Tony Boyle – RIP

20 April 1935 – 16 May 2008

Introduction

This is a collection of stories, memories and photos of Tony from his friends and family, compiled by Alan Pollock. It has been collated from emails, letters and phone conversations and is largely unedited. At the end, there are two pieces of writing by Tony, describing his recent visits to Italy and Israel, and transcripts of the tributes from Tony?s funeral.

Tony with Foal

Toto

By Hannah Collis, May 2008

?Tis time I think, to write it down before your lofty presence fades, just as the spring of hawthorn snow. For, while you lie long in May, we move on to harvest days; those you coloured long ago. So, we must remember your big booted stride that smoothed the family furrow, and how we listened wide-eyed with delight to your full throttle tales overflow, and rise with the smoke, blow by blow. Horizon hunter with sky high ideas, your down-to-earth doctrines won?t fade, your bellyful laughter still rings in our ears and your bushy browed warmth still remains.

With apologies to A. E. Houseman (A Shropshire Lad)

Rupert Johnson

When I took my two small children to Ouseley cottage (Mark1) for their very first visit, Tony met them at the front door and warned them that due to the very real possibility of structural collapse only one child was to go up the stairs at a time, that they were to be very careful not to fall out of any of the top floor’s missing windows, that their bedroom ceiling leaked and finally that he required – even demanded – that they scribble all over the house?s internal walls. In the ensuing silence – as my children realised they had arrived in child heaven – Tony finished by saying that he had hoped that they could have slept in their grandparents bed (which he had inherited many years ago from my parents) but that this was impossible as he had recently chopped it up to make a duck house.

Jim Johnson

In the early 1960s Tony was in Aden in his capacity as ADC to the Governor, he was also on occasion obliged to pay lip service to a rather stuffy British High Commissioner. One hot afternoon, after a long and interminable meeting with the HC, Tony left the room but unfortunately failed to close the door properly. Because of this the HC was able to overhear Tony shouting down the hall to the Arab gatekeeper “Ya Abdul – God wants his chariot at the front door in 10 minutes!” In 1965 Tony had volunteered to spend Christmas in the Yemeni desert. The only other members of the operation out there were four very tough ex-French Foreign Legion paratroopers who lived in a large cave near Jauf. On hearing that Tony would also be around, they immediately invited him to Christmas lunch, saying that they had previously caught five desert partridge and were presently fattening them up for the special occasion. On Christmas day, Tony duly turned up at the cave and was presented with an utterly delicious haute-cuisine meal (they may have been paras but remember they were French). At the end of the meal Tony contentedly leant back and said something to the effect of how very different Yemeni partridges tasted from English ones. Whereupon he was told that unfortunately all five partridge had been killed a week previously by a feral desert cat. Tony, with a sinking feeling, asked the obvious question “so what have I just eaten?” and back came the answer “the cat”.

Ben Cosh

If you’re reading this, then you know Tony Boyle. That makes you lucky. There are not many people on the planet like him. I’m writing this for you. To let you know a bit more about what an amazing guy he was. I’m also writing it for me, to remember 30 wonderful years.

He must have inspired a huge number of people with his energy and enthusiasm. He was a rock to me. An inspiration. Gentle encouragement when it was needed. A kick up the bum when it was due. Up for a debate or two about the state of our country. And bloody good fun. Frankly when I was a teenager he became my father. He knew it. I knew it. We never discussed it. We drank a lot of tea at that kitchen table and polished off bottles of sloe gin as though they were fruit juice. We had Victoria Sponge for breakfast and played table football until I could beat everybody at school. We laughed together. We were mates.

You’ll know his stories. Stories about his knees (imagine how he would tell you about what could happen if he was cremated and they forgot to take them out!). Stories about his time in the Middle East (it woz Mossad wot dun it). Stories about Piers and John getting out of Jail. About the trebuchet. About the bottle chopper; his days in London and days buzzing soviets over the north sea. About the youth club he ran. About taking my sister to see the dead aunt, the public trust office, democracy, and smuggling Emma out of school. About his shot gun license. The insurance job on his old house, the new building and living in a tent under the leaking roof until it was ready. About his Bells Palsy (boy, how he found humour in everything – the irony of how Bells Palsy stopped him saying his Bs and Ps, and what a stupid name it was). The stories got better with every outing and as a kid I learned to tell stories like him. The drama, suspense, the punch line. Without teaching, and probably without knowing, he’d help me elaborate on the entertaining things that had happened to me until they became almost complete fabrication. Sometimes our escapades became the subject of his stories, and it was wonderful to hear how our adventures had grown in his imagination.

