyalty and he was particularly concerned for the welfare
of his soldiers. Dad once told Diana that he never had
a dream where he wasn’t in the Army. He looked so very handsome
in his uniform. And it was this handsome man who found himself
at a party one night in Bielefeld, Germany. There he spotted
the most beautiful girl in the room – our Mum, Penny Hughes.
The fact that she happened to be the daughter of a senior officer
didn’t seem to put him off. Within two years Mum and
Dad were married. And as we grew up there was never any doubt
in
our minds how much he loved her.
If there is one word which sums up dad, it is ‘explorer’ – an
explorer of places and an explorer of ideas. He had a huge intellectual
curiosity that took him on a journey from Holyhead Comprehensive,
to an MA in French language and literature at Birbeck College.
He loved literature, thrived on debate and even developed a passion
for obscure art-house films. He traversed the Pyrenees, tackled
South America on his own, and visited the former East Germany,
the Arctic and St Kilda in the Outer Hebrides to name a few.
But he was never just a tourist – he always wanted to understand
and be a part of the culture and country he was visiting. When
we moved to Quebec in Canada, he learnt French. When we moved
to Germany, he learnt German. We never moved to Spain, but that
didn’t stop him learning Spanish as well. He was a
man who was prepared to open his mind, to embrace the world,
and
attempt, with his faith, to understand it.
Dad always liked to have his say, so I will leave the last
words to him – words he spoke to me during his final
week in hospital. Even during that last, tough battle, Dad
was brave, gentle and loving and his positive view of life
remained unshaken. From his hospital bed, he looked me in the
eye and said,