Peter and I met when I was 17 and he was 19. The friend who introduced us is here today. We went out together for two years and then, due to various circumstances , we went our separate ways.

It was 28 years later that we met again and the old feelings were rekindled with a special intensity. We spent a total of 23 happy years together. Peter and I shared  many things in common  but we allowed ourselves the space to have separate interests as well.

Peter was a wonderful husband – loving, generous, caring and indulgent, in more ways than I deserved . He grew to love his step-daughter, Catherine, and they enjoyed a mutual interest in music. He also loved his very extended family, taking a very close interest in all their activities. His humanity found expression in his charitable work with Rotary and desire to serve his community on the Parish Council.

During his illness Peter remained calm, positive and courageous to the end, believing that his treatment would work. He even thought about the new car he would have – would it be a Jaguar or another Volvo?

On a personal level Peter loved to be well turned out and his socks just had to coordinate with his outfit. In fact his socks were all stored graduated to colour in his drawer. You would have thought he was the retailer and not me!

On the other hand his music room was not quite the same. It was here amidst a bit of chaos that he composed, arranged and played music. As his friend, Richard King said … “his music room was filled from top to bottom with a variety of musical instruments. It was an obstacle course and a place of danger -well nearly, but we all avoided injury”

Another of Peter’s great pleasures was to go on long cycle rides  - he cycled from London to Brighton  a number of times. In his youth he cycled up and down the country with his friends Bill and Derek. More recently he took gentler rides and he particularly loved this time of the year when he cycled past the bluebell woods.

This is an extract from a poem by Emily Dickinson:

Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come,
For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom,
And the crow is on the oak a-building of her nest,
And love is burning diamonds in my true lover's breast;