Someone once told me that you never look back at life and wish you’d spent more time in an office. I can’t remember the exact sequence of events but Tony helped me escape my job in London and set up a little company selling wind generators. I guess he was effectively a non-investing, un-paid, non-exec director who kindly leased the air above his farm for ?1 to me to test our machines out. We spent hours and hours debating how to make the business work. I’d always make sure that if I was in Shropshire, I’d pop over to see him. In the last couple of years I was so lucky that I saw him every couple of weeks and spoke to him more often than that on the phone. I think he enjoyed his electricity meter going backwards, but he seemed to gain enormous satisfaction out of seeing us grow, step by step into a little operation that might just work out. The business mattered to the extent that people have to pay mortgages – the dull facts of life – the real reward was spending time in Shropshire with Tony.

Last autumn he told me there was one thing he really wanted to do before he died – to see the space shuttle take off and land. He made it, flew the simulators, wore the T-Shirt proudly with excitement in his voice and a twinkle in his eye. Like always.

He’s on you tube too: promoting our wind machines for the local news.

Mark Samuelson

What about my “Vole” (“it grows 6′ a year”) Leylandii tree, given and planted at Ouseley in 1975, that finally grew so high it shorted his mains electricity wires, burst into flames and then burnt down half of Bembow’s field during the night causing the fire brigade to be called out much to Tony’s amusement? A “gift” from 30 yrs back, to remember Tony used to refer to it as !!

Or to go back even earlier…. August 1974; The arrival of three hung-over 18 yr old Stoics and a tall OE (Rupert) to stay for a week, whereupon he immediately gave us sleeping bag space on the floorboards of the cottage and put us to good use bashing down a pig shed in the wild back garden for 3 days.

One of the visitors (me; Vole) travelled into the Wenlock vets with a constipated bull calf on the back seat of Tony?s Austin Maxi car. The trouble was it became rapidly unconstipated as we waited at the town traffic light. Unfazed; “this is part of rural living; its not Chelsea you know” Tony not only cleaned out the car upon the return to Ouseley but also cooked all four of us a hugely enjoyable and memorable meal of roast chicken done in a pressure cooker and the ancient Aga.

Oh how we nattered and laughed that night; indeed it was to be the start of a thirty five year friendship and the enormous influence upon us all of one man who subsequently was almost a father in his support and encouraging words of wisdom…

Circa 1980; Vole, Garber and fiancee Fi were visiting over the Easter break so Tony put us three to work upon his then herd of the bullocks.

De-horning, castrating, recording and weighing thirty-plus beasties in the crush was all part of “the bonding teamwork” which he envisaged would help us enjoy ourselves. It was certainly novel; smelly and physically exhausting with Fiona spattered with animal blood for nigh on four hours yet the job was “well done” and we all were grateful to Tony for the experience as we tucked into a long evening of vino, Rothmans, and pressure cooked delicacies.

The next day we went to Easter lunch chez Kennedy where Hew tried to push Fi’s face into the sherry trifle but, luckily warned by Tony, she didn’t fall for it, but was amused by the Shropshire behaviour and bonhomie.

Playing Bar Billiards, original space invaders and table football, in that dusty cobweb-covered, furniture-festooned dining room but with the original coins for the respective machines.

Arriving at Tony?s in 1983 from a wedding 45 minutes away in Tenbury Wells at which I’d very drunkenly persuaded an unknown wedding guest after the reception to drive me to Ouseley. This he duly did for some reason or other and kindly dropped me off.

He was offered a cup of tea by Tony in that unique cluttered cottage kitchen but promptly fled London-wards as Tony and the other guests pretended not to know me from Adam and that I was a complete stranger to them all!! Shortly later, much to everyone’s amusement, I got so tonto’d that I had to free myself from my wedding waistcoat, Houdini-style by actually climbing through it!!

Hearing of, although never actually seeing, Tony’s two headed goose embryos caused by the fallout from Chernobyl. How he was convinced that the local sheep farmers were all going to be affected (“nine fingers, perhaps”?), those that hadn’t already succumbed to the Shropshire in-breeding, by the settling of the nuclear dust.

His over the kitchen table, Rothmans in hand, blow by blow description of the Vulcan Bomber raid on Port Stanley Airport during the Falklands Conflict; delivered so very precisely and matter-of-factly that one could have easily imagined him organising it from his Ouseley HQ.

Shaking hands with him only to be told “Congratulations the last person with whom I shook hands went to the moon; a reference to his pride and pleasure at having met and talked technical at length with Buzz Aldrin ( the 2nd man on the moon).

