17 March 2024

In Memoriam, Berkhamsted and others.....

Burp Hampster




[Before I proceed I should explain that "Burp Hamster" was the name of the place our daughters decided their Grannie and Grandad lived - aka Berkhamsted]


At lunch I am sitting next to someone who is supposed to be dead..... (there is a lot of it about, Ed).  This person has clearly been Mark Twained (The report of my death was an exaggeration).

The curious thing is that I was in Berkhamsted to pay my respects to a dead man - but it wasn't this one. Suffice it to say that my companion was something of a misprint (in The Old Berkhamstedian magazine.....)




The real object of the obsequies actually died last year, and I appended a brief tribute to him on my post Snettisham Today (https://www.richardpgibbs.org/2023/06/snettisham-today.html) but this was a day for a formal memorial to Jonty Driver, former Headmaster of Berkhamsted School, poet, activist, and family friend.




I last saw Jonty at a reading he gave in Wells-next-the-sea, in June 2021 (was it really that long ago already?) but we had kept in touch.

Anyway, with the greatest respect to Jonty, and his family, and to Berkhamsted School, this is not (quite) about them.  

Some might say that I grew up in Berkhamsted (for more on which town, please see: https://www.richardpgibbs.org/2013/05/berkhamsted-herts.html) though to be exact, I was a boy in Berkhamsted (I was a lad in Lancaster, a romantic in Rome, ageing in Ascot, a has-been in Harpenden and now getting senile in Snettisham - but take your pick). 

My father had also been a boy in Berkhamsted, but then returned here as a father and a much admired man, (but that is another story).

So, though I have been back many a time over the years, I found myself thinking about our time here, and sifting the way things change, or not. After the celebrations of Jonty's great life, and the pleasantries of meeting other dead people, I wander down to cross the Bulbourne, the chalk stream that carved this valley through the Chilterns.




It flows, that's still true, but it shows neglect.  I remember walking down the stream bed from Northchurch to Berko in my wellingtons, past the watercress beds and into the town, without worrying about the collection of dog shit.....  Perhaps there weren't as many dogs then?




On the Moor, which is the canal basin hard by the railway station, I meet a charming couple who have taken to live on the waterways.  How nice to travel slow and easy, tranquil in the security that your home will always be with you while the world passes by inconsequentially.  I am taken by the idea, but realise that it takes two to manage the locks, and so shelve that thought.....




I carry on along the canal side, sniffing that pervasive smell of stale water, dead fish and puddled mud, to reach The Rising Sun, where, with a pint of mild, I watch Ireland beat Scotland in a room I first frequented sixty years ago (yes I was under age, but scoring darts improved my mental arithmetic no end!)




When I leave it is already dark.  I don't really want to go, but I know no one and the match is over and my pint is drunk.....




So I meander down the High Street, dodging the motorised prams and people in unisex one-piece tailor-made personalised jogging suits, past my bank (The National Provincial), which was once the school attended by the girl who would become Winston Churchill's wife, and which is now a restaurant (the bank moved across the street behind the bus stop, but even the NatWest is now gone....)




Almost everywhere is now an eatery.  You might think that no one knows how to cook at home these days. Or you might think that the populace is so well off they can all afford to dine out every night (I guess they would once have had servants? Maybe they still do, though I guess even they may have a night off?)  I don't know, but once upon a time the Gas Showroom was a gas showroom (not a restaurant) and the Post Office was a Post Office (not an M & S Foodhall)




But at least some things don't change.  Woods is still a garden centre, and, appropriately for today, Malcolm, Jones and Metcalfe are still dealing with our demises from the same address.  We did business with them when my parents needed their services, but they may not remember that late one Saturday evening over sixty years ago someone rang their front door bell and ran away.  

Joe and I are still ashamed, having run to hide at the bottom of Park View Road.  

I am particularly ashamed that we were caught.....




Just up the next hill, Boxwell Road, I feel a little weird photographing the facade of Number 2, but this is the house where my dad attended Mr and Mrs Popple's infant school almost a hundred years ago, and it is the address we all lived at some forty years later. 




Hey!  Memories.  It is a questionable benefit being able to recall all the crimps and creases of a misspent life.  Time to call time?

At the bottom of the road I step into The Lamb, wishing to wash away the lingering taste of fish and chips that I hungered for earlier.




Here I meet Gordon Lee, a fellow from Hemel Hempstead, a few years older than me.  His card introduces him as an 'All round good guy,' a 'Roving FF Reporter,' and a 'Soldier of Fortune.'  He has been in town today to watch football , but is intending to return to Papua New Guinea where he feels more at home (I understand).

