Funeral

I’ve been dreading writing about the funeral, but I think it deserves a post of its own. It was a very intense, beautiful day, although probably the hardest of my life. I don’t particularly like recalling it, but perhaps in future I will want to.

A number of people have also asked me to share the eulogies and readings, which I will do below. 

The funeral took place on 9th November, 2024. It seems much much longer ago than that. Time is moving in strange ways for me. It feels as though many months have passed and yet it has only been a few weeks. How can that be? Perhaps because each day is filled with so much now – I am now living both my life and his, and fielding the concerned attention of many loving friends and family members. Most days I scarcely have time to sit down.

The funeral and wake took a lot of planning and discussion, some of it quite stressful, at an already very stressful time. However, having a date for the funeral and something to focus on definitely helped us out of our otherwise maudlin activities and gave us something meaningful to do. The worst part of the planning for me was meeting the reverend who gave the service. He meant well and did a good job in the end, but because Fidd wasn’t a practising Christian, this aspect of the planning was difficult. Fidd’s stepmother, Elizabeth, was a great source of strength for me during this part, helping me to choose the right reading and hymns, and also managing the flowers for the church. 

Cyrus, Orla and I chose the non religious songs. This could have been a nightmare, as Fidd was so passionate about music and so eclectic in his tastes. But in the end there was one artist who he never got tired of – Bowie, of course. And so Orla chose Wild is the Wind to start the service, and Cyrus chose Let’s Dance to end it. I dug through his Spotify playlists and chose a beautiful Brian Eno track: Ending, An Ascent, for the contemplative part in the middle of the service. This piece is meant to accompany a documentary about the Apollo moon landings. As Fidd was always dreaming about space (and really I hope he is currently up there exploring it) I thought this one was perfect.

Choosing clothes for your loved one to be buried in is heartbreakingly sad. We wanted to keep some of his most special items of clothing for ourselves, but we chose one of his favourite dress shirts and a typically outre pair of camouflage trousers for him to wear. We also chose a pair of Fes Tool socks; a comedy Christmas gift from our lovely builders, Tom and Ed, but somehow appropriate for a man who loved tools and building so much.

Siobhan, Cyrus and Orla’s mother, made a beautiful wreath for the coffin out of flowers and leaves from the garden, and some understated, tiny LED lights – LEDs being another of his obsessions. The arrangement of all these elements – some big, some small, felt overwhelming at first, but satisfying as it all came together.

Many people contributed advice, organisational help, money, booze, food, loaned chairs, gave lifts to the station and airport, so many things I can’t even remember. If you are reading this and I haven’t thanked you for contributing, please know that I am eternally grateful, just somewhat scattered.

One of the biggest organisational challenges was understanding how many people would be coming. Fiddian was immensely popular, and in the end even more people than predicted came, meaning it was standing room only in the church. I’m glad about this – it is comforting to know how loved he was. 

I hope that Fiddian would be pleased with the send off we gave him. A great deal of thought and preparation went into every detail, from the font colour in the order of service to the positioning of the speakers at the after party. The children agonised about what to wear (a whole team of people made Orla’s outfit, and were still finishing it moments before the service; and I won’t mention how much Cyrus spent on his jacket). I didn’t spend quite so much time or money on my outfit. I chose a rather demure navy silk Vivian Westwood dress that I had bought the year I got together with Fidd and a coat that he had liked because he said it made me look like a Samurai. In the morning I put on makeup for the first time since he had died (there is no point wearing makeup when you spend large parts of each day crying). Our friend Charlotte kindly came and helped me to make myself presentable. Despite everyone’s help I felt stupid and fraudulent to be getting dressed up for such an incomprehensibly dreadful event.

The service itself went extremely well and was very moving- so I have been told by many many people. For my part, I hated almost every moment of it, and was very glad when it was over. Everything about the way funerals are conducted feels West End theatrical to me, and I felt very much that I was being directed in the part of “grieving widow”. For me this made it much harder to connect with my true feelings. I find it much easier to locate my grief and express it privately: alone or with Cyrus, Orla and close friends. The run up to the day, and the day itself were so highly pitched, that I don’t think I fully relaxed for weeks afterwards. Oddly, the only other time I’ve felt so overwrought was the moments before entering the church to be married. What is it about these ceremonies that generates so much cortisol?