1991; Taking Tony to Sunday lunch at a Craven Arms so quite local (highly bibulous) point to pointing afficionado’s champions large country pile. Hostess to Tony “Have you done anything interesting recently ?” Tony “Well apart from getting four young lads out of a Katmandu jail for gold smuggling and looking after my farm I trebuchet-ed a dead sow 350 yards yesterday and arranged for it to be in flight tested by an RAF specialist.” Hostess; “Gosh” have some claret…..? ….and so we all did, with a fascinatingly perfect “proper” Sunday lunch until well past 7.30 pm. when Tony drove us back to Ouseley.

Dinner with Tony at the RAF Club Piccadilly with my wife. Tony talking us through the individual history of virtually every piece of club memorabilia that lined the long corridors into the dining room. A meal of surprisingly restrained alcoholic intake; me on the wagon and Jim’s 80th the next day yet, as always at Ouseley, absolutely fascinating natter from which we both went away thinking “wow; what an enthusiast and so knowledgeable and wise about everything”

Last year; inviting myself to stay with my wife and 7 year old son and walking up “Boyles Bank” whilst reminiscing with them about the often utterly surreal but fabulous sunset picnics and bonfires up there over the past 30 years. Tony meanwhile down below in his pride and joy new house with his new knees cooking us a delicious meal in his new kitchen of which he was justifiably so very proud.

Him showing us every single facet of his well thought out designs and explaining just why they were so eminently practical for him. “The old cottage may be dead; welcome to my new humble abode, and a new generation of Voles to be entertained by”.

Sir Peter de la Billi?re

I first met Fl/Lt Boyle in Aden at the residence of Governor Johnson, for whom he was ADC. We hit it off immediately and I was serving with the Federal Regular Army at the time. On the occasion when we drank with David Stirling, founder of the SAS, at Govt Hse I remember that we were told of the death by assassination of President Kennedy. I suppose this was one of those few events which etch themselves on one’s memory.

I see there are several pages in my Autobiography covering this period and Tony’s involvement: ‘Looking for Trouble’, ISBN 0 00255245 0 publishers Harper Collins. (Selected extracts have been included on p34).

We kept in touch over the years but did not meet until he came to stay in April 2007. We discussed his latest research but importantly discovered that he and his parents had lived in a house some 200m from ours at The Grange. He brought a sketch of the local views done by your Grandfather and we set it to the local hills in my Barn with a view. We then went to visit the neighbours, whom I do not know, in your old family house but they were out; Tony recognized it all. We recced around the outside of the house and then left them a note and your family sketch.

I last saw him at the Memorial service last month for my close friend John Woodhouse whom Tony knew from his Aden days.

Joanna Boyle

I feel relieved that I have the opportunity to officially, in an informal way, share my memories of Tony. It is a brilliant idea to compile a booklet, as like to me, the memories of him are both unique and special.

On Reflection On reflection, I have very fond and special memories of Tony that I feel very lucky to have after my time in England. When I heard of his very sad passing, the first thing that came to mind was a tall man, always with a spring in his step and a smile on his face that was very generous, genuine and spontaneous – a rare combination indeed. There was always a twinkle in his eye, his company was never dull and you never quite knew what was coming next. He was very kind to me when I was in England and I will never forget the generosity of spirit that he showed me – a true English gentleman.

Some memories The first memory that came to mind was when he showed me the seat allocated to his father at Westminster Abbey. He enthusiastically informed me that he was very lucky to have a heater!

I remember when I arrived at the memorial ceremony of his father in central London, that I was honored to attend, Tony rushed up to me to make me feel at ease being the only Aussie present representing my father. In hindsight, at such a significant occasion, I am sure that he had many commitments but still made an effort to make me feel at home.

I remember when he explained to me that a breakfast program called to ask him if they could blow up his house, while he was building his new one, with explosives and film it for a segment on their program. When I explained it was the highest rating breakfast program in England (at the time)…he was quite amused.

Thank you very much for allowing me this opportunity to contribute to this booklet which will allow Tony’s life to be celebrated. All the very best to you at such a sad time and our thoughts are with you and your family.

Natalie, Stephen, Ryan and Dylan Jamieson (nee Boyle)

Tony was a true gentleman – with a hearty laugh, a generous spirit and an interested and caring nature.

My first memory of Tony was as a child in 1977 when we visited his farm house in Shropshire and I can still remember sitting in his kitchen feeling safe and happy.

My second time was when I was living and working in London for a few years in the early 90?s. I remember Tony?s continuous thoughtfulness in making me feel so welcome with all of his extended family. Our visits to see Una, Bundy and Aunt Diddles in their homes for afternoon tea will always be special to me.

It was lovely to see Tony when he visited us in Perth in 1998. It was then wonderful that he was able to attend our wedding. He charmed everyone and he happily offered to be our video person for the day. It was excellent as he really showed how happy the day was for us. We were also very overwhelmed with his truly