Reflections on the art of the eulogy

In the last month this correspondent has had sad family news. Not only did we lose my dearly beloved maternal grandmother but also my wife's sister-in-law. One aged 97 after a long, eventful and rather wonderful life and the other too young, in her fifties, to cancer. I was privileged to be able to give the eulogy address at my grandmother's funeral. Herewith in memoriam to Grandma, Joan Elsie Blair, nee Haines:

Joan Elsie Blair – Little Haines / Big Joan
‘A Talent to Amuse’

" Joan Elsie Blair (nee Haines) – wife of Hugh Dickie Blair, mother to Sally, Juliet and Meg; mother-in-law to Anthony and Eliot, grandmother to Claire, William, Madeleine, Richard, Charles, Tom, Jess and Sam; great-grandmother to Daniel, Charlotte and Tom, and adopted Grandma to her ‘beautiful’ Karolina and steadfast Magdalena – long-time companions at 165 Lake Road West or ‘international house’ as it became known in recent years. She had many roles, played many parts. She touched many people’s lives in her 97 years upon this earth, whether you knew her as Grandma, Joan, Mummy or Mrs Blair. She encouraged, advised, occasionally cajoled, and often-times persuaded. She could also be provocative and at times a little acerbic - I sometimes teased her about going into ‘Little Haines’ mode – the nickname she was given by a jolly hockeysticks gym mistress at her boarding school in Southport. Her patience, kindness, forbearance, courage, humour and great sense of fun was inspiring. She was a guiding star twinkling and shining - leading by example. Grandma once told me that the central priorities in her life with Grandpa were other people, the children and only then themselves. In this way her focus on other people’s welfare was an animating feature in the way she lived her life. Indeed as the song (It’s a Lovely Holiday) from one of her favourite films – Mary Poppins – has it “forbearance was the hallmark of her creed” and this is neatly summed up in one of her favourite phrases – “ oh well, don’t worry, it can’t be helped “. And through this interest in others she was that rarest of breeds – a life-enhancer. She had a natural spontaneous gift for building up confidence in whomsoever she met. She found the positive aspect of a personality or a character trait or a person’s point of view and highlighted it. She quite simply made people feel good about themselves – she truly enhanced their lives. As Susan Caree-Roberts, daughter of Grandma’s great friend Margaret Roberts, has put it in a card: “ who could forget that little figure, thatch of white hair, advancing resolutely along the pavement towards the chosen goal – to the shops, to visit a neighbour, to Church: what will they do now for a guardian angel in Lake Road West? “

And I have been the recipient of this loving bounty all my life: as a boy who often felt awkward, with a tendency to fall over his shoelaces and burdened with a speech difficulty, it was Grandma who sent me to elocution lessons to build up speaking confidence, nurturing a love of literature, theatre and performance in the process. [And when in recent times a hearing problem was diagnosed it was Grandma who enabled its treatment]. She used to say by way of encouragement “but darling, for someone who walked late and talked even later you are doing well”. And these comments were not confined to her immediate relations. On meeting my wife’s grown-up son and daughter Grandma declared “Karen my dear, I am very pleased with your children”. We felt we had received the Grandma Blair benediction. We all have similar stories.

Grandma was always ready for a trip. I had occasion to go with her to the London opera starring one of our favourite singers, Lesley Garrett, in The Barber of Seville. At this point she was a mere spring chicken in her late 80s. We went up on the train to Paddington (in past times it would have been the theatre train). She joked with the taxi-driver about her forebears hung at Tyburn as we passed Marble Arch and casually mentioned her family relation to Sir Christopher Wren. We arrived at the ENO as the curtain went up after negotiating a long flight of stairs to the upper circle. We of course had seats in the middle of the row. The usual ‘excuse mes’ led to po-faced audience tut-tutting. Grandma’s indignant response delivered in a commanding voice that she thought was a whisper reverberated around the auditorium “well we don’t get this sort of reception in Wales you know! “. I had learnt at Grandma’s knee to be nonchalant in the face of embarrassment. The girl of the 1930s London theatre, who met her future husband through friendship with his cousin Tana , was always full of praise for her adopted homeland – Joan Elsie Blair was a Cardiffian for 50 years. Grandma passed on her love of music and theatre to all of us. I was lucky enough to go with her to many shows – she was a generous audience and a sympathetic appreciater of other’s artistic efforts.

Grandma’s professional singing career coincided with that of the Noel Coward era and she appreciated his sense of humour and sometimes bittersweet lyrics. One of his songs, to my mind, will forever remind us of her. It for me expresses her optimistic hope that all shall be well at the last (and we shall all meet again)

I’ll See You Again / Whenever Spring breaks through Again /
Time May lie heavy between / But what has been is past forgetting
Your Sweet Memory / Throughout my life will come to me
Though the World may go awry / In my heart will ever lie
Just the echo of a sigh / Goodbye…..

