Aylesbury came to him as a parish in need of some new spark, It was as though there needed to be a loud cannon fired to wake up the parishioners where 20 attended Sunday worship in a church built to house 1500. The church building itself, his predecessor assured him, was in very good condition. Alas not so. Some £250,000 of funding campaign and 4 years of hard slog later, it reopened with its cracking pillars and foundations restored, a magnificent new organ and stage, controversial toilets (a running theme some will note) and everything that a good community centre, as well as church, might need. English Heritage should be grateful for the sleepless nights and ceaseless efforts he put in to ensure that this landmark, high on the hill of a key county town, is still there. During all this career progress Peter had pursued his interests in clinical theology and psychological help via counselling. This has been a great boon to us. Many others have commented that the greatest aspect of Peter and Sylvia's marriage was how they kept growing, (when many others of their age became rigid), growing emotionally, through a mutual approach to therapeutic work on themselves and with others, past retirement age. I owe my own resolved and loving relationship with my Dad more to the work on themselves that both parents undertook, than to my own growing past the age of dissent. The shining example they set, of love as a growth-filled life long process, is a lasting lesson for all. His 21 retirement years in Buckland Newton were perhaps the happiest of his life, settled into a nurturing community with an abundance of fellow gardeners – still campaigning, right to the very end, mainly now, yes... for the small mercy of a toilet within the church... He had a remarkable ability to make friends and influence people and this led to a level of popularity within the village that leaves me relaxed in the knowledge that my mother will be well looked out for, well loved. One resident in the village, top aero modeller, Jeremy Collins, took it on himself to construct a flying scale model of Peter's Spitfire Mk12, which, apart from the absence of that enormous Griffin engine roar, was the spitting image of his beloved plane, lost 65 years ago over France. I imagine his spirit boyishly residing in it if it ever flies again... Jeremy? - are you reading this? And so to the present – past perfect, future unknown, tense... The following is a shortened version of what I wrote on my blog, and read at his graveside and would like to share with you all now, On the final day (11 October 09) I am sitting in my father's chair, tapping on his keyboard, to the sound of my mother and brother exchanging a few practical words in the kitchen downstairs. The garden looks as wonderful as it always does - now in the fading evening light, tomatoes he grew, and picked on Thursday, are ready on the table to accompany our meal. I know he is gone - lying lifeless in a hospital bed 12 miles away - but I still would not be surprised to see him totter down the garden path on his two sticks calling, "Sylvia...?". Today on the ward I stroked his hair, and immediately smelled the bonfire smoke - distinctively holly leaves, that he was busy with only hours before his fall from wakefulness. A most fitting perfume. Relatives are now generally in the good mode of contact, confident chats and simple sympathy. Friends, a mix of close, those not yet informed, and those who have heard from others, are very keen to offer condolences, and some with greetings in overly hushed tones - but the best out there have already said such wonderful things about him - so wonderful it hurts. The final call from the hospital was a midnight affair, and my hopes that that call would wait, have been dashed... The great grandchildren were just asking if he is in heaven yet... …...........he always was. This was a big, smiling, great hearted man...my Dad.