‘Ant will fix it,’ went the refrain. Almost always he did. Dad had a passion for making things and making things work better. And he had an extraordinary talent for this. He was ingenious, genuinely inventive. To use one of his mechanical creations was very satisfying, they all worked so well. And they were very satisfying to look at. He crafted things beautifully. There was nothing decorative about his creations, but in the economy of their design, this compact functionality, there was great elegance. Nothing was wasted, there were no superfluous bits. Very pleasing to look at, to investigate. You were struck the by care and the meticulousness with which he worked but also by how totally enthused he became in what he was doing. Starting out on one of his contraptions to solve some mechanical challenge produced in him this almost frenzied excitement, a tremendous invigoration and sense of purpose. I think he loved turning these challenges over in his mind. He adapted an old golf cart belonging to his twin brother Thomas, for Mum to take the horses feed buckets down to the fields. You can picture Dad in Thomas’ garage at his house near Bath: “Do you need that golf cart, Thomas?” I think Dad’s life was genuinely accomplished because he was able to take this great passion and talent for making things, and use it to help people. He put his talents tremendously to use and this was intensely rewarding for him. Because he had a staggering generosity of spirit. Sometimes he would help when none was wanted. But he would never standby when it was needed. He just wasn’t able to. He would appear at your house, often unannounced. “I spied a little job that I think I can do for you”. You would look down, alarmed at the huge box of tools in his hand. ‘What job is there in my house that possibly requires such an enormous box of tools?’ For the majority of Dad’s wonderful inventions were for other people, many of us – perhaps most of us – are here today. They are in our houses and our workshops, in our greenhouses and our gardens, affixed to our cars, to our boats, bolted onto our croquet mallets and hanging in our garages. Now that Dad has died, it occurs to me, these are hundreds of memorials to him scattered around the country, around the world. I think that what was so remarkable about him was how far his life was devoted to making a contribution. I don’t think he ever felt more purposeful or looked more alive him than when he was helping someone to do something. You couldn’t stop him volunteering for things. But there was nothing sacrificial in this. Doing things for people made Dad truly happy. I think this was because it combined the satisfaction of a job well done with the lasting pleasure of knowing that he had done something that would be of real use to someone he cared for. From much of the time, he never really asked for more than the chance to engage his extraordinary technical talents. And he would work tirelessly, often skipping meals to finish a job. A few moments after he died, Mum turned to me and said “he won’t be able to fix things any more, those wonderful inventions he made, all around the house and the fields”. So he had this magnificent generosity. And alongside that he was deeply affectionate. He had a warmth and an openness which pulled you towards him and from which it was very hard really to remain immune. He was always, always, so pleased to hear from you. He would pick up the phone, chirpy, upbeat, and then launch into this sort of choral exclamation “Mrs Davis” or “Huff-Puffle”. It would lift your heart, you were for a moment the most important thing in his world and with this extraordinary expressiveness he had he was letting you know. This deep love for his fellow man, made him a truly genuine and non-judgemental person. There was not a shred of malice or vanity in him and he was virtually incapable of resentment. His joy in people reached a pinnacle when he subjected them to his practical jokes, for he was a restless, mischievous person. He would take Mum away in the car on her birthday after they were married, she told me the other day. It would be a surprise. They would set off in a certain direction, gradually she would recognise the route as being on the way to a favourite restaurant of theirs. But then he would turn off. So she would be perplexed and then gradually she’d recognise, ah yes, it’s the way to that lovely wine bar for a bottle of my favourite champagne. But then he’d turn off again and so the game would continue. You can see the smile on his face. People and their stories fascinated Dad and his enthusiasm for them was amazing, infectious. He was always so interested in you, in what you had been up to, in how your friends were, what they were doing. Always he would remember things about you (although he used to call me by the wrong name frequently) but he’d remember about the things and the people in your life that mattered to you and he would ask you about them. He talked a lot – a huge amount – but he listened. Company moved and delighted him. People were his oxygen, he took them in, they fuelled his spirits and he responded immediately and instinctively to their presence. Sometimes, while he was telling a story he would begin to splutter slightly. It was a combination of delight at what and who he was remembering and delight in the act of relating this at the centre of people’s attention. The pitch of his voice would climb until the intensity of the pride and the joy would become too much and his big loving heart would overspill briefly, his voice would started cracking and his eyes filled with tears. But this was no matter, he’d drive on through and continue. Even in more private moments he shone with the love he had for people. I remember a few weeks ago, at Christmas drinks of Charles and Ann Packham, I watched him walk slowly towards an