Grandma, Joan Elsie Blair nee Haines, God-speed. We shall miss you "

We said goodbye to another remarkable woman called Joan this year - Joan Smith. She served as the right hand to my father in the family law firm over four decades, and had known my father for nearly 50 years and my siblings and I all of our lives. She worked right up till her death, in her eighties, still serving her clients whilst battling with cancer. My father spoke movingly about his old friend at her funeral, reproduced below, capturing her for those who knew, worked with and admired a devoted servant of humanity:

Joan Smith – an appreciation

Taken from the eulogy given by Anthony W Jeremy at the funeral service, Thornhill Crematorium, 2pm Monday 14 July 2008

" As we sorrow for our loss, it seemed to Marie and the Minister right that I should say something of Joan’s professional life, although she was of course not merely my colleague but effectively a member of my family – one of my oldest friends. So let us reflect on the qualities which inspired such respect from the profession and affection from literally hundreds of clients whom she served in the course of a long and successful career.

Many practitioners in the law are appreciated for their efficiency, skills and dedication to their work, but few are so highly valued and esteemed by clients and indeed professional colleagues as was Joan. Why was that?

Well firstly, she had an unswerving professional commitment which I encountered early on as a raw recruit, fresh from the leisurely pace of University life. In the firm which I joined as a raw recruit, Joan was briefed to monitor the often wayward activities of the law students grappling with the urgencies of legal practice. Her no-nonsense, disciplined and sharply focused approach to us made a memorable impact, not unlike experiencing the close attentions of a sergeant major on entering military service. I hasten to add Joan was much gentler, but equally firm. We learned fast and never forgot.

Some years later, when we formed our own firm, my then partner and I counted ourselves extremely fortunate when she joined us. Joan was to prove a pillar of my practice for over 40 years. Her importance to the firm cannot be exaggerated. My work as a civil court practitioner took me away for long periods. Aggregated over the whole of our association these absences amounted to literally years, and in all that time Joan was the proverbial rock in all crises. A steady, calm voice in a sea of troubles she always responded to the challenges with impeccable judgement. She had a rare ability to analyze complex facts with an insight into the essential relevant considerations – a gift which was most evident in her cases of family disputes and matrimonial litigation. To those caught up in the highly charged emotional maelstrom of marriage breakdown, Joan brought wise counsel, clarity of thought and powerful support. Her uncompromising professionalism was respected throughout the legal fraternity by a garland of friends and acquaintances – legal executives, solicitors, barristers and judges – and was recognised in her appointment as one of the fist Fellows of the Institute of Legal Executives. In the affairs of the Institute she played a prominent part in its growth throughout South Wales. Joan was especially concerned to encourage and inspire new entrants, particularly young students.

But what set her apart was that she gave herself to her clients without restraint and without reserve, placing her counsel, experience and skills at their service, often at the cost of personal sacrifice. This she did right to the end of her working life. Only a few weeks ago, at the height of what we now know to be her last illness, Joan was applying herself to clients’ matters and the protection of their interests in spite of considerable discomfort and pain. It has been said that ‘ when you give of yourself you truly give ’ and Joan proved the truth of that proverb to the full.

That dedication was motivated by her compassion for others, a compassion inspired by the ideals and teachings of her Faith. In the chances and changes of life, in times of misfortune, trauma, distress and uncertainty, clients found in Joan not merely someone with whom they could share their pain and problems, but a source of strength, comfort and true understanding – a light in their darkness to set them on their way. That is why so many clients came to regard her not as a legal adviser but as a loyal friend, and many of those friendships have lasted to this day.

And now in this hour of separation, everything which we loved and admired in Joan will become clearer – to us irreplaceable. We shall miss her humour, her wisdom, her commitment and concern for clients. And yet what we miss is in reality her legacy to us. What Joan has left behind is more than a record of professional success but an incomparable example of selfless devotion to others. Those of us who were fortunate enough to know her as clients or colleagues will never forget her. Your presence today is the most eloquent testimony to the admiration and love in which she was held.

I am reminded of Shakespeare’s Sonnets:

‘ When to the sessions of sweet silent thoughts I summon up remembrance of things past
Then can I drown an eye unused to flow for precious friends hid in death’s dateless night
But the while I think on thee dear friend all losses are restored and sorrows end’

And so, although we say farewell to Joan with tears, we shall always think on her with happiness and gratitude for her life of true humanity and service to others.

May she rest in peace "

In penning my thoughts about my grandmother I was much inspired by a number of eulogies written by various members of the family and friends. The art is to capture the person both for those who knew the person well and for those who knew them little or not all - to 'capture' the life lived for all there, and sometimes for those not present to read in print. Herewith two more.

My uncle Eliot wrote and presented the eulogy for his father Winston. As can be appreciated by the reading, they don't make them like him anymore - if they ever did in the first place:


" Winston, we shall miss you.

You were an unusual man. We all respected your wisdom and advice, even if sometimes we found it hard to follow. You were usually right.