Moments from the day that have stayed in my memory – sitting in the front of the awful funeral car and driving up the winding narrow road to the church, seeing very old friends along the roadside and a frantic motorist struggling to reverse her car and grinding the gears in embarrassment to be holding up a hearse. Waiting with the coffin before entering the church and realising with horror that I was expected to walk immediately behind it. Noticing that the strange slate plinth that sits between two walkways on the entrance to the churchyard was built specifically for coffins to rest on as the pallbearers prepare to pick it up. Stumbling behind the coffin as I entered the church and seeing many of the same faces looking towards me as I had seen on our wedding day, their expressions entirely different. Crying and crying and feeling somehow so foolish, as though I was a bad actor in a bad play. Watching Orla leaning down into the grave towards the coffin, and the dogs sniffing for a scent of their beloved “Big Dog”. After it was all over, realising I’d left something in the church and running back only to see the gravediggers begining their work. The kind funeral director bundling me back into the hearse and driving me down into the village. When I got out of the car a complete stranger who had been sitting outside an ice cream shop smoking a cigarette felt compelled to run over to me and enfold me in a hug.

There was one fleeting second of pleasure for me during the service. After the family eulogies, which I’ll post below, the Reverend did his piece, and at one point, bellowed rather aggressively at the congregation “What happens, when we die?” My 5-year-old nephew, Elton, responded with great certainty: “Nothing!” and I loved him intensely in that moment, for piercing the bubble of all this pompous ritual. I must sound very dismissive. I am not. I understand how essential all of this was, and I know there were many people who would have loved to be there but could not. There was no way I was ever going to enjoy this day, but I am proud of the way we did it, and there is little I would change, in the end, except to insist on more chairs inside the church.

The wake itself deserves another post, but I haven’t the energy to write it. There was a conventional wake for everyone at a local pub, which went on for four or five hours, and then there was an “after party” back at the house for close friends and family. Almost as much effort had gone into planning and catering for this event as the funeral itself, and it was in fact the christening party for the beautiful extension that Fiddian had been working on all summer and autumn with the builders. A giant speaker system, tonnes of fairy lights and a wall of Fiddian photos filled the space. The plumber, carpenter and decorators had worked magic to get the space weather proof, clean and with a functioning toilet. Some of Cyrus and Orla’s friends had gone to quite extraordinary lengths to get all the food and booze we needed for the many people who came. The whole thing went on until 6am in the morning (and then began again at breakfast when my dear brother and sister-in-law, and my friends Caroline and Anders arrived and did the most enormous clean up and breakfast preparation). It was more like a mini-festival than a wake, bringing back some poignant memories of Fiddian’s sixtieth birthday just 15 months before. There was dancing, and a bonfire; a small boy dressed as a rabbit, shocking revelations, an arm wrestling contest which destroyed a table, sixteen people piled on one bed (the bed survived) and almost all of the people we truly loved in one house (with notable exceptions) and my heart thudding heavy through it all.

Two days later, most people had gone. Five days later, everyone had gone, including me. A small group of us journeyed to London, then to Venice, where I suppose I started the next phase of my life. I think I understand the purpose of a funeral now. It is not really about the deceased person, in the end. It is a ceremony to remind the living of what they have lost, and to prompt us to go on and live the rest of our lives with renewed vigour, mindful that one day it will be us in the back of that strange black car, rather than the front.

Eulogies:

About Guy (Fiddian), by his father, Christopher Warman

Time is out of joint in my life, now, just as it is in Nature.  To lose this dear son, who should have outlived me, is the most terrible thing.  Guy was, as you know, a very young 61, and it will take me the rest of my life to accept his untimely going.   

His mother, Hillary, and I called our first child “Guy” after an English ancestor and “Fiddian” after an Irish one.  He was born on 21st July 1963 at Needham Market, in Suffolk.  Born in the caul, a sign of miraculous good luck and protection from drowning, as it was believed in ancient lore, he had a lot of black hair and matte skin like his father’s and his grandfather’s and which he passed on to his son, Cyrus.  That complexion was reckoned to confirm our descent from one of the Spanish Armada sailors of the 16^th c., whence the name “Warman”.  There were also Cornish ancestors.