I feel a presence, a drift of energy.  It is as if Jonty Driver is catching my eye.  I sense that I should turn in, and thank my new friend for his offer of another drink.  I could go the distance, but perhaps another day.  I am too full of memories, of unclear thoughts. It seems that perhaps I have done with Berkhamsted.  My mother and father are dust on the hill:




I am becoming bleary, no longer sure of anything:





I enjoyed the company of Ron Hall at lunch, despite the announcement that he had recently passed away.  I enjoyed meeting my friends with their canal boat, though I am so sorry that I cannot recall their names.  I would have spilled much beer with Gordon in The Lamb, but I have to leave the last words to Jonty:

Far gone?  Gone for good?  I abjure
All pre-knowledge, but now I know for sure.
You (the reader) don't; or do you?
I wrote this before I knew.

Endpiece

C J (Jonty) Driver




Thank you, everyone,

For everything,

Richard




11 March 2024

I want my country back.....

 An open letter to a sheltered Anderson


Dear Sir or Madman,

I heard you today say these words: "I want my country back....."

Let's start with your ego - my parents used to tell me that "I want, won't get," and they made sense.  Insistence in wanting is not the way to go.

But also, "my country."  Whoever gave you this country?  Yes, we sort of know what you mean, but let's look a little further into this, shall we?

"I vow to thee my country...."  may mislead us, but what on earth gives you any right to claim this country as your own?  Isn't it mine as much as yours?  Or perhaps it is my neighbour's as much as yours or mine?  What does the first person possessive adjective do here?  If it was indeed your country, then how come it is in the state it is in?  I am sure that you, as a member of parliament (Labour/Conservative/Reform party or whatever) would not wish to be responsible for the calamitous state we are in, however anyone defines it.

But.....  You want your country back.

OK.  Let us try and define this.  Let us suppose the country you refer to is England?  (Or do you mean, the United Kingdom? - Somewhat more complex but much the same problem).  

When, exactly, was this country (England) how you imagined it?  I am a little older than you, and have my own dreams, but sometimes idealise a world where Postman Pat worked alongside the Fat Controller, with maybe Noddy and BigEars in the background.  Pooh Bear held the hand of Christopher Robin and the weasels were evicted from Toad Hall, while Moley regained his peace on the riverbank.  In the meantime, Kenneth Moore went down, stiff upper lipped (if nothing else) on the bridge of the Titanic.  

Do you not remember Hancock?  Dad's Army?  Steptoe and Son, Or 'Til Death Us Do Part' where all the gentle weaknesses of our society were gently exposed?  Selfishness, bigotry, laziness, ignorance and self-importance ruled the Sunday afternoons and the drill halls. 

Did you never watch the Black and White Minstrel Show and sing along with Dai Boulter?  

Where, and what, was this mythical land you claim?

Forgive me for reminding you of a few hazily recollected facts:
  • Humankind did not originate in this part of the world
  • The land we now call England was once attached by land bridge to the mainland of Europe
  • There were Ice Ages during which human life was impossible in these latitudes
  • In recent history this land has been invaded, overrun and ruled (in no particular order) by Vikings (and isn't Anderson a name that indicates a Scandinavian background?) Germans, Danes, Jutes, Angles and Saxons (According to St Bede, the Anglo-Saxons were the descendants of three different Germanic peoples—the Angles, Saxons and Jutes - so even the Angles were German), Romans and Normans.....
  • The history and DNA of 'our' Royal Family includes Normans, Germans, Dutch and Greeks (not to be too fussy about the Russians, Austrians and the Spanish)
  • It would be very hard to prove that anyone was 100% English, whatever that meant. Perhaps some people can trace their family back many generations, but to think that anyone is 'purely' anything is delusional. 
  • And don't ever forget that we occupied other countries around the world, inseminated their ways of life, their laws and their borders, and then shrank back as we realised that maybe, just maybe, this wasn't quite how it should be......


I was born in Southsea, Portsmouth, Hampshire, England, and have lived in many different places since.  My parents both played their parts in the Second World War.  My grandfathers both served in the First World War.  I grew up in a country that I loved - I saw smogs and the Milky Way, I gathered mushrooms in the field with Richard Mabey, I drank Worthington White Shield and ate fish and chips; I watched Dixon of Dock Green and Listened to The Archers before my bedtime.  

I may not entirely disagree with you, Mr Anderson, that I would love to live for ever in the fantasies of my childhood, but the past is another country....

Do you want the coal mines back?  I guess you miss the camaraderie?  I worked in a steel works in Sheffield, with showers of sparks and the clank and smash of forges and the insane electrical twitching of the cables that led to the Arc Furnaces and I miss that too, though I wouldn't dream of going back (even if the industry still existed.....)

