Bridge over the River Gray

For once, no photography yesterday on our Wednesday walk! Only two of us, walking from home, and back via the bus: we were deep in conversation, so the camera stayed in its bag. But the bag returned home full also of field mushrooms, which was a bonus.

Our friend Marius Gray's grave will never have a tombstone, so a new bridge is being built, destined to serve as his memorial. It replaces the rickety structure at present in place over the River Monnow near to his Herefordshire home, which he loved. His widow, Clare, and I drove to Cirencester this morning, to see it in course of construction - a massive operation! Blue is the chosen colour.

Meanwhile World Cup fever is gripping the household. So posts to this blog will be short and sweet for a bit.

Remembering Marius Gray

Many suits assembled to fill St Bride's Church, Fleet Street this morning and give thanks for the richly varied life of Marius Gray. Some of us also prayed (privately) for the repose of his soul: to me it was remarkable how his staunch Catholicism managed to pass unacknowledged throughout the service. Rabbi Julia Neuberger, who gave one of three addresses, confessed to me afterwards that, despite having worked with Marius for many years, she never realised he was a Catholic. Did he hide his light under a bushel? Well, perhaps you could say that, but for half a century he managed to live within an inter-church marriage, and there is another side to it too: such non-verbal communication was a Marius speciality - it summed up his modesty, but also his authenticity.

St Weonards

We were here this afternoon, for Marius Gray's burial. There can't be many graveyards with a more beautiful outlook. Whereas we had emerged from the service in Belmont Abbey in a snowstorm, the sun was shining as the crowd of us surrounded a newly-dug grave. The vicar, Elaine Goddard, paid our last corporate respects to "a firm believer in an age of increasing unbelief" (Fr. Simon McGurk's funeral words), and the family let their individual handfuls of earth drop into the tomb. Raw emotions in a raw wind. Then we poured into the church for tea and sympathy.

Marius Gray RIP

News reached us last night of a good friend's death, on Tuesday morning. We had been expecting the call, but it was cruelly premature.

Ringing Leo with the news, I was sad to hear he regretted never really getting to know his Godfather Marius. "He was a quiet, kind man, but there was a sort of distance to him." This was also the public perception, perhaps.

Marius, a chartered accountant, though one would hardly know it (he was far too civilised), was the supreme negotiator; and he was valued as such, but more so for his wise, all-round advice. This could be conferred anywhere: at trustee meetings in stately homes (a Woburn or a Welbeck Woodhouse), or in the Daily Mail boardroom; as Receiver of the Beatles or securing the Prokofiev royalties; as Chair of the King's Fund or alongside the late Tom Bingham on the two-man Government enquiry into sanction-busting in Rhodesia. We discussed directorships once during a plane journey: "I like it when I'm sole director," he said. "You can hold board meetings when and where you like: I think I'll hold one now."

How he kept all his balls in the air, at the same time as being senior partner of his firm, Dixon Wilson, may be attributable to his succinct style. When a letter from him landed on my desk, I rarely had to turn the page: indeed, often it consisted of one paragraph, or sentence: once, indeed, just a single word. It was invariably enough.

Belatedly, Marius was made CVO a couple of years ago. A man in a suit with a difference, he won respect not only in this country, but abroad too. He seemed to thrive on travel. I first met him in Paris in I think 1973: the above photograph was taken after lunch in the Piazza Farnese, Rome in October 1974. A Winter or two later, Marius drove three of us from Geneva up to Méribel: when he mistook a rock for a ball of snow, the puncture made us late for a rather important meeting, and dirty as well. Marius was, needless to say, entirely unfazed. Never did I hear him swear or display anger.

It seems only a very short while ago that Marius properly retired, and was able to devote himself entirely to his beloved gardens (Greenwich and Herefordshire), birds, stamps and books - and of course to the wife and family of which he was so justly proud.

Leo was right: Marius was never a man to make a display of emotion: matter-of-fact was an adjective made for him, but with his few words he was nevertheless a master of nuance. Despite his seeming caution and a relish for silences, life was never dull: he would pose, with a smile in his eyes, the most searching questions on the widest range of subjects. If - as frequently happened - you couldn't answer one, then it was seldom he volunteered to help you out. His cleverness lay in the questioning: his charm in the wit and laughter of an essentially shy man.

Invited to lunch by Marius one day at the Lansdowne Club, I noted him pause for a longish chat with an older man. "Who was that?" I asked. "My father," came the reply. And there might have been a Chinese streak in Marius' make-up, one felt, acquired as if by osmosis through Basil Gray, head of the British Museum Oriental Department for nearly a quarter of a century. In a more direct way, his love of visual art, from David Jones to Rembrandt came from his mother Nicolete, the celebrated letterer and daughter of the art scholar (and poet) Laurence Binyon. Nicolete's great friend, Lavinia Mynors charted the milestones of Marius' life in her - mainly still unpublished - diaries: from the little that is in book form (Alethea Hayter's "A Wise Woman" - the Erskine Press, 1996), we glimpse "Marius in a velvet jacket with glorious embellishments..." Later, she records: "Marius carved a pretty ham, and... distributed high class small glasses of high class wines." For his sociability if for nothing else, he will be so missed. Someone of such kindness, discretion, integrity, intelligence and faith is irreplaceable.

Marches past

Caroline and I had a happy fortnight's holiday in the Marches. We spent four nights in a bed and breakfast by the River Wye, in West Herefordshire: Winforton Court - thoroughly to be recommended. After that, we moved into one of the National Trust's holiday cottages on the Croft Castle Estate in the North of Herefordshire, for six nights. From there, we drove, via Hereford, to stay a night with our good friends Marius and Clare Gray in Kentchurch, in the South-West corner of the county. Finally, we spent last weekend in a mews cottage right in the centre of the small town of Presteigne, just over the border into what was Radnorshire.

Means of transport (this was supposed to be a low-carbon holiday!): OK, so we did drive 466 miles; but taking our bikes on the back of the car: we had three days' cycling round the villages - no punctures and not too many hills; and we had a number of longish walks - along Hergest Ridge above Kington and in the woods at Croft.

Sunshine? The swimming trunks I took for all those refreshing dips in cool river pools came back unworn. It seemed to rain most days, but never for too long that we were in danger of losing our sense of humour. The worst moment was listening to the actor playing Richard III say "All the clouds that lour'd about our house" were "in the deep bosom of the ocean buried" whilst sitting on a plastic chair in a pool of water.

Food: we liked all the pubs we visited for lunches (and some suppers) out - and the little Hat Shop Restaurant in Presteigne. There was much emphasis placed everywhere on local produce. It's not quite the same as being in France of course, but the food was just as tasty - and probably cheaper.

Best bits: the landscapes; the villages; churches, and their embellishments; little things that catch the eye; the architecture; the gardens; the trees; the windows and doorways; the friendly natives; the history - including lots of Davis family history, inevitably (boring for poor Caroline) - and being an hour's drive from the nearest dual carriageway.