 By the time he was one year old, we lived in Woolpit, where I laboured to convert an old farmhouse that had been mucked about; I took much pleasure in restoring that house.  And I have since wondered whether this early experience sowed a seed in Guy, which remained down the years and led him to undertake the restoration of Bossiney Court, a much bigger job, but one which – even with its headaches – was giving him a great deal of pleasure.

In school, Guy was good in science subjects, and after leaving school, he decided to take a Biology course at London University.  But after his first term, he began to envy the art students, and realize that he should take another direction.  So he began evening classes in pottery, and turned out some tribal-looking pots.  The evidence is on the shelves at home.  Wanting more training in the arts, he went on to take a degree course in Ceramics at Camberwell.   During that course, he switched again, this time to Sculpture, in which he graduated.  This courage in searching for his true vocation was part of his character: he was unafraid to change and change again, moving with his generation into the arts of AI, bringing his fine arts skills with him, joining in the campaign to protect and regenerate nature, with growing knowledge and deep commitment.

Guy was a tender and loyal son to me; he delighted us with his creativity in art and in life:  giving us the fun of knowing Siobhan and having our wonderful grandchildren, Cyrus and Orla, and later the great joy of his marriage to Kirsten.   I will miss him terribly.

Rest in peace, dear Guy, my beloved Son

Eulogy for Fiddian by Terry Watkins & Mark Innes, Fiddian’s best friends

Mark: Fiddian’s dear friend Terry has been ill for a while now, which greatly upset Fidd, the dark cloud in the blue sky of his Bossiney life. Sadly, Terry can’t be here, but his words are.

Terry: I’ve been a close friend of Fiddian for some 35 years. Many here today have been a friend for longer. Sadly, the year-count of friendship is now cruelly finite though of course the bond we have with Fiddian will be timeless.

Fiddian was ‘inspirational’. His life-energy and enthusiasm was infectious. Spend time with Fiddian and you were energized. The path of experience that led to Bossiney Court had many twists and turns.
From extremes of making bespoke furniture with his close friend Bernard, to SODA’s, groundbreaking impact on the digital arts scene. There were no boundaries or limits. Fiddian, changed direction, not with the fickleness of a Mr. Toad but rather due to his hunger for new experience. His was the passion of the discoverer – the true artist. He never seemed to regret where he had been, rather he accumulated the experience. His career will be an inspiration for Orla and Cyrus who face similar decisions about vocational direction. The richness of your father’s roadmap was apparent in retrospect – it was less certain at the planning stage.

Fiddian never displayed any arrogance about his skills. His life-experience ensured an appreciation of the feather-breathe that separates the highs from the fall. His modesty and readiness to listen and learn from others made him an instant friend. Fiddian was an incredibly modest man & generous despite his many achievements. Ever the articulate polymath – I remember listening to Fiddian explaining his robotic art piece on a Radio 3 review show one morning. He was articulate, erudite and more engagingly empathetic than most artists seem to be when explaining their work. And then to confronting the artwork that evening – Fiddian, ‘snarling’ lead vocalist (I diplomatically avoid ‘singer’) fronting a punk band who needed to hit the right cadence to unleash pogoing robots in the crowd. That anti-establishment rebel never disappeared. Who else would wear a bondaged-trousered suit for his village church wedding. From my best’ man’s perspective I could see he would willingly have buckled himself to Kirsten for eternity.

It used to be ‘when a person is tired of London’. Now when you severe the artery of the South Circular life often gets better. I have not seen Fiddian anywhere nearly as much since the move to Bossiney Court, but when we did meet he was clearly so much happier. A man in love and spiritually fulfilled. Thanks to you Kirsten for making him so happy.

Of course, I desperately miss him. Bitter-sweet tangible reminders surround me. Mementoes of Fiddian – I work on a desk that he (and Bernard) made. He built my website. And when I put a red wine glass away, he built the cabinet to house them. And when I do put a glass away, I cast thought back to those times when our solutions were sought in a wine-bottle….oh Fiddian, the better man knowing when to quit. I celebrate your resolve, your determination and the man you since became. That said, though those red-wine-awash years are long gone – I still have a chuckle when I remember them…and we did have a lot of fun before we grew-up didn’t we…

Rest easy my dear companion & beloved friend.