Mr Anderson, I sympathise with your shallow thoughts, but wish you weren't so antagonistic to fellow beings who could perfectly well be at least as useful to the world as you?

You have said that, “generation after generation” of people “cannot budget” or make meals properly and you also said in the Commons that meals could be cooked from scratch "for about 30 pence a day" as you invited "everybody" on the opposition benches to visit a food bank in Ashfield.

That may be the country you want to return to.  Who made that country?   What have you done to make it better?  Were the Thatcherite intentions to reduce the general populace to an inability to budget (sorry - that is an exaggeration - but when you were a Labour politician you might have railed against the conservative policies to ensure that the masses didn't get the education to enable them to understand how they were being diminished) not something you accepted as Deputy Chair of the Conservative Party?

I rant.  I rave.  I am as deranged as you may be.  My hurt is personal but also social.  You now take a seat as a member of the Reform party (without the honour of having been elected as such, of course.....)  So what do you reform?  The ills you have brought during your career?  The wrongs you believe your supporters have suffered?  Or is it simply the passing of twisted time?  

Let you and I go back and wander the lanes of Postman Pat's little England.  Let us defend this country from the horrendous fate that loomed behind Dad's Army.  But don't forget the help we had from others.  Don't forget how we got here in the first place.  And don't forget how rich life can be when you appreciate the value of your neighbour - whoever he or she may be.

If I were to say, "I want my country back," I wouldn't mean what I think you mean.  I think that what I would mean is that I would like to live in a world where there aren't prejudices and barriers but people can live in harmony and peace, with those little things they value, like an efficient health service, libraries, youth clubs, transport systems that function as advertised, theatres and sports facilities that are available to all.  And, Hey! what about two houses of parliament that work for the people and not for themselves?

Yes, I fantasise.  But I don't blame others for my failings.

With love

Richard

 









3 March 2024

Glad you passed this way.....

On life and death and such.....




Written in January 1989, in Trevignano Romano, Italy

 

 

Not being much of a churchgoer, I find living so close to the Vatican a bit puzzling, sometimes.  You cannot really understand Italy without knowing something about the papacy and Catholicism: they contribute much to the fascination of this country.  They add, particularly, I think, to the political interest.  For example, just now there is the Cologne Revolution in the news: one hundred and sixty-three middle-European theologians have got together to tell his holiness that he should not meddle with birth control or abortion.  The Vatican, so far, has chosen to ignore it, even though the Italian press is saying it is the most serious threat to John Paul in his reign; more important therefore than the Sandinistas, Ali AÄŸca or Archbishop Lefebrve.....  We shall see.....

 

I am currently reading The Politics of the Vatican, partly because Peter Nichols (who had lived nearby in Bracciano) died last week and I have had his book on my shelf for years, but also because these questions are important.  The catholic nature of Italy is perplexing, and I wonder how much is ‘religion’ and how much is ‘national character’ and how much is ‘power politics?’

 

Two events occur to me that may have a bearing on this.  One was the brief reign and sudden death of Papa Luciani, Pope John Paul I.  I remember the bells ringing out on the morning of his death (September 28th, 1978) and the shock and alarm that spread amongst the people, including us, atheists and aliens.  Poor chap, only a month in office, such a nice fellow, and already gone..... buzz, buzz, buzz.....


 



At that time, I used to spend quite a lot of time in the Stampa Estera – the foreign journalists club, where budding international hacks (like Matt Frei) and boozy past masters rubbed shoulders.  There was an exceptional amount of rumour flying about and a far greater number of correspondents than usual were waiting at the bar for something to happen.  The body was lying in state; no-one was doing anything.

 

Then, suddenly, one evening the public was ushered out of the camera ardente and the doors were banged shut.  The press club emptied as the journos raced across town.  “Autopsy!”  The word was on every tongue.  But, no.  In the medieval corridors of the Vatican City a dead pope tells no tales.  No autopsy.  The jaw had flopped open and a little cosmetic bandaging was all that was needed.

 

But, even if it was only gossip and speculation, the pressmen were convinced that John Paul I had been ‘done in.’  Someone was wheeling and dealing behind the scenes and Papa Luciani had served his purpose.

 

Another event in recent Italian history that struck me was the funeral of Enrico Berlinguer (June 14th, 1984) following his death from a brain haemorrhage.  Well over a million people (perhaps a million and a half) thronged to the ceremony which was held in the Basilica of St John Lateran in Rome. It was the largest ever funeral in Italian history and the biggest mass gathering there since the second world war. 