You were a man full of surprises. None of us knew until recently the degree to which you had worked with British Intelligence for many years both before and after the last war. We knew you had something to do with camouflage but little more than that. That your department was “concealment, deception and counter measures” sounds quite dramatic, but not half so dramatic as going to Spain as a spy during the Spanish Civil War to study the effects of bombing and meeting Franco, then a Colonel, in passing.

You came from a simple and very poor background, your father was a butcher and your mother a nurse who rose to become a matron.

You and your brothers were bright. Raymond in particular was a brilliant draughtsman. This was recognised and a wealthy patron by the name of Alex Keighly supported you and Raymond financially through higher education firstly to Leeds School of Architecture and then by scholarship to the Architectural Association in London. At the AA you met a fellow student, Kitty Holman, of Scottish and Norwegian extraction. You married her and had a son, David. Tragically, she died in childbirth.

By 1936, you were in Spain and there you met an extraordinary English colonel by the name of Wintle, who eventually became Secretary for Air. It was through him that gradually your career moved from architecture to military matters. Your architectural interest in the design of aerodromes was recognised by the Air Ministry and you were sent to Germany to study the aerodromes being secretly built there. You bought back news of the autobahns being designed as runways and the secret hangers being built in woods nearby, and of the extensive ‘gliding clubs’ which were a thinly disguised basis for a developing airforce.

Back in England, you were put in charge of the ‘L’ expansion scheme, which was semi-secret as it fell outside the Geneva Convention, to develop our own airfields in case of war. The success of this scheme was the key to winning the Battle of Britain as without airfields we would not have been able to defend ourselves when war came.

You started to specialise in camouflage and flew thousands of hours studying different treatments and disguises from the air. At some point in time you had worked in the film industry as an art director making three very bad ‘B’ movies. But you used your experience of film set design to create false buildings, shadows and ‘street lighting’, even mock towns and cities during the War. The success of one of these outside Cardiff can be seen today. Bomb craters are still visible where German bombers dropped their loads on what they thought were the docks, but were in fact only lights and tin foil.

During the war you had married an actress, Everley Gregg, but the marriage was not a success. Immediately, after the war you met Maryel, also an architect who had studied at the AA, and you had a son, Eliot, followed by a daughter, Louise.

For a period you were head of the Hammersmith School of Architecture and then moved to teach at the AA. There, your anti Communist views were not popular but with your background understandable so you went to work in the offices of T P Bennet, a well-known commercial architect.

Once again you received a call, this time from the Admiralty where you secretly worked on a study of the outlying reaches of the Empire to see if they were defendable or should be given up. To your amusement, when you called up the files they were the same ones you had worked on during the War, and had been untouched since. Your conclusion that defense was impractical was as ever logical and pragmatic.

On the death of Maryel’s mother you moved to Cleavers and lived there for almost forty years. After a spell with Howard Hicks in Stratford on Avon you returned to teaching architecture and had many happy years with the students at the Leicester School of Architecture.

You helped start the Stratford Society and were the scourge of planners everywhere. You found time to take a degree in Urban Conservation and used your experience gained as a Planning Inspector to pursue the Stratford Council in ever more ludicrous and complex planning applications. This I suspect you did for your own amusement as much as anything else. You always had a hatred of blind bureaucracy and were a great defender of the individual’s rights against monolithic government and the nanny state.

I have not mentioned your friendship with the De Havilland family or your friendship with Basil Winham, at that time Charlwood Alliance, but subsequently to become a main board director of P & O. You seem to have crammed so many things into your life that it is hard to keep track of them all.

Perhaps it is the ease with which you made great friendships and sometime great enemies that was both your strength and weakness. Your blunt speaking was not always welcome but you were afraid of nothing and always had a sense of justice and a love of freedom.

I hope you are now free to pursue all the things you loved in life because we shall miss you now you are gone.

You were an unusual man and we loved you very much "

Some years ago I went with my cousin and his family to the funeral of a lifelong friend of his and fellow pilot. Jeremy's friend had died too early from cancer and his funeral took place in a small, ancient Oxfordshire Church. The friend remembered, Chris Cowper, and my cousin had been comrades since joining British Airways together after service in the RAF. This address also captures the life and the friendship between them shines through:

"Chris Cowper 1936 - 2005

Chris died just over a week ago, early in the morning on Thursday 15th Sept. perhaps appropriately, in view of his aviation career, it was Battle of Britain commemoration day. He was diagnosed with prostate cancer in November 2003 and had, initially, a long period of containment. He could even play golf during this time. However in the past few months there were increasing difficulties, culminating in a sudden inability to walk or use his legs at all. Tests and treatment followed for 2 weeks at the Churchill hospital in Oxford but it was realised that this condition could not be reversed. Chris wanted to come home and not stay in hospital or go to a hospice. Judy, calmly, methodically, and efficiently took on the role of organising all that this entailed, a hospital style bed downstairs in the dining room, a wheelchair, a commode, and crucially a range of support services, nurses and carers. Chris was fortunate to die at home, where he wanted to be, surrounded by his family in familiar, friendly environment, listening to and watching the recent memorable cricket Test matches. His death was comfortable and peaceful at the last. The support Chris received, not only from Judy, Marcus, Jamie and Claire, but also absolutely crucially, from the health services, was wonderful. Chris had great trust in the medical services, the GP, the Health Centre, District nurses, the specialist cancer consultants and services, the hospitals at Stoke Mandeville and Churchill in Oxford, the carers, the Macmillan Nurses and finally the Marie Curie support from the Florence Nightingdale. They were all caring, amazing and first rate. This is a tribute to them all. Thank you.

Chris has died too soon, much, much too soon but we can celebrate his life because he regarded himself as a fortunate man. He had a good innings. He was not a man given to introspection but, a few months ago, said to me that if he had to go he had enjoyed a good life and could not complain. That good life included a close knit family, Judy his wife of 44 years and his three children. I know that he was thrilled to have a grandchild, Daisy, He had her picture as the wallpaper on his computer. In his chosen career, he was also highly successful as a pilot, firstly in the RAF as a fast jet pilot for 9 years and then as a commercial pilot mainly with British Airways for 27 years and subsequently with smaller charter companies. Chris loved flying, it was his career, vocation and hobby. He wondered that he was being paid for doing something he loved so much. His aviation interest and knowledge were encyclopaedic. His aircraft recognition was phenomenal; he could identify an aircraft from the smallest dot in the sky.

So where and when did this enthusiasm arise. Born in 1936, an only child, his Dad was a tea broker and after school at Canterbury- an experience which I think he enjoyed but in which he claims to have been rather undistinguished- he was destined to follow his Father into tea. But Chris’s interests were already in aviation. He was a modelmaker and apparently an avid reader of aviation magazines. He applied and was successful in obtaining a short service commission to become a pilot in the RAF. On 8th October 1954 Officer training started at Kirton in Lindsey, in where he met his oldest and firmest friend John Cray and his future best man at his wedding, Tony Netherton, both here today. Flying training at Ternhill, on the Provost and Oakington on the Vampire culminated in the award of the coveted wings in 1956 and a posting to the Hawker Hunter, the premier fighter aircraft of its day. These were the days of the cold war and Chris, John and Tony all went to the Second Tactical Air Force in Germany. Chris was with 26 Squadron, followed by 14 Squadron. Apart from the flying this appears to have been a giant never ending party experience in a Germany going through its miraculous economic recovery from the war.

After 3 years in Germany he was fortunate to get a second flying tour as they were called- this time on the twin engined, two crew, delta wing fighter, the Javelin. The fortune, one might say, was short lived as, on one of his early flights at the OCU, he suffered an engine fire, closely followed by a second engine fire, the inevitable conclusion of which is to leave the aircraft, so both he and his navigator ejected, as it is called and descended by parachute. This made him a member of the distinguished club ‘the caterpillar club’, reserved for those who had been compelled to parachute from an aircraft. Chris, typically never made a meal of this very rare experience. Apparently he did say the burning aircraft wreck had ‘set Lord Bolton’s grouse moor on fire and it would burn till Christmas’ but he was, as always, very self effacing about what must have been a terrifying and unique experience. Tony Netherton played golf with Chris shortly after this incident. Chris casually mentioned, between shots, that he had bailed out. There was no aggrandisement; typical Chris; most people would have dined out on this for ever. He did, however, injure his spine in the ejection and spent some time at the famous rehabilitation centre at Headley Court. This spinal injury occasionally caused some pain in subsequent years and latterly he thought this was the cause of his back pain which eventually, tragically, transpired to be the developing prostate cancer.

Chris spent a further 3 years flying the Javelin on 25 Squadron. Somehow he found the time, before the Javelin course, to woo Judy, a neighbour from home, (how he got such a fantastic girl is beyond me) and they married, with Tony Netherton as best man on, 9th. September 1961. They moved to RAF Leuchars, St Andrews. For the first 6 months of his time there Chris was on detachment in Cyprus. I doubt whether this was part of the bargain for Judy!

And so after 9 years in the RAF Chris left to join British European Airways on the Vickers Viscount. It is here that I met him We were on the same course starting 2 days before president Kennedy was assassinated (so we know where we were—probably being taught Viscount electrics at the BEA Heston Training centre). From the every first I knew Chris as very special. What is the touchstone of friendship? I don’t know but we, quite different in temperament, hit it off. This character had the ability or knack of defusing a tricky or difficult situation by making it funny. He didn’t tell jokes but, as we all know, was the ultimate master of the pun. Chris could make a pun out of any statement. Yes we all groaned but we laughed as we groaned and then we prepared to groan and laugh again as pun followed pun. It was great fun, sometimes culminating in side splitting, uncontrolled fits of laughter. Tony Netherton reminded me that Chris would make the pun, stare at you waiting for recognition and then tell another one. We will all miss that.