Mark: I’ve kindly been allowed to add a few words of my own. I have this nagging suspicion that Fiddian would be disappointed by the lack of expletives, so please feel free to add some in as we go, ideally silently.

We’re all here today, because we all chose to have some Fiddian in our lives. We all have different things we look for in someone we want to spend time with. Among us will be a million precious things we valued in Fidd, he was such a wonderfully rich human being.

Poor Fiddian had no choice about me boarding the runaway train of his life. Love at first smile. And what I saw then I saw the rest of his life. A beguiling combination of emotional sensitivity and wicked playfulness. A man able to be a boy, a boy able to be a man.  Brave enough not to hide behind a mask nor shield his true self.

A true self too good to hide, a live force of human-ness, of delightful virtues and beautiful flaws. Fiddian avoided veneers and coatings both in his work and in his person – complex-grained, through-colour Fidd.

It was Fiddian who I chose to call, at the lowest point of my life, and Fiddian’s support that helped me through it. Fiddian, the light you brought to our lives burns on in our hearts.

Eulogy by Orla Warman Hapaska, Fiddian’s daughter

Thank you all for being here, how warming it is to be with all of dads loved ones, colliding together as we use this day to embark on the remembrance of the most caring, uplifting and extraordinary soul, Fiddian.

As people count sheep in the evening to try and give rest to their eyes, the memories and words of my dad are nursed and lay embedded in my mind, upholding an impression of peace and closeness to him. Fiddians observations of our world and fondness to give creation and life to many of his innovative ideas were one of his countless luminous qualities. From coding LED skirts with me to tuesday evening cooking, trackcycling at the velodrome and making pancakes on a saturday morning, Fiddian taught us as little people that you can create anything from imagination, to keep an open mind when trying new and unfamiliar things and to explore the world and your will power to see something to its end. To say he cared about the people in his life alongside the states of the wider world that he had seen is an understatement, the love, care and importance shown by Fiddian would give great sweetness to any day.

Fiddians spirit flourished in the creation of his ideas, he had the gift of taking things from imagination and using his fine craftsmanship to turn just about anything into an original ingenious physical being. There is a video on Youtube of him in his younger years speaking about his work in such an eloquent manner, I highly suggest you type his name into youtube and give it a watch.

So,

If my stance is solemn and torn, then life is cruel, if my stance is upheld with wisdom and grace, then life is profound and beautifully cyclical. Either way, we understand that nothing is ever promised, tomorrow isnt and neither is the next day. Though I am lost in the colours of dark on how to embark on this unforeseen chapter, dad understood that love saves any day, and he saved so many of mine.

so with this may we hold each other with nothing but uplifting everlasting love, may we hold ourselves with nothing but vigorous expanding brilliance, and may we hold fiddian forever in our hearts with nothing but the light of his unwordly tenderness, that cared and shared all of him to us, how lucky we are to have had a piece of him, to experience all the greatness he brought, may this remain sharp in our minds as our bounded time on this earth carries on.

And here, a message for my dad:

You are in my blood, skin and bones
You, a standing life force,
creativity, sensitivity and empathy , the elements of your core, engaged and always illustrated in the brightest of colours
I dance with you in my dreams, our evening waltz to dusty springfield brings me one step closer to the warmth and nearness of you
I sing and dance forever with one hand out, knowing i have you somehow in my grasp, conscious and armored with the knowing that you are by my side with every footstep for the rest of these newly felt days.

Though in flesh no longer here, the continuity of spirit is felt for all eternity , and i am washed and re – found everyday by the guiding of you ,
I drink tea with you, and laugh with you, every day and every night.

Fiddian’s last words were ‘thats lovely’, and so it is.
Rest with all peace now, i love you to infinity and beyond. I couldn’t have asked for a better dad.

Eulogy by Cyrus Warman Hapaska, Fiddian’s son

Dear dad,

I never could have imagined that I’d be writing this today, it was just a few weeks ago that we were skipping stones on Tintagel beach.
Mine seemed to trudge along the surface of the water whilst yours glided.
I listened with great intent as you told me what constitutes a good rock and how to throw it properly.

