(My maternal Grandfather died recently - this is the reading I gave at his funeral).
Harry was my Grandad. I know he was a lot of things to so many people, but when I was 4 years old, and probably younger, he was my best friend.
Having a friend like that when you’re 4 is probably a more common arrangement than you’d think. Growing up, he was always larger than life. A little bit magical and perhaps with hindsight a lot mischievous.When we visited, he would hide his false teeth down the side of the sofa, just tucked in next to the cushion. I think he was trying to claim his space, but none of us were bothered by the false teeth. I used to ask him to take them out, so I could see it done. Noone else I knew could take their teeth out.
It was when I was about 4 - possibly younger - that he started disappearing with me into the wilds of Ash and Tongham to go and learn about the natural world and our part in it. Off we’d go on his old trusty bike with me perched on a little folding chair he’d attached to the back. He’d take me to watch different creatures - birds, fish, you name it. He knew all the names of all the plants and animals we’d encounter. One time he took me to a nearby quarry to see choughs (not as rude as it sounds) nesting. Quite the spectacle, and years later I learned just how rare a thing it was to see them inland.
By far my most remembered story of this time is the one about the Marsh Orchid. One weekend we visited, and I must have been younger than 5 because I was wearing shorts. He was very excited to tell me about this flower he’d discovered near the fishing lakes - a Marsh Orchid. Incredibly rare. And he was going to take me to see it. So off we went on his bike. Then through the marsh. At age 4 it seemed like an epic quest - we must have been gone for hours. I remember battling through undergrowth and trying my best to keep up, eventually my legs were covered in scratches and cuts as we navigated brambles, stinging nettles and triffids. When we got to our destination I was a bit of a mess, and kind of angry and impatient. I remember him searching about while I waited before he loudly exclaimed “Someone’s gone and bloody picked it!” (sorry). We never did see another Marsh Orchid.
Fishing was undoubtedly Harry’s first love, and I have a feeling more than a few of us have accompanied him on fishing trips over the years. It seems that a lot of our most memorable conversations happened next to a river or a lake, from the right way to attach weights or a float all the way up to the intricacies of accounting. One particularly cold night my Dad and I were treated to a demonstration of the exercises he used to keep warm. I was perhaps not the best fisherman, but it taught me how to sit still and pay attention, even when I’m uncomfortable, and for that I’m grateful.
His love for birds was also notable - after Joan died he replaced all the photos in his living room with different pictures of birds. A wall of birds. I still have flashbacks of the first time I saw it. He was always curious and loved to learn about the wildlife in different places, about how different and yet how similar it all was. One time when our family visited Linda in Switzerland, looking through a wildlife book, he excitedly told us how the Latin names for the birds were the same in German as they were in English.
He also took me to many exciting and educational places. London (for the museums). Guildford (for the museums). Farnham (for… I’m not sure exactly why), but everywhere we went, he would manage to bump into someone he knew. “You don’t remember me, do you? Harry the butcher. You used to come in my shop with your Mum”. It was like an impossible trick - mortifying for a kid, but somehow comforting in its predictability. We could have gone to the moon, and there’d have been someone he remembered from his shop.
And so many shops! He’d worked in butcher’s shops the breadth of the South of England. I’m pretty sure there’s nowhere we visited that he didn’t have a shop at some point.
Butchering was of course a big part of his life. I admit, I’ve never been keen to follow in his footsteps in that respect, but nonetheless he was keen to teach as much as he could about it. To anyone who would listen. Tassja, my wife, is still affected by his lecture the first time she met him about the difference between salt beef and corned beef. No, I don’t remember either, but if anyone fancies re-enlightening me feel free to collar me later and I’ll be sure to pass the lesson on.
Over the years, he seemed to be indestructible. I’ve lost count of the illnesses he’s weathered, and none of it seemed to particularly slow him down. I’m pretty sure he took it on himself to personally get his money’s worth out of the NHS. That he lived to 95 is remarkable in itself.
And so we come to the end. We must all carry and share our stories of Harry as best we can. There’s nothing more I can say to him directly, except perhaps to quote the author Douglas Adams:
Harry, so long, and thanks for all the fish.