Chris was an excellent civil pilot. We know that because he came out ahead of all of us on the course and consequently above us all on the infamous seniority list which governs life in the realms of civil aviation. He was also a wonderful crew member; a pilot everyone liked to fly with - and not all outstanding pilots make good members of a crew.

He flew the Viscount and Trident as co-pilot and the Viscount, Vanguard, Trident and Boeing 757, on its introduction to British Airways, as Captain. I remember he was interviewed for a position as a Route Check captain. I asked him how it had gone. He replied he didn’t know but he had made the panel laugh – typical Chris. He was offered the job but the aircraft was withdrawn from service before he could take it up.

So at age 55 in BA, all good things come to an end and one is compelled to leave. Chris flew the 757 with a number of charter airlines, realising what we had all suspected, that BA had been an excellent outfit to work for. Finally he became less than satisfied about some of the safety issues in one operator and he retired, aged 61, in January 1997. His last pilots log book entry simply says ‘Finis’.

So that is the career. He came home to the Old Parsonage, Nether Winchendon , the family home of 21 years after many happy years in the delights of Bryn Cottage, Speen which became too small for the brood, at one time 3 children under 2. Chris had spent a lot of time away from home both in the RAF and in civil flying. Nonetheless he had a strong family and a vast range of interests. These were mostly centred around things which move, mainly with wheels. Aeroplanes, cars, motor bikes, trains, cycles, and, without wheels, canal boats. Chris knew all there was to know on these subjects. And he and Judy also had, at one time, a mini sail. Interest diverged to birds, feathered which also move a bit. Rather like his aircraft recognition skills, Chris took pride in his bird recognition.

He had a combined interest in choral music and churches and cathedrals. Living near Oxford, he and Judy went to the beautiful college chapels to hear glorious choral music.
They also visited the great cathedrals of England and France There was also an interest in Jazz. We all did a course together on art appreciation in Oxford. Chris was very proud of and supported Judy as her sculpturing talents developed.

So what manner of man is emerging? Well, like most of us, a patch work quilt. A family man of absolute integrity, he had a wide circle of acquaintances but was content with a few friends and very happy in his own company, sometimes solitary, even reclusive, doing his own thing, perhaps establishing his amazing model railway system. He did not like large crowds and avoided London, except for a specific occasions; a traditionalist and conservative; rather old fashioned in clothing. I would tease him about his ‘demob suit’ and his panama hat – perhaps it was a Noel Coward influence. I think he thought Armani was some far away Eastern European Republic. He was offended by the word ‘toilet’ it was ‘lavatory’ and certainly some humour was distinctly lavatorial. I have been reminded by Tony Smith of what is, loosely, a golfing story. For many years I didn’t know that Chris played golf. During his working years he, apparently, played occasionally in Scotland, having learnt, to some extent, the game in his youth. On retirement, golf became more important and a source of pleasure, especially to those playing with him. Chris would turn up, immaculately dressed in knickerbockers, polished shoes and shirt and tie (I think he must have worn a tie with his pyjamas). Chris’s golf was pretty erratic, sometimes lousy, but not as bad as mine. On one occasion he hit a diabolical shot; ‘S…T’ was loudly broadcast down the fairway closely followed by the response ‘said the king and 10,000 courtiers struggled and heaved to his command’. We were in stitches only to be brought up short by the admonition of other, more serious, golfers for our excessive noise and hilarity. This was decidedly a reversion to childhood but we revelled in it. There was something of PG Wodehouse in this upright Englishman, (he liked ‘spotted dick’ for pudding), a fantastic sense of humour and a natural clown. Yet Chris could be quite radical in opinion and had firm, diverse and controversial (to me) views on national and world events which he would argue with conviction. He had great interest in books, especially military history as well as anything on transport, aviation, railways, cars, Etc. He would like to find the reference for anything of interest. He was very keen on maps, but I became less enthusiastic about his map reading skills after a jaunt in the Lake District when with supreme confidence, he got us lost. John reminded me that, at Marcus and Jo’s wedding, Chris decided to drive the ‘pretty route’ from hotel to church. We all dutifully followed to be led up an increasingly narrow lane going nowhere. Lots of manoeuvring was required. We just made the church on time!

Chris was very good with words. He wrote a fantastic account of a joint holiday we enjoyed in Kenya in the early 1970’s. Very recently, only a few months ago, he wrote a letter to the Log, the journal of BALPA, on the Hawker Siddely Trident aircraft. This was a fascinating, detailed, historical, account of the aircraft and its characteristics. This article, I am delighted to say, was published as a two page spread in the Log which arrived last month. Chris was thrilled. It is a lasting, worthy, tribute to his aviation knowledge and skilled writing.

