RICHARD COMPTON FOWLER 1945 - 2014
For so many of you to be here today, it really does speak volumes as to the measure of the man whose life
we are all here to commemorate and celebrate.
Richard Compton Fowler: a life which revolved around his family and friends. He was a cherished
husband, loved father, adored Grandpa, and beloved brother and uncle. But, he was also a father figure
and friend to so many more.
There can surely be few things that can be said to be good to have resulted from the passing of my father,
Richard – or Dick as he was known by his siblings, and sometimes Tony to his children!
As a family we aren’t used to pouring out our feelings to each other – my father very much encouraged the
stiff upper lip - but his illness gave us a chance to tell him how much he was loved, what a tremendous
force for good he was, and how his support for those who needed help ran through everything he did.
He possessed qualities which most of us wish we had : he was tall, (some might say) handsome, intelligent,
humble, noble and hard working. But most notably, he had an omni-present personal charm and charisma.
Truly larger than life and sporting his beard (which he wore uninterrupted from 1984) he was once
described to me as resembling a Romonov Prince.
Any tribute to a man such as my father cannot possibly do justice to someone who had such a wide reach
and who touched the lives of so many people in this world. This is only intended to be a fleeting glimpse
into the “doings” of a good man and a great father.
“They don’t make them like him anymore” – is what one person wrote to me after he passed away.
He was of course the true gentleman and epitomised something very traditionally British : whether it was
the proud wearing of red corduroy trousers, hacking jacket and colourful neckerchief, or the hands held
behind his back when walking – something my son, Freddy, constantly mimicked and unmercifully teased
him about.
As the youngest of four children, he soon became used to being teased – but like a lot of youngest siblings,
he was constantly indulged. As an adult, he gave this back in volumes and was always looking out for his
older siblings, echoing the way they had always protected him at a younger age. Michael, Jane and Mare
can tell you many a story.
Perhaps because of this, Dad throughout his life possessed a wonderfully charmed disposition – confident
(without arrogance), a real warmth to his presence and, perhaps most British of all, a loud booming voice,
fit for the immediate post war era.
I am reliably informed that as a kid, he was always the conciliator in a family squabble, and this stood him
in good stead in later life. He took all the “rough and tumble” as the youngest child in good heart, and with
characteristic stoicism – something he maintained to his dying hour.
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But, he could also be outspoken and non conformist at times, occasionally to his mother and father’s
frustration. There was a lingering reluctance to adhere to authority which never left him: a rebelliousness,
never seeing the need of rules for rules sake. He always looked to champion the underdog in life – perhaps,
again, a hangover from being the youngest of four.
This was highlighted when he went away at a young age to Kimbolton boarding school. Clearly his disdain
for authority got the better of him on the day he left, as he hit the national press, after giving a very
forthright speech as head boy, questioning the running of the school. In those days this was certainly “not
the done thing” and his mother and father were dumb founded when the press turned up at the family
home the following day!
But Dad was never afraid of expressing what he felt to be the truth, not then and not throughout his life –
it has even got him into trouble with royalty.
But Kimbolton must have done him some good, because he went on to St Peters College at Oxford
University, where he read geography. He made many more good friends at Oxford, despite the fact that he
spent as little time there as he could. And for very good reason: in his first year at St Peters, he met my
mother!
Mum was training to be an occupational therapist at St Andrews in Northampton. They met on the tennis
court and shared a love for the game; a love that soon turned into love for each other.
They got married in 1968 and even after his marriage, Dad continued to play tennis at his adopted second
home: Dallington Tennis Club, where he had been, and would continue to be involved for many years and
for much of that time as Chairman of the club.
Tennis was his first sporting love and he possessed a true talent for the sport, albeit unorthodox : he served
left handed and played ground strokes double handed on both sides – right handed!! He loved doubles, and
for many years most notably partnered Cyril Darby and Sarah Powell, with whom he won many
tournaments. He relished the summer tennis tournaments especially at Wellingborough and Long Buckby.
However, he also became heavily involved in Dallington Squash and Country Club which was located at
his childhood home in Dallington (a stone’s throw from the Tennis Club). Dad brought together a wicked
band of brothers – the two Johns (Pinkham and Hall), the two Dicks (Zelinski and Fowler), one Jeremy
(Rice) and one Roger (Pinnock).
Like the Tennis Club, Dallington Squash Club was to become an important part of our lives too. It was
family, friends and sport joined together, again, in a happy combination. Much fun was had by all, during
its ups and downs – providing work for friends, children, and every member of the family, not to mention
the wonderful parties which were thrown there.
Parties – another recurring theme in my father’s life! They were very important and not just for Mum and
Dad. I don’t know many parents who allowed their children to host as many parties as we did as young
teenagers and beyond. People of all ages, at all times, were always welcome at Home Farm (the family
home in Ravensthorpe), where Dad tended to provide plentiful liquid refreshments and Mum, quite
incredibly, provided everything else required at a moment’s notice.
Dad even felt it necessary to convert the old cow barn into the current day “Long Room” in order to satisfy
this thirst for entertaining as a family. The parties were notable for drawing together so many different
people from so many different areas of his life, whether it was lifelong school friends from Kimbolton, or
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the close friends he continued to acquire through sport, and, more globally, through work as he pioneered
Scott Fowler’s international work over the years.
It was his joie de vivre which everyone found so infectious. Spontaneously, he would gather up those
around him, scoop them into a bar, or home, to have a drink (or two) and mull over the events of the day, or
the business at hand. He was always so generous and hospitable, it was impossible to refuse his warm
invitations. Everyone was included – family, friends, friends of friends and complete strangers. All were
made welcome by my father, treated as equals, whoever they were.