Almost a third of the population of the city of Rome attended.


 




Enrico Berlinguer was the Secretary of the Italian Communist party.

 


Antonio and his Topolino



I am also made to think by the sad condition of a friend of ours.  Yesterday we went to visit her in hospital and it wasn’t great.  She is sinking fast, worn out by a struggle against Hodgkin lymphoma (and against chemotherapy) and she is now struggling with bronchial pneumonia.  Her eyes are cloudy and her breathing shallow and rapid.  She doesn’t recognise us – at least, I don’t think she does.  She stirs from time to time and her eyes half open, but she has almost gone.  Her husband stands awkwardly by the bedside, and after a while takes the opportunity provided by our presence to go out for a cigarette.

 

I am not fond of hospitals at the best of times (when is that?) Visiting Amanda in St Mary’s private hospital in Bristol last Christmas was not unlike wandering about an expensive hotel, but it was still a hospital – nobody is there for fun.  This one, in Palestrina, a busy little place at the foot of the Monti Prenestini (famous still for the sixteenth century composer who bears the name of his home town), is actually quite pleasant.  It is light, and clean; the staff are friendly and efficient.

 

When we visited last, just before Christmas, Isabella was very weak, but she could still talk.  She sat up to eat a little and she was able to make it to the bathroom on her own.  From her bed she could see an unkempt garden, with tall pines and sunlight on the straggling grass.

 

This time, an old woman has been moved into the second bed in the room, propped up, unconscious.  She breathes noisily through a respirator and drains slowly into a plastic bag that protrudes from under the bed-clothes.  Her daughter hangs around.



Antonio, his mother (Anna), Hannah and Amanda in March 1992 (Sarah on the way)

 


We are close to Isabella’s family.  Her brother, Antonio, is one of my best friends.  I knew their father, and both Amanda and I have a warm relationship with their mother, a Sicilian who met and married an English serviceman at the end of the war.  Isabella is my age, and I have known her for a dozen years.  Her eldest son, Thomas, is eleven and shares my birthday.  His twin brothers, Edward and Richard, were three last October.

 

What can you do?  Does faith, or medical knowledge, prove useful in these circumstances?  She does not appear to be suffering, and I think she is just slipping away, slowly.  The family are suffering more than her, now, keeping watch, day and night, taking her agony on themselves.  She has been ill for over a year, and last summer, in an isolation unit in Rome, was possibly the worst of it for her.

 

But how do we account for, or cope with, such a going out at such a comparatively young age?There is so much living left to do.  If there is a God, then what is He playing at?

 

Or is this the kind of emotional request that religion tries to respond to?  We don’t know or understand and therefore we blame God?  



Cave

 

Two days have passed. Yesterday we saw the last of Isabella, her coffin manhandled and roped down into the cold gloom of her husband’s family tomb. My mind is crowded with images and ideas: the aunt waving addio into the gaping cavern, held back by Antonio as if she might be drawn in.

 

What can be the compensations?  That we learn how precious life is?  How important the family can be?  The Santuario della Madonna del Campo at Cave was full and while all the support couldn’t keep Isabella alive, it will allow her to live on.

 

Do we treasure each sunrise more because we lose a loved one?  Do we live more intensely?  I would like to think so, but in this cold morning when I see the bright face of Isabella photographed in her garden a few years back, full of who-knows-what hopes, I cannot help but feel that Fate has a cruel hand, and that there is nothing waiting for us but a hole in the overcrowded earth.

 

The priest who officiated at the funeral service wore fine clothes, and waddled about, his old body full of archaic well-being.  He conducted the Mass as it were any other (which, to him, it was) taking his time, wiping the chalice, raising the wafer to catch the sun, with the practised air of an old pro’.  And he flicked his ‘holy’ water this way and that, and preached as if, almost as if, he meant it.  

 

The mother was not there; she stayed at home with the twins.  Thomas wasn’t there; he was with his cousin.  Gianfranco, Isabella’s husband, and Antonio, stood at the back of the church, the chills of the damp foundations affecting them more than the priest.  They were not impressed; they did not participate in the Mass.

 

A rich cousin, in his shearling, came and went, slightly impatiently, at the door.  A nun, and some children, sang a few responses obligingly.

 

The apse above the altar, by the way, had a curious fresco on it.  I was quite far from it, but it might have been from the mid twentieth century: workers in their realism, even though it may have portrayed a miracle.  Labourers toiled in the fields at the edges, but in the centre some bare-backed men were lifting a stone, and a little boy was pointing.  Angels flooded toward the scene and light poured down from heaven. Under the stone was a black patch, an inkblot, a stain.

