Imo, Toby and Bob will be having one hell of a party now.

http://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/imogen-skirving-9clf6g68c

 

With some help, I’ve created a stumpery in my woodland, using oak stumps I had dredged out of my ponds last year. I’m dedicating this area to Bob: Upside down (a bit like I’m feeling now) and out of the box as he was.

I planted out the wild flowers some of you left today, snow drops and aconites, to add to the spring bulbs planted by Caroline and Jake.

I knew Bob from the Greenpeace days onward. What to write? Having read all the contributions, I thought I’d add a bit more about Bob’s contribution to, and appreciation of, art in all its forms. Of which some vignettes, and some related photos.

Vignettes

My first impression from staying over in Bob’s flat in Ladbroke Grove was the artwork (including Picasso) on the walls and the vast collection of classical CDs in the 1990s when music was very expensive. All this heard on the Quad stereo with its huge black electrostatic panel speakers, dominating the room like two flat obelisks from Kubrick’s 2001 – first in London, then in Pete’s barn, then at the Cottage. With Bob in full flow, such as “You absolutely must listen to this – Quartor Vegh. Beethoven … first time I heard this (String Quartet No. 14 in C sharp)” says Bob “it blew me away – music so far ahead of its time …” Or a short burst of subtle conducting by Bob, perhaps in response to some Mahler. All typically accompanied by decent wine and some inside story. Bob played a major part in making classical music a part of my life. His seat is now empty, but at least his personality, as represented by his collection, lives on, replicated in mine.

It should also be said that Bob had an ability to conjure tickets, at no or low cost, typically “from an old friend” (often female). Cue Glyndebourne, Bob, camera in hand, fag, wine, sunny day, picnic on the lawn, for a performance of Julius Caesar – Bob was sceptical of the long Handel opera but blown away by the vivacious performances, notably that of the Cleopatra (not the only one … she subsequently married the boss of Glyndebourne).

Then there was the photography, Bob equipped with the photographer’s lust object of the time, a Leica M6, with the lenses to match. Pictures in the Science Photo library from old Greenpeace toxics campaigns still brought in the occasional surprise of a cheque. But Bob especially had a remarkable ability to get people he didn’t know to relax in front of the camera, with some of the best from India. I was delighted to help realise his images via the dark arts of printmaking.

Then there were the films. Apart from his film making, already better described by others, there was the huge DVD collection, and then the home barn cinema … accompanied by Bob’s (entirely appropriate) memorable venting of frustration with the complex set up procedures of first generation home movies.

There were also the books – “You absolutely must read Pax Britannica, Malcolm. She got it absolutely right about the British Empire, magnificent. Jan Morris – Interesting author- changed sex midway through writing it”.

About all of this wove the conversation, now at an end.

Bob  “No pockets in a shroud”. Rest in peace.

 

When I see birches bend to left and right

Across the lines of straighter darker trees,

I like to think some boy’s been swinging them.

But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay

As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them

Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning

After a rain. They click upon themselves

As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored

As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.

Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells

Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—

Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away

You’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.

They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,

And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed

So low for long, they never right themselves:

You may see their trunks arching in the woods

Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground

Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair

Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.

But I was going to say when Truth broke in

With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm

I should prefer to have some boy bend them

As he went out and in to fetch the cows—

Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,

Whose only play was what he found himself,

Summer or winter, and could play alone.

One by one he subdued his father’s trees

By riding them down over and over again

Until he took the stiffness out of them,

And not one but hung limp, not one was left

For him to conquer. He learned all there was

To learn about not launching out too soon

And so not carrying the tree away

Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise

To the top branches, climbing carefully

With the same pains you use to fill a cup

Up to the brim, and even above the brim.

Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,

Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.

So was I once myself a swinger of birches.

And so I dream of going back to be.

It’s when I’m weary of considerations,

And life is too much like a pathless wood

Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs

Broken across it, and one eye is weeping

From a twig’s having lashed across it open.

I’d like to get away from earth awhile

And then come back to it and begin over.

May no fate willfully misunderstand me

And half grant what I wish and snatch me away

Not to return. Earth’s the right place for love:

I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.

I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree,

And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk

Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,

But dipped its top and set me down again.

That would be good both going and coming back.

One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

 

Metaphorically Bob was a swinger of birches.  And I hope his last thoughts were “ I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree…that would be good both going and coming back…”

When Bob interviewed me as a prospective lodger in 2007, he placed an object in the middle of the table. “If you can guess what it is, you can move in.”

Of course, he knew I was never going to correctly identify his Fijian cannibalising fork. But we got on well and he proposed I move in for a three-month trial. It ended up being a year-and-a-half.

And sure, we had our moments. We were two intransigent Celts with a 32-year age gap, sharing a remote cottage in the Suffolk wilds, probably drinking too much – Bob at least. There was the potential for conflagration, but flashpoints were rare.

Instead, so many moments were absolutely golden. Out of everyone I know, Bob probably holds the record for having me on the floor in stitches the most times. Supremely intelligent, his comedic timing was flawless, articulation impeccable, and his wit utterly and brilliantly acerbic. He could be devastatingly funny with the minutest shift in intonation. I still spontaneously laugh out loud when incidents pop into mind.

There was also Bob, the poker-faced Devil’s advocate. And Bob, the master of bombastic theatrics in dismissing disagreeable points of view. And Bob, the deliberately controversial (“Tesco should run the country!”). And Bob, the completely charming host. And Bob, with the Audi with the bullet hole stickers on the back. And Bob, with the booming belly laugh. And Bob, with the occasional thunderous glare.

There are so many memories. From the night I made the mistake of leaving an entire bottle of brandy on the kitchen counter. To the day he verbally bludgeoned an unfortunate soul at a BT call centre because of consistently dysfunctional rural internet. To the evening we nodded along in mutual appreciation of UB40’s Don’t Break My Heart – probably one of his favourite songs and as a result, now one of mine. To the day he sampled my fiery, homemade chilli chutney: I never knew he could move or explete quite like that.

There were also the days I would arrive from work to a silent house and hover between the living room and kitchen, listening out for the sound of snoring, hoping today wasn’t the day the years had caught up with him. Bob made no secret of his surprise at the resilience of his own body, “Clearly I have the constitution of a horse.” And he really did.

As a landlord, Bob was always respectful and fair with me. But much more than that: he quickly came to treat me as a friend or family member. He shared so much, so freely – his feelings and regrets, stories of his upbringing, his travelling tales. There were so many wild and wacky anecdotes I wish I’d written down. Then there was his encyclopedic knowledge of classical music and art. And the guy was the most prolific consumer of literature I’ve ever met; a book every couple of days. He also took a keen interest in where my career might take me; never short of advice, but always considerate about how he delivered it.

We established pretty quickly that loyalty meant a lot to us both, and we made much of our connection as Celts. I think we both saw it as the unshakable foundation for what we knew was an unusual cross-generational friendship. Here was someone my dad’s age who was more like a big, bear-like brother. And one with the kind of hug that would squeeze the air out of me.

Once I moved abroad, we stayed in touch although inevitably less frequently. But I love the way I can still read the emails and hear Bob’s voice as clear as day – and of course, the dry wit sizzling in every sentence.

I heard the news of Bob’s death only yesterday. I spent the rest of the day swinging between tears and chuckles as all the incidents from that year-and-a-half flooded back. It’s been amazing to read everyone’s tributes and know he was so well-loved up until his last day. I’m still recalibrating to take account of the fact that Bob is no longer around. But of course, he’s going to be with me for a long time yet. Him and his cannibalising fork.

With much affection,

Neil.