He was most amusing, good company, usually easy going but sometimes he would grab hold of some idea and worry it to death. He was far too modest. He certainly undersold himself and his abilities. He was unnecessarily self- effacing, sometimes deliberately playing the fool, as a mask. He was as straight as a die. He was much more sensitive and caring than is perhaps recognised. He was not into possessions. He liked the ‘wireless’ as he called it, especially radio 4. He was always true to himself and his beliefs. He was very fortunate in his chosen professional and private life. He had many hobbies and was happy in his leisure time.

I would like to conclude with a quote from John Cray: ‘Chris had a love of the countryside, particularly the remote areas and of course the wild life, particularly birds. He loved old buildings and, probably influenced by his schooldays in Canterbury, the churches and, cathedrals and though he did not sing well or play an instrument, he was very keen on jazz and very much taken with early English church music, Tallis, Byrd etc. and would listen to choral evensong on the radio or attend evensong if the opportunity occurred. He was a very balanced man. He loved and was very proud of his family and the achievements and skills of all of them. The focus of his life had been flying backed up by his keen interest in all things mechanical and powered. But his interest in, and knowledge of, the arts and also of the countryside and its natural history was also part of the character of an intelligent, thoughtful, loyal man. A friend of more than 50 years’

So Chris has gone, leaving his close family Judy, Jamie, Marcus, and Claire, his wider family and his friends to mourn but above all to remember with pleasure and gratitude what Chris has given to us.

“The rest is silence” "

Rest in peace all.

September songs and island dreams

As September breaks and the dreaded back-to-school type feeling descends, something which afflicts the British and possibly the Anglo-Saxon world in a particular way, thoughts turn to times not-so-long past when early September found this particular correspondent-blogger in the Mediterranean, on an island off the coast of Italy to be more precise and on Ventotene to be even more accurate.....

If the discerning traveller was to take a train from Rome southwards they would eventually arrive at the coastal town of Formia. If the same traveller was so inclined, he or she could take a boat ferry or hydrofoil (a sort of cross between a hovercraft and a jet-propelled passenger boat) to the island of Venotene. Not as well known or as glamorous by reputation as Capri, although the island made famous to postwar Britons by Gracie Fields is not far away across the water, it is where a certain Altiero Spinelli was exiled by Mussolinni's fascist regime during the Second World War. Altiero Spinelli is honoured by the Italian federalist movement as its founding father and also as a pioneering thinker-politician behind the development of the European Communities. Spinelli's work influenced the architects and guiding spirits of those who built the institutions that were to grow into the European Union. Whilst imprisoned on the island he wrote the Venotote Manifesto which promoted the idea of a federal Europe and developed the federalist political philosophy. There is an institute - the Spinelli Institute - which exists to further his work and every year holds a conference on federalism to discuss, debate and celebrate his achievements.

The international young Europeans known as Jef, send members to participate in these conferences and the week-long seminars which form a part of the ongoing work of this international organisation. It is a conference like no other: a mixture of lectures and workshops, beach afternoons and the sublime food and drink that Italy offers in her unique way. Evenings are spent carousing under the stars and weighty matters debated and such as the committe membership of the European Parliament and the extension of qualified marjority voting in EU decision-making. There is also a lot of music to go with the wine...

45 years after Luther King the dream is still alive.....

For once it is not hyperbole to use the word 'historic'. Forty-five years after Martin Luther King delivered his impassioned speech - that resonated around the world and became known by the short-hand I Have a Dream - in front of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, a young African-American has stepped on a stage at a football stadium in Denver Colorado and accepted the nomination of the Democratic Party to run for the Presidency of the United States. Barack Obama, of Kansas and Kenyan parentage, has lived the American ideal and embodies the dream itself - that anything is possible in America with hard work, belief and opportunity. A young, articulate, idealistic, mellifluous, brilliant black man has a chance of becoming the next President of the United States of America. He has risen from community organiser in the South Side of Chicago to the first African-American chair of the prestigious and influential Harvard Law Review and via a stint at the Illinois State legislature to be elected junior Senator for the State of Illinois in the US Congress. This man, who grew up in difficult circumstances with an absent father and a mother faced with major economic and social challenges with the family moving from Indonesia to Hawaii and grandparents having a major input into his upbringing, emobodies what is possible in America.

Politically he represents change from the Bush era and the old, exhausted, bankrupt non-solutions to the problems of the US and the world. Biographically, his is the story that the American elecrorate may wish to have reflected back at them to show them and the world at their best. One of the themes of Obama's book Dreams From My Father, which chronicles his early life and struggles, is that the problems encountered along the way - racial and other prejudice - are not about him and him alone: 'it is not just about you' resounds through the book. And on that platform in Denver Obama echoed that message as he told his audience - both in and outside the stadium - that in the end his candidacy is about them and not him. If they have a vision of themselves reflected in him, he could occupy the White House in 2009. In framing who they are, Americans often re-visit the words of the founding fathers of the Republic as laid down in the Constitution - we hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are made by their Creator equal......and certain inalienable rights among them life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness... What a manifesto for change. In the words of the Obama team - yes he can.