 

What had these people discovered?  That ecstasy lies under a stone?  That there is no point in searching?  That if you believe then even an oil slick under a rock can become the truth?

 

Isabella is under that slab now, and there is nothing I nor anyone can do about it.  One day our times will come, faith or no faith; rites, liturgy, scripture, or not.

 

When we came out of the church, however, I have just remembered there was a bird singing; a robin, clearly whistling in the evening as the lowering sun glanced off the bare limestone hillside above the road where the cars whirred by oblivious.  The birdsong was beautiful, and, despite its territorial and warning usage, it was strikingly, movingly, right.  That’s the most religious thing I have heard all day, remarked Antonio.  

 

 

By coincidence, I recently acquired a record which includes a tribute to an Irish singer, Luke Kelly, who I met many years ago in Dublin.  He was someone I admired enormously; a strong, heavy, working-class Dubliner, and his death at 43, from a brain tumour, shocked me.  The tribute, written by Mick O’Keeffe but sung by Christy Moore, is very fine, and the last lines, which today I find most fitting (and which I like to apply to my loved ones) are:




Fond memories are all we have

When we think of you today

Your name we’ll always honour – (Luke)

We’re glad you passed this way.....

 


That was then.....








24 February 2024

The Turning World

Looking for a sense of perspective.....







Birds scrawl across the sky above the muddy flats of the Wash, dots on my vision, each to his or her own.  Distant trees and pylons speak of the old and the new.  

Conflated ideas of time rise towards the clouds.






It is the first time I have been out for three weeks.  My world is flat and empty.  It has rained.  The winds have thrashed against my walls and the roads have been under water.

A brief respite and I walk down the broken concrete path towards the flood bank. To one side I see a Muntjac pointing her dark eyes at me.  





A Marsh Harrier strafes the muddy field for hapless prey.





Along the hedgerow the blackthorn fires its salvoes, frosting the scrub in thousands of bright flowers, luring sleepy bees from their winter repose.







In the lagoon I spot a lonely young male goldeneye, diving amongst a waggle of heavy greylags.  The best is yet to come; I wish him luck in his watery life.






And not far away a pair of wigeon float along, bobbing sedately in the security of their partnership.  







The pink-feet have gone from the Wash now, making their ways to the deep north.  I miss their chattering skeins at dawn over the village, families of geese that whiffle together to the sugar-beet fields inland.  And I miss their returning flights in the dusk, their voices quieter as they slip toward their sleep. 

But there are plenty of waders out on the mud and at the tide line.  Bar-tailed Godwits:






Swarms of them, flickering above the Shelduck, Oystercatchers and Curlew that are not quite so flighty.






It is peaceful here.  Many times I walked this way with Amanda, and last Autumn I brought her here in her wheelchair, no longer able to support her own weight.  I am sad as I watch the world turning, as the cycle of life revolves.  But that is the way it is.  I am not alone.  We will all lose someone, or they will lose us.  There is no other way.

I know that.

But it doesn't make it easier.....

The clouds build up.

And then they will disperse.






At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.

T.S. Eliot
Burnt Norton







And as the darkness intensifies, peace comes dropping slow.  

Take my hand. 






 God is love.

Or maybe, Love is God.....






18 February 2024

Farewell my lovely.....

In loving memory of 


Amanda Jane Blacknell Gibbs

 

March 5th 1954 – February 1st 2024








La Voce Del Silenzio,’ [The Voice of Silence] Andrea Bocelli

 


Welcome – Richard Gibbs


Welcome all, and thank you so much for gathering here today to celebrate the life of (my wife) Amanda Jane Blacknell Gibbs.  The entrance music was sung byAndrea Bocelli, and Amanda loved his music since, in June 1997, we were guests of Kiri Te Kanawa at a gala evening in Hampton Court where Andrea was the support act..... (forgive the name drop, but it would have tickled Amanda....)

 

Try not to be sad, but please feel free to cry – we may - and I have alerted Anglian Water who are used to dealing with floods round here (though it may mean that the road will be closed for a few days....)

 

You may perhaps have expected a priest in this place, but Dan, the Vicar of Snettisham, was away and David Stancliffe, the retired Bishop of Salisbury, who married us almost forty years ago, is unfortunately officiating at another funeral today so could not be here.  Although Amanda did not often attend church during much of our married life, she was brought up by Dorothy and Bernard to be a Christian Scientist.  Then, following her diagnosis, she found her faith in God an enormous help to her, so today, as I know she would appreciate, we are using the traditional Christian format and words to honour her.


 

We meet in the name of Jesus Christ,

who died and was raised to the glory of God the Father.

