Dear
Harold

Dear Harold, whom I first came to know in 1982 when we were at Exeter together, and where he suffered my less than accomplished direction of him as an attendant lord in perhaps one of the worst ever student productions of The Tempest. His role, as I remember, and one which he performed with some skill, was to stand to attention by the King, clutch his sword handle, look worried and say things like "I'll be thy second", a line we rehearsed with increasing hilarity and which, as things turned out for me, proved somewhat prophetic.

Harold was then, as he remained throughout his life, tall, fearless, British, actually Hiberno-Norse, as he insisted recently to an unfortunate box-ticker at Lancaster County Council who bravely asked for his "ethnic grouping", intelligent, endlessly curious, kind, loyal and extremely funny.

Looking back, much of our time over the subsequent years centred around journeys of one sort or another. Harold was for ever dreaming up new expeditions. The first I remember, when we were 22 (he was born a few days before me in December 1960), was his plan to walk to the northernmost town in the world, Hammerfest, on the Norwegian coast. I went up to stay with him at his beloved Parrox Hall, where he announced this ludicrous scheme, bought himself a Danish phrase book and gave me one in Finnish. The idea was to stride purposefully through the snow like coiled springs, as he put it, while quoting passages from our phrasebooks to startled passers-by. I remember his dear mother rolling her eyes as we wandered about the house, listening to Wagner and making weird Scandinavian noises. Mercifully, it never happened. He told me later his inspiration came from watching Where Eagles Dare, and that he had found an old German ski trooper's camouflage smock at a Lancaster flea market and wanted to give it a spin.

In 1985, he thought it would be a fine idea to follow the exact route of Chaucer's pilgrimage from London to Canterbury, beginning in a pub as close as we could find to the old Tabard Inn in the City and, after a good lunch, set off full of exuberant good-will towards each other and our fellow man. It was a hot, humid day and Harold wore an alarming pair of shorts which proved too small and chafed, while I had bought new and agonising boots, so that my feet quickly blistered and bled onto the tarmacked roads. Later that night, in the dark, by the time we staggered onto Shooters Hill and a violent thunderstorm broke around us, washing away the blood trail, we were not at our best, but eventually we found the Pilgrim's Way and hobbled in a few days later to mutter our prayers at the Cathedral.

France, Ireland, Germany, the Lakes, most years we trudged about somewhere together and planned our next trip. In '87 Harold announced he was joining the Territorial Army Intelligence Corps, that I should do the same and that he had arranged for us to spend a long weekend on the induction course at Ashford in Kent. It would be tough he said, but we both needed the exercise, and I could learn Russian. Okay, I said.

A few days later, I turned up at the London barracks with a gormless expression and was hurried onto a coach. No sign of Harold. I remember looking mournfully through the back window as I left for a weekend in hell: assault courses with people yelling at me, fording rivers, and whatnot. When I eventually got back to London, I was so stiff with cramp they had to help me from the taxi. Harold said he had forgotten, and anyway he didn't really need to attend because his Russian was fluent.

I put it to him once that my ancient forebears, who lived not far from Lancashire, and who I imagine as gentle, hobbit-like creatures living peacefully by the seashore quietly mending their fishing nets and making soft cooing noises to each other, were almost certainly slaughtered, or sold into slavery by Harold's berserker ancestors when they came charging out of the surf, waving their axes. Of course, as is the custom these days, I asked for a full public apology and restitution, but Harold scoffed at this, said my ancestors sounded revolting and probably deserved it, that he didn't care and that it wouldn't hold up in Court.

He was simply my dearest friend, and whilst his early departure has left me numb with grief, I am so very grateful for the time we enjoyed together. Barely a week passed without our talking, and I treasure the pages and pages of texts, voice recordings and daft photographs we exchanged over the years.

An astonishing, passionate man, he was greatly loved by many and had through his life an instinctive, quiet faith which sustained him through difficult times. He held his ground with wit, tolerance and good humour. He loved this country very much and was proud to serve it, and particularly he loved, and was loved in return, by the glorious people of Lancashire, who so movingly recognized him some weeks ago in a ceremony at Preesall Cenotaph.

I last saw him when he stayed with me in Wiltshire over the Coronation, and we walked through the countryside and spoke of his plans for the future. He was leaving for Berlin the next week and was in good spirits, talked proudly of his sons George and Alexander (who recently married), of his affection for Stella and Maxim, and most, of the abiding love he had found with Rebecca, in whose beautiful arms he ended his days.