From Scarborough to Salcombe - a Summer tour

In the last fortnight or so a Summer's journey has taken in Yorkshire, Kent and Devon and counties in between. The first weekend in August saw my wife and I heading for Yorkshire to visit her parents in Withernsea, outside Hull. Withernsea is a seaside resort out on the East Ridings and journeying to it feels a little like voyaging across a land-sea of endless flat fields comprising some of the the most arable farming land in the county, England and the UK. The landmark that heralds our destination is a tall white structure visible from some miles off. Known as the Kay Kendall lighthouse it is named after the town's most famous daughter - the actress Kay Kendall, star of films such as Genevieve (with Kenneth More, Michael Redgrave and and once married to Rex Harrison, star of stage and screen with appearances of varying quality from the incomparable My Fair Lady through to the less illustriuos Dr Doolittle to wonderful, almost half-forgotten, gems such as The Yellow Rolls Royce (also starring Omar Sharif). It was said that Kay Kendall was the love of the much-married Rex Harrison's life and when she died young of leukemia he was inconsolable. In a way it is fitting that this vivacious woman who managed to shine a light into the heart of a gifted but in many ways impossible man, should be remembered in her home town by a lighthouse however landlocked. Needless to say it is only open on high days and holidays in the season when the moon turns into a balloon (as observed by her friend and fellow actor David Niven).

Another Yorkshire seaside town with artistic connections is Scarborough. A cross-country drive into North Yorkshire via Bridlington and Filey brings a motoring party to this Victorian pleasure site. Like many such towns of its era it boasts an esplanade, a pier and a grand hotel as well as two beaches complete with promenades. It also has two theatres and a link with the playwright Alan Ayckbourn, whose plays were first performed in the theatre which is named after him - The Theatre in the Round. It was thus the citizens and holidaymakers of Scarborough that were first treated to such modern classics as Absurd Person Singular, The Norman Conquests, Absent Friends and Bedroom Farce . If the works passed the 'Scarborough test' they were ready for the rest of the world - in this way the people of Yorkshire were the literary and artistic arbiters of modern theatrical tastes and trends for where Ayckbourn has trod others have followed.

After such heady artistic pursuits, the traditional beach-side ice-cream experience was deferred for the farmgate produce of Mr Moos, where the challenge is the consumption of what seems to be the largest plateful of chocolate chip-vanilla ice-cream with cookie biscuit base this side of the Yorskhire Dales.

Another county with plenty of agricultural produce is, of course, Devon which is where we ventured post Yorkshire. After a brief administrative stop-over in Kent (Garden of England where the strawberries are boasted of as the best in the UK if not Europe) involving government agencies and paperwork, the caravan rolled southwestwards via the old road connecting South East to South West known to all familiar to it as the A303. Almost a parallel route to that of the Western M4, the traveller passes through counties such as Hampshire, Wiltshire and Dorset before crossing into that deceptively large expanse of south-west countryside known as Somerset. Villages with evocative names abound on this route, including that of Norton-sub-Hampden - for those with political interests it is the place from which Paddy Ashdown the politician (former Leader of the Liberal Democrats) and international civil servant (UN High Representative to Bosnia) takes his title - Lord Ashdown of Norton-sub-Hampden. By sheer chance, when we were sojourning in Devon, the eponymous Paddy A appeared on an edition of the Radio 4 Any Questions programme, which was broadcast from that same village. Once famed for being the only MP to be able to kill with his bare hands - a product of his training as a marine commando - the admirable Paddy still cuts a dash on the stage of public life, where he is noticeably reticent about giving any advice to his successors in the Liberal Democrats. He seems to have taken the advice first attributed to ex-President Harry Truman when counselling others after leaving high office in relation to their successors not to 'talk to the Captain or spit on the floor'. His closing speech to the Party Conference when he retired from the leadership was a masterclass of its kind, ending with the valedictory "and may God continue to hold you in the hollow of his hand". His is a class act in many ways which has developed in adversity as well as truimph since the day he inherited a party, over 20 years ago, that was close to bankrupt. Not that it gets any easier to be a Liberal Democrat when adherents often have to hold simultaneously to two completely contradictory beliefs - and are often hampered by this during election time....or at least are obliged to tell one story at one end of the country and another at the other.