Grace and peace be with you.

We have come here today

to remember before God Amanda Jane Blacknell Gibbs;

to give thanks for her life;

to commend her to God our merciful redeemer and judge;

to commit her body to be cremated,

and to comfort one another in our grief.


 

Address by Sarah Blacknell Gibbs


What mum wanted was this to be a celebration.


I'm not a good public speaker and I'm very upset; please bear with me....


I'm going to share some good memories I have of mum and some of the things she taught me.

First mum taught me about art, and led to my lifelong love for the subject. She used to take me down to The Licensed Victuallers’ pond and we would sit on the grass and paint and draw the water lilies. I remember being on the grass slope in the sun laughing with her and her encouraging me and praising my childish attempts saying, "Isn't this fun!" She would take me and Hannah to the Tate Modern, always saying that Edgar Degas’s ballerina statue reminded her of me.

One thing mum was always persuading me to do, and it took years and three tests, despite getting the wrong day for one! And I finally passed my driving test. I never wanted to as I found it so stressful but now, I'm forever grateful she encouraged and enthused me. She taught me the importance of independence and perseverance, and I remember her happy tears when I came home with my pass! I first learnt in Granny Dorothy’s little blue mini! She taught me to drive and have drive at the same time.

Another thing she taught me was kindness. I only ever remember seeing her angry once in my whole life. We were at Harpenden station I was waiting in the car. She came out from trying to book some advance tickets with a strange atmosphere. I didn't recognize it because she was never mad!  She then let out the only time I say her swear, the f word! Although she quickly calmed down after telling me the man had been 'quite rude.'


Even when I had problems with a teacher or student at school and came home upset, she would never take my side even when I wanted her to. She would always say think about them and what they might be going through, which as I grew up, I have taken on and it has helped in many situations. That's the kind of person she was, always empathetic, rational and always thinking of others.

The most important thing she taught me was love. I was always surrounded by a warm blanket of pure love. She always supported me; she always encouraged me and she always would listen. She showed me what a wonderful pure marriage should look like, with my wonderful dad Richard. She was an amazing daughter to Granny Dorothy, dropping everything when she was in need, showing me despite life's stresses and ‘over-importantised’ appointments; Love and family come first. She was an amazing sister to auntie Joy, always on the phone or in Bristol listening and aiding. She was the perfect mother.  I'm so incredibly grateful for every second I spent with her cuddling watching the Simpsons, or cooking delicious food, walking around the common and picking flowers and on girls’ trips to London laughing by the Thames, or swimming in the Mediterranean or reading our books in the sun. I just wish we all had more time but the time we had while she was well couldn't have been more perfect.

To my mum.

 


Hymn: ‘Make me a channel of your peace’

 

Make me a channel of your peace:
Where there is hatred, let me bring your love;
where there is injury, your healing power,
and where there’s doubt, true faith in you.

Make me a channel of your peace:
where there’s despair in life let me bring hope;
Where there is darkness, only light,
and where there’s sadness, ever joy.

O, Spirit, grant that I may never seek
so much to be consoled as to console,
to be understood as to understand,
to be loved as to love with all my soul.

Make me a channel of your peace:
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
in giving to all that we receive,
and in dying that we’re born to eternal life.

 

 

Address by Hannah Blacknell Gibbs


It is hard to choose what to say in a situation like this. I probably started planning what I would say six years ago, and I used to say things out loud to mum when I took her for walks, although she didn’t understand, or at least that’s what I told myself to explain when she didn’t find it funny.

I thought I’d describe some key things about her. She was very loving, quiet but organised. She liked animals, big views, nature, Rod Stewart. She was creative and kind. She had what she called a present box, which was a collection of things available at any time for Sarah or I to use for last minute birthday presents for our friends. She also, when she was ill, made years worth of cards, that some of you might remember receiving. So Sarah, dad and I, as well as our family and her dear friends, have birthday and Christmas cards until 2029.

She was never extravagant. She was subtle and gentle. She liked dressing well like an Italian. She liked matching jewellery, keeping tidy, and her kind example steered Sarah and me without forcing us, to be gracious and care about beauty. She felt very supported by some Christian Science beliefs; she was interested in Buddhism; she felt everything was connected.

She also had a great sense of mischief and cheekiness. For her 55th birthday celebrations the four of us were in Anguillara near where we used to live in Italy. We were walking down a jetty on the lake to a restaurant in the evening, and I had just rolled and lit a cigarette. She took the cigarette out of my hand, and initially I thought she was going to throw it in the lake, but then she looked closely at it. I said mum, “I thought you’ve given up smoking,” and she said “of course!” And then she took a long drag.