I am sure everyone, who knew him well, was lured into his spell by the cry for “A CLEANSING ALE” or
“ONE FOR THE ROAD?” – invariably this meant more than one!! Despite the long evenings, and
sometimes early mornings, his energy and stamina in life never diminished. After a particularly heavy
evening, to the surprise and envy of everyone, Dad was often last to retire, but first to surface. Seemingly
unaffected by the previous night’s consumption, he would be immaculately attired for breakfast, and
remind everyone of his favourite catch phrase - “ALWAYS ON PARADE”.
Some of the most vivid memories of our childhood centre around my father’s love for his Morgan.
With no respect for numbers or space, he would pile us all into his beloved car – this would include us as
kids, all our cousins (many of whom are here today), friends and their kids - and he would drive us
wantonly around the country roads or even further afield. Unbelievably, Dad later very generously (and
some would say courageously!) allowed us to drive the Morgan as soon as we had passed our tests – by that
stage it has evolved from midnight blue to racing green and finally to canary yellow – and many a time, we
squeezed loads of our friends into it, to go to matches and parties!
The Morgan finally went, but his love of open cars never left him. After a carefully laid wager (that’s a
story for another day), he ended up with his Convertible Mercedes, which Dad cherished until his last few
days.
Dad wasn’t just generous with the Morgan, he was equally generous with his beloved boats: Old Harry
and Old Harry’s Wife.
The majority of our childhood memories are full of the family summer holidays, learning to water ski, and
to drive the boats, firstly in Bornemouth where we spent many a happy and wet summer, but later in the
sunnier climes of Moraira in Spain. Dad was extremely patient when teaching us, graciously blaming
himself as driver when we were clueless enough to abort an easy attempt to get up on skis behind the boat.
Many a time he took us in Old Harry as far from the Marina as the petrol tanks would allow. He always
wanted to get the best out of what he proudly proclaimed to be “the smallest boat in the Marina”.
Memories of Spain abound with blurred evenings in Captain Andy’s Cocktail Bar and long lingering BBQs
at the villa with scores of family and friends under the spell of my father’s hospitality and, of course, the
sausages would have to be burnt to charcoal! I have never seen him happier than in the summer months
hosting at Casa Fowler - Sosegado.
More recently, he took the family to Australia, Zimbabwe and South Africa – all places he loved. And we
have many fond memories of him pulling family and friends together on skiing holidays to Dad’s favourite
resort of Courchevel. His skiing style often involved dragging my mother into many dangerous situations,
sometimes causing her injury. Most family and friends have harrowing stories to relate, and that is before
the après ski!
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It was only 8 weeks ago that he paid his last visit to Moraira, with Mum and the grandchildren, which I
know he thoroughly enjoyed. And it was only last January that he made it back to Barbados (another of
his favourite haunts) where, I am told, true to form, he jumped fully clothes into the Freeman’s Swimming
Pool after dinner – details have been patchy but we can draw our own conclusions! He had to return home
in the host’s surfing shorts and T shirt, tucked in, as ever The Gent and “always on parade”!
Looking back now at the amazing holidays we had with Dad as children and young adults, we all realise
how much time Dad gave us during those happy days.
When Jim, Anna and I arrived into the world at 3 year intervals during the 1970s, Mum reliably informs
us that he was thrilled by our arrival. But for the first few years, I am not sure he was A “HANDS ON”
Dad! I don’t think he was present at any of our births, preferring to drink a toast at a distance maintaining throughout that, while the mother should be commended for engineering the project, the father
should always be applauded as the architect!
Of course, he more than made up for this in later years – as soon as we could hold a racket, a bat and a
ball.
It is difficult for me to say how much of a loss Dad will be to us as his children or, of course, Mum. Words
cannot possibly portray how much we will miss him.
He was a larger than life character and a larger than life father. He was always supportive of us. He was
an inspiration to us all and taught us most importantly how to “work hard and play even harder”.
This mantra he took into his professional life at Scott Fowler where he had the support and honour of
working with, in particular Ian Scott and Mike Dawe, amongst many others, in building the firm over a
number of years. All of his partners and staff are in awe of the amount of hours and energy he devoted to
the business, which has made it what it is today: his proud legacy which we will carry onwards and
upwards.
Dad also spent time helping build up other businesses, especially with his good friend, Ian Yuill. On the
back of it, the two families had many happy holidays together over the years.
For me personally, he was a great mentor. As many keep telling me : “his are big boots to fill” and they are
right. If we manage to achieve half of what he achieved and with the gravitas, good grace and aplomb,
which he so easily exuded, then we will have done well.
But most importantly, we know that Dad would not have been Dad, without Mum. Mum would not
want me to expand on it here, but everyone knows how much my father loved and valued her for her many
attributes, which are too long to list here.
Mum made Home Farm for Dad : it was his tranquil retreat. He loved it and he was adamant that it was
where he wanted to spend his last days, once he realised that he was losing his battle with illness. In the
final stages, he had all the things around him which gave him great pleasure. Importantly, he was
surrounded by Mum and his close family. Ho fought bravely to the very end and, perhaps fittingly, he even
had time to commission an upgrade to his beloved tennis court, which should be finished in time for
Wimbledon fever this year!
These last few weeks at home would not have been possible without the 24/7 care he received from Mum,
Anna, Jim and especially Jacqui: for their unending support and help in the final weeks. Their calm and
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quiet efficiency made his last days as comfortable as they could be: in his own bed, with the sun streaming
in and the wisteria just visible.
However, Dad would not want us to dwell on the last few weeks, he would want us to celebrate the 68
wonderful fun-loving years, which he enjoyed with us all, and to raise a glass in his honour at Home Farm
after this service. You are all very welcome to join us.
I can already hear him whispering to us, with a naughty twinkle in his eye: “One for the Road?”
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