A little like this post, the road eventually leads to Exeter - Devonian market town with a well-regarded University which this correspondent attended in what seems like the increasingly receding years of the late 1980s to early 90s. Follow it south from Exeter and onto what is known as the Devon Expressway which sweeps down the peninsula towards Plymouth, eventually arriving at Ivybridge and Lee Mill, home to my wife's daughter and her Devonian-born boyfriend. Which is how we ended up at Salcombe, for he lived in that fair seaside town which attracts the glamorous and the well-upholstered together with the surfers and boaters of all kinds, urban and sea-prone, townies and locals alike. All this as well as the delights of a visit to the newly revamped harbour area of Plymouth called the Barbican, where we sat and watched as the drama inherent in any activity involving a TV film crew unfolded before us - notwithstanding that what was being filmed rejoiced under the title Come Dine With Me - a day-time cooking show of the variety ubiquitous to the small screen, or idiot's lantern as they call it in some parts. Not far from where we sat, the spirit of Sir Walter Raleigh relives his famous game of bowls upon the Plymouth Hoe - scene of one of the most celebrated pieces of sang-froid of all history: the Spanish Armada was hoving into view carrying the invasion forces of England's rival power and the good sailor and hero of the hour (as the history has it) insisted on finishing his game of bowls before joining with, and ultimately defeating, the Spanish foe. The same chap who cast his coat down in front of his sovereign, Elizabeth I so as to save her dress from a puddle. A hero for history in a long line of naval heroes. Plymouth is an appropriate setting for all this drama - the port of Devonport providing the raw material of the naval power that enabled Brittannia to literally 'rule the waves' from Tudor times to the end of the Second World War. A panolpy of naval heroes echo down through the ages from Raleigh onwards including Nelson as well as all those yachtsmen. Few, perhaps, quite as quixotic as Walter. Could be the effect of the salty air combined with the clotted cream......

An Anniversary Outing

The end of July saw this correspondent and his wife celebrating a wedding anniversary on London's South Bank.  Having investigated West End theatrical offerings we opted for the wider spaces and promenading opportunities provided in and around the National Theatre.  One can sit and sample the delights of the passing parade - the comings and goings of late afternoon and early-evening Londoners together with the musical performances in the precints of the National Theatre make wonderful entertainment for theatre goers and promenaders alike.  For all the past talk of architectural 'carbuncles', by heirs with airs, the South Bank is a space in the heart of London to be cherished - it is a space on a human scale and facilitates a democratic meeting point for strollers, culture vultures, city workers and artists alike. In a way, the play we saw echoed the theme of people, life and art.  

The brilliant polymath playwright Michael Frayn's virtuoso portrait of the life of  German theatrical impresario Max Reinhardt, Afterlife,  was a joy.  Set in Austria in the years leading up to the rise of the Nazis, it follows the career of one of the century's most flamboyant and contradictory theatrical luminaries.  The play is a kind of literary dissertation on the themes of life, art, mortality and legacy as seen through the Miracle Plays which Rheinhardt staged at the Salzburg Festival.  The premise of these plays had at its centre the figure of Everyman - the universal character beloved of artists from time immemorial to denote humanity in its entirety and in its particularity.  Everyman has his time, as Shakespeare has it,  'to strut and fret his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more' and then has to account for his deeds on earth to the Almighty.  Rheinhardt was much preoccupied with breaking down the barriers between what went on in everyday life and what went on on stage, and talked of the 'frontier' between art and life.  Frayn brings these themes to life through devices such as blank and rhyming verse - the characters on stage suddenly burst into passages of poetry.  The story of Rheinhardt's complicated artistic, personal and political life is told with wit, panache and verve but is also profound and serious in intent.  In amongst the stage antics, clever theatrical jokes and visual allusions, the deeply philosophical message of the play is never far from the surface - time waits for no man and death comes whispering 'Everyman' to every man.

First world war battlefield trip, Northern France

In the spring of 1985 school boys trying to take in the awe and majesty of the Menin gate and the uinimaginable horror of the Western Front. Visits to the trenches and the war graves in the vast cemetries: Ypres; Passchendaele; the Somme; miles and miles of trench snaking way through the countryside- scenes of mud, shell, barbed wire and bodies now overlain with grassy banks and flowers. The flat country of Northern France and Belgium as the scene of the slaughter.


Subsequent years have brought an apprecication of the art that tried to describe such horror - poetry, songs, the brilliant O What a Lovely War, the books of Sebastian Faulks, the moving TV series on the monuments to the dead all over Britain, presented by Ian Hislop.

Summer thoughts of past adventures

In a memorable edition of the Radio 4 personal essay series 'A Point of View', the writer and critic Clive James recounted his battles to give up smoking and how he eventually learned to 'smoke the memory'. Whenever he feels like a cigarette or small cigar he recalls the sensations, the feelings and associated pleasures of the actual act of lighting up, inhaling and exhaling. This helps him both to remember the pleasure and not to recreate it in actuality.

It feels a little like that as we do not contemplate venturing abroad this Summer. Instead of preparing to head off to foreign clime I shall try and recall past trips - to 'travel the memory'. What does the poet say about "summoning up things past, what do I recall?". The first venture starts in the mid-1980s and a school trip to the First World War battlefields of Northern France and Belgium, the latest a wedding anniversary trip to Paris. The travelogue will follow a haphazard, but one hopes interesting path. These are the wanderings of the Oldest Trainee...