Mum was present in my life in two key ways. She was a source of comfort and consolation when I was sad. She was a model of kindness to me. I hope I can convey in my own life the generosity and genuine interest in people she showed. The second way, was when I helped look after her. In doing that she, without knowing it, taught me a new kind of kindness. When I took her for walks, helped her eat, washed her hair, and got her dressed, I learnt how to be kind in ways I never knew I could be kind. 

The main way she was present in my life was through her joy in life. She was happy and almost always smiling and laughing. I really enjoyed sharing time with her and my friends and many of you. Thank you to all of you here who helped make her life what it was. I hope she made you all happy because she made me so happy. I miss everything, the good and the bad. I miss taking care of her, but we will learn to have fun again. 


Thanks for everything mum.  

 



Hymn: ‘Dear Lord and Father of Mankind’

 

Dear Lord and Father of mankind,
forgive our foolish ways;
reclothe us in our rightful mind,
in purer lives thy service find,
in deeper reverence, praise,
in deeper reverence praise.

Drop thy still dews of quietness,
till all our strivings cease;
take from our souls the strain and stress,
and let our ordered lives confess
the beauty of thy peace,
the beauty of thy peace.

Breathe through the heats of our desire
thy coolness and thy balm;
let sense be dumb, let flesh retire;
speak through the earthquake, wind, and fire,
O still, small voice of calm
O still, small voice of calm!

 



Address by Richard Gibbs


Some years ago, Amanda gave me a note that was headed, “If (& when!) it’s time for my funeral.....”She then put that she didn’t really like that word (funeral), “So could it be a celebration of life around here please?”

 

She added, “A few suggestions which might be helpful to whoever has to put it all together (Good luck to you!)”

 

So here we are.  To celebrate a wonderful life, which as we now know slipped gradually into oblivion over the last twelve years and came to a sad end a fortnight ago.  Yes, we are so very sad, but let us be glad that she is at rest now and let us be so very grateful for all the happiness and love she gave us in her (almost) seventy years.....

 

She wanted, “A nice picture of a smiley me” – well, I have trawled my collection - on my phone alone there are over ten thousand pictures of Amanda. And they are ALL SMILEY!  

 

And she wanted, “Lots of thanks for such lovely times, so much fun experienced, very dear lovely family (including furry members!) kind friends & colleagues throughout life.  Wonderful times in Italy & here!”

 

Then she wrote, “Dear family and those who [are here now], Try not to feel sad, but happy & grateful for all we’ve shared & learned together.....”

 

Amanda was born in Bristol on March 5th 1954, then was taken, with her sister, Joy, by their parents to Birmingham for a few years before returning to grow up in Bristol, where she attended the Red Maids School, with her dear friends Sal and Rache.  She went on to gain a Certificate of Education (for the age range 2 – 9 years) at Bishops Otter College in Chichester. 

 

I first met Amanda in 1978.  On June 19th, 1978, Roberto Sciò an Italian businessman, who had employed Amanda as nanny for three of his children, wrote her a reference.  “Through her steadiness and reliability, Amanda has given my children the security and confidence they need and has proven that she is absolutely capable of accepting complete responsibility for them with dedication.....”

 

“We have no hesitation whatsoever,” he concluded, “in recommending Amanda to anyone.....”

 

I completely endorse these words.  Our own children could not have had a better mother.  I could not have had a better wife.  So, as Amanda left us on the first of this month, I immediately forwarded Roberto’s reference to St Peter at the Pearly Gates, using express delivery, and have every confidence that she will have been admitted to the most deserved heaven without question.

 

One of my first memories of being with Amanda, was on a date in Rome.  I was struck by her natural charm and on that particular evening something she said struck me as being crystal clear, intelligent and enlightened.  It was an epiphany.  The sad thing, however, is that I have no idea what it was that she said.....  I have racked my brain for years, but all that remains is her smile.

 

Early in our relationship, her friend Hilary lent Amanda her car, and we sped up to Monte Amiata in Tuscany for a weekend by the fireplace in my friends’ David and Sarah’s house.  It was a perfect time, and over the years we returned to that enchanted place, in due course taking our two girls with us again and again.

 

Another magical time was when she had just returned from a holiday in the United States with her friends Hilary and Penny.  I was house-sitting a villa with a pool in Casal Palocco, and she came out to see me.  There was some kind of football match on, and then - as Italy won the World Cup - we drove back into Rome, with every car horn blaring and huge flags flying from the backs of Vespas.  It was joyous bedlam and we felt that the cheers, the happiness could have been just for us....

