Dad/Trevor/Grandpa: a tribute from his family
Dad's Tribute read by my sister Nicky.
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,
“The world is a beautiful place.”
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,
“The world is a beautiful place.”
