Sir Peter reaches last port of call

By BRONWYN SELL IN EMSWORTH

It felt like the Antarctic wind had come to mourn Sir Peter Blake.

The sun came too, but while it lit Chichester Harbour in a stunning send-off, it failed to warm the ancient stone of St Thomas a Becket Church, and offered no comfort to his mourners.

The thick wooden doors of the 1000-year-old church in Warblington, in southern England, kept in little heat for the 300 mourners inside.

Outside, an estimated 1000 people huddled together as much for warmth as for goodwill. Even those who had found a patch of sun on the frosty grass shivered as they listened to the funeral service through loudspeakers.

But there was plenty of warmth in the memories of Sir Peter and in the red socks that peeked from between the trousers and shoes of the sailors at the funeral.

His brother and sisters painted an idyllic picture of their childhood. It sounded as if they grew up on Ladybird, the family yacht, always moored in some bay or another in New Zealand.

His sister Liz remembered a time she and Sir Peter had chickenpox as children. Sir Peter made telephones out of string and papercups between their bedrooms so they could play Battleships. It seemed every recollection had a nautical theme.

The last message of their mother, Joyce, to her world champion son, relayed by Tony Blake, brought tears to almost every eye: "I am so proud of you. All good things end, so until later, love from Mum."

Their memories were heartwarming and heartbreaking. Their strength was remarkable. It was as if Sir Peter's friends were drawing strength from his children, instead of the other way around.

One of Sir Peter's good friends and a partner in blakexpeditions, Scott Chapman, said the poem daughter Sarah-Jane read as a tribute, Bilbo's Last Song from The Lord of the Rings, had brought him to tears the evening before the funeral.

Sarah-Jane read it without faltering: "Farewell, friends! I hear the call. The ship's beside the stony wall."

Similarly, son James confidently relayed passages from his father's now famous last log: "The green flame of the Amazon rain forest is ever present contrasting with the red-earth scars on the higher ground and the yellow clay by the water's edge."

As the tide crept out of the harbour on Friday afternoon, the wake, in a marquee outside the Emsworth Sailing Club, stretched on towards an early winter sunset.

It was a laid-back, good-humoured affair, lubricated by Steinlager and Gisborne Chardonnay.

The music, Dave Dobbyn's Loyal and U2's One Tree Hill, came from a video of Sir Peter's trip to Antarctica, playing in the corner.

Lady Pippa Blake, black velvet hat pulled down towards her eyes, accepted condolences with grace. She hugged Prime Minister Helen Clark.

As the marquee emptied towards 4 pm the sun was already beginning to set - deep orange and enormous - through the masts outside.

Sir Peter's close friend, Alan Sefton, had warned their old friends that there were 11 pubs in the vicinity and said it would be rude not to visit them all.

Lady Pippa, Sarah-Jane and James might now, at last, get time to read the thousands of messages of condolence they have received. They say the support, especially from New Zealand, has been of considerable comfort. They intend to answer each message personally.

Now all is quiet in the Warblington church yard. Perhaps one day Sir Peter's headstone will be scoured unreadable by the salty air, like the others there. And perhaps he wouldn't mind that.

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Peter Blake, 1948-2001

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