You’ve always been good at that.
You always had an answer for any questions of mine.
Whether it be questions on bike parts or something far more existential I would inevitably be met with advice.
I have not just lost a parent, but a teacher and in my later life, a friend.
I still had so much more to learn from you.
But I take solace in that I have learnt much already.
Like how to chop a log and build a fire, how to be kind to yourself, And how to be highly irritating, at times.
You know how much we all loved to wake up to the sound of face-melting techno, full volume, early on a sunday morning.
Although you waged sonic warfare on your family at times there was nothing that wouldn’t do for us.
That reminds me of the time when Orla was stung by a wasp in spain.
I remember you jumping into action and disappearing into grandma’s house before reappearing with a handful of items.
A sheet of tin foil, a slice of ham, hairspray and a lighter.
You laid the slice of ham out for all the wasps to come and feast before uncharacteristically torching them all.
In all fairness, you have felt guilty about that ever since.

Our good friend Carl said to me recently that time and tide waits for no man and the tide has now come.
The winds of change have charted our new courses and you are now voyaging towards greener pastures and brighter horizons.

But when the tide comes in for me I hope I’ll see you waiting at the shore with skipping stones in hand.
With eternal and grateful love, your darling Cyrus.

Eulogy by Kirsten Campbell-Howes, Fiddian’s wife

Thank you all for making the journey to be here today to remember and mourn Fiddian. It means so much to me, Cyrus and Orla that you came.

Of the innumerable messages I’ve received the word people most often use to describe Fiddian is “kind”. Another is “gentle”. People have told me how his words, deeds and calm presence have supported, inspired and encouraged them at work, in environmental activism and during dark times. On the day after he died, James, one of his newest friends, said to me: “if there were more men in the world like Fiddian, it would be a better place” and that is true. Fiddian taught me that kindness and gentleness ARE strength, and I would like us all to hold that in our minds as the guardians of his legacy.

Those of you who have known him for a long time all remember crazy party Fiddian and have your crop of frankly unrepeatable stories about his red wine-fueled antics. (If you don’t know it, please ask Siobhan to tell you the one about the wardrobe and the washing machine later). Those of you who have met him more recently may wonder what on earth I’m talking about. Eight years ago, Fiddian was brave and strong enough to give up alcohol, which was really only ever a crutch for him. In doing so, he become a calmer, more sensitive and more spiritual man; more present in the world, more committed to environmental activism, more attentive to his family, and a wiser counsel to his many friends, as well as a mentor to younger men, especially in this community, where his unique skills and capabilities fitted in perfectly.

Bernard, one of his oldest friends, with whom he started out in business as a carpenter many years ago, described him to us as “a Maker”, and I think that is the word that sums him up best. Others have described him to me as a pioneer, groundbreaking, and a massive influence, for his later work with Soda and as a digital artist. His creative work persists in the many artefacts he created, including many wonderful and beautiful gifts, but it lingers more in his influence and Soda’s influence on subsequent generations of creatives, digital artists and makers. He was frustrated that he never got to make Soda into the financial success it deserved to be, which is perhaps partly explained by a late diagnosis of ADHD but is probably more down to his general loathing of capitalism and the business of selling and marketing. More than anything, he wanted to make. His passion was tools, materials and techniques. I used to roll my eyes listening to him extolling the virtues of various types of LEDs, timber cutting techniques, lime plasters or Fes Tools. How I would love the chance to hear him do that again…

Though he never managed to build the business he wanted, in the past two years, Fiddian found the ultimate expression of his passion for making – our house at Bossiney Court. I can honestly say that the past two years have been the happiest of both our lives: deeply engaged in restoring and reimagining the beautiful house, pottery and gardens and working with a team of the most talented and supportive local makers. Although he won’t be here to see the work finished, I know he was so proud of the work done so far, and of the legacy he had already created.

Alongside the house we have found a community of the most wonderful people here in North Cornwall. Fiddian’s relationship with Bossiney began 25 years ago through Mark and Charlotte, but in the time we have lived here we have made so many incredible new friends and I want to thank you all from the bottom of my heart for the love and support you have offered me since Fiddian died. I will need your friendship even more during the dark months ahead, and your help in remembering and celebrating the beautiful man who we all miss so much.