 

We loved Italy together, and especially Tuscany.  On a particular, warm evening in the Campo in Siena, having had dinner and wine, a strange feeling came over me, and I asked her if she would like to be married?  I wasn’t actually thinking of me, but for some reason she agreed....

 

So, in 1984, we married.  Then we spent a year back in Burton in Lonsdale as I took an MA.  Amanda, resourceful as ever, worked as a waitress in the Snooty Fox in Kirkby Lonsdale.  One night we drove our red Renault 4 to see a film in Kendal.  For some reason a police roadblock flagged us down in the dark and a young PC tapped on Amanda’s window. When he saw what a charming young signorina was driving, he blushed and apologised and waved her on....  Not realising that it was a left-hand drive car and I was actually at the wheel.....

 

And then there was the dancing.  She was nimble, and had such delight in moving to music.  Sadly, I am not graceful, and so there were times when she danced alone – to Madness, on the TV, to street musicians in the Forum in Rome, with complete strangers in a square in Tenerife or Almeria, or just spontaneously with her daughters.  I tried, but as ever she was too light and fresh for me.

 

Since her passing, we have had literally hundreds of messages of condolence and love.  Some have come from people she taught in Rome, many years ago now.  Some have come from boarders she cared for when we were at the Licensed Victuallers’ School in Ascot.  Some have come from colleagues of Amanda’s at the schools she taught at since our move to Harpenden.  Others from dear friends and family who cannot join us today.  It is so heart-warming (though also heart-breaking) to know that she was so loved.  Thanks to everyone who is here now and to those who are here in spirit.

 

And she also wrote; “Note that I will have moved on somewhere and look forward to seeing you all there some time.....”  and she concluded by quoting one of her favourite prayers, “Everlasting arms of love are beneath, around, above – God it is who bears us on. His, the arms we lean upon.  The joy that none can take away, is ours.  We walk with love today.”

 

Farewell, my lovely.  Rest in peace.  Ci vedremmo subito....

 

  


Support us, Lord,

all the day long of this troublous life,

until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes,

the busy world is hushed,

the fever of life is over

and our work is done.

Then, Lord, in your mercy grant us a safe lodging,

a holy rest, and peace at the last;

through Christ our Lord.

 

Amen


 

The Lord’s Prayer

 

Our Father, which art in heaven,
Hallowed be thy Name.
Thy Kingdom come. 
Thy will be done in earth, 
As it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread.
And forgive us our trespasses,
As we forgive them that trespass against us. 
And lead us not into temptation, 
But deliver us from evil. 
For thine is the kingdom, 
The power, and the glory, 
For ever and ever. 

Amen

 

We have entrusted our sister Amanda to God’s mercy,

and we now commit her body to be cremated:

earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust:

in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life

through the Lord Jesus Christ,

who will transform our frail bodies

that they may be conformed to his glorious body,

who died, was buried, and rose again for us.

To him be glory for ever.

 

Amen

 


 

Have I told you lately that I love you?’ – Rod Stewart 



 

  

 


After the funeral service we gathered in the Rose and Crown, Snettisham, for a reception in Amanda's memory.  It was a happy and very friendly occasion, with lots of local people who had not been able to come to the Crematorium joining us.



Final words

 

Thank you for coming and gathering here.  I apologise for the crush - to be honest I did not anticipate such a turnout, but Hannah, Sarah and I are very grateful for your love and support, and I know that Amanda herself would be delighted, and would dance with each of you.  We realise that not everyone met her, and certainly many will not have known her before the decline set in, especially those who have only encountered us since our move here, but in the early days in Snettisham, still locked down, Amanda loved our walks around the village, to the church, and beyond, and she, and I, were well cared for by many of you in differing ways.  

 

Thank you again, and let us raise a glass to her everlasting spirit.

 

And now, Hannah would like to read a short poem she has written:

 

And, if you will permit me, I would like to sing my last words.  This is a sweet little song by Johnny Cash, which I used to sing occasionally to and with Amanda when we were young.  


It is called, “I still miss someone.”

 

At my door the leaves are falling

A cold wild wind will come

Sweethearts walk by together

And I still miss someone.....








Hannah also prepared a Book of Remembrance, which everyone signed.


And, with many thanks to those who have already contributed to The National Brain Appeal in Amanda's memory (we have now reached over £5,000 which will go to assist research into rare dementias and to help people, like us, who have suffered) all were invited to add donations if they wish.  The link is:


https://www.justgiving.com/page/richard-gibbs-1704458380003?utm_medium=fundraising&utm_content=page%2Frichard-gibbs-1704458380003&utm_source=copyLink&utm_campaign=pfp-share