old group of friends who were talking. Dad was smiling to himself – he’d just recognised one of his chums in the group – and I could see he’d thought of what he’d say to him first and he was just excited about this, and it beamed out of him. He couldn’t have held any of this in, even if he had wanted to. Dad had a tremendous optimism and possitivity that I think was born out of a faith, not in god but in himself and other people. In company he was never negative or down in any way. And he had this enthusiasm for meeting people that totally transcended his own circumstances or any concerns about himself. A few weeks ago he contracted a chest infection and he and I ended up in hospital down the road in Basingstoke. At some level, I could see him preparing himself, setting himself for an ordeal, one which he might not actually come through – there was always that chance, we were both aware of it. But this didn’t seem bother him at all: he busied with settling himself in his bed, finding the controller for it, experimenting with the height and various angles. Anything mechanical within reach got the once over. And then he waited patiently, occasionally we would chat a little and, inevitably, he would dictate one or two lists of things that needed doing. But then the nurse would come in and he would be off. This enthusiastic detail when he was answering his questions, just way more than she needed, and then embarking on his own questions of her, a huge exhaustive series of them. How long had she worked at the hospital, was she new to the ward, “and where are you based then? Ah yes, yes, not far from us, good so not too far a drive for you. How did you find it this morning because a couple of hours ago when we came in the traffic was backed up to the …” And so on and so forth. Selfless. Lifted eyebrows. Interested, broad smile, same old Anthony. He was not a particularly intellectual man or particularly spiritual, but to his core he was deeply emotional. There was so much feeling in him, that often his body couldn’t contain it. He was easily frustrated, he had such set ideas about how things would be done ¬– and he always thought he was right. I don’t know how many bottles of Krug he went to his grave owing my Mum, ‘it’s this way’, ‘sorry Anthony, I know it’s not, I’ll bet you a bottle of Krug’, ‘I said it’s this way - alright a bottle of Krug’. He was very emotional and he was not remotely afraid of crying, which I found deeply affecting. He expressed his feelings freely and without heed for the consequences. This extraordinary emotional fluency, immediate and intense - one of the things that made him so lively – came, I think, from the fact that he cared so much about people and things. He was without doubt his own man. This is a quality from which I draw great inspiration. He never cowered in front of others, never allowed himself to be bullied. He was never held back by embarrassment or shame for his opinions, or by fearing what people would think of him. And he also had an inspiring ability to stay his course, to continue in the task or the endeavour that he had set himself. This was easy to miss under his friendly exterior – there was nothing steely about it because he was so cheerful. But it was there all the time. “Keep going,” he used to say to me, I think when he was feeling especially proud of me, or felt that I was being strong. “Keep it up huff, keep going with it.” (Omitted: Feeling connected to the past was important to Dad. He was intensely proud of his roots, of his family, his ancestors and especially his father. But beyond this he had an instinctive respect and affection for age, and the authority and grace it bestowed, whether the object was an elderly friend or relative, an institution or a beloved tool. Inevitably I have missed so much of him and I consider this only one memorial alongside the wonderful comments and anecdotes and photograph that people have left on Dad’s RNLI memorial fund website, and I beg you to continue doing this because it’s such a source of solace for us). But I want to try to finish by saying some of the things that he’d want me to say if he was here. And the first thing he’d want to do is thank you all for being here. Many of you read the letter he sent out at Christmas in which he expressed how tremendously touched he was by the affection everyone had shown to him, the visits and the attention and cards and so forth. It’s totally ridiculous given his own generosity but he just couldn’t believe it and it moved him so much. And the second thing he’d want to do is to thank Sandie my mother. He’d want to pay tribute to her extraordinary devotion and care for him, yes over the last year but over more than 40 years. I asked him back in the spring what achievement in his life he felt most proud of. “Ah that’s a good question, Huff,” he said. Then I watched as the answer came so clearly and satisfyingly into view for him. ‘I think it would have to be meeting Sandie’. And I have to end with this extraordinary devotion he had to my mother and I. He was the tireless lord and protector of our house at Hinton Parva, St John’s lodge, and finally Purdies Farm. There he was ubiquitous, fixing the electrics, fertilizing the field, pulling up fences, mowing, building stables into the barn, mending tack with this sailing needles and thread, before cursing “those blooming horses” as they broke loose and carved deep divots into his beloved croquet lawn. He was the vivid beating heart around which our small family was packed. He was a caring, loyal, utterly devoted husband. And he is the father for whose unquestioning love and unerring support I thank him from the bottom of my heart. It is more than any son could dream of, more than any deserves, and it is why these minutes today, telling you about my father, your friend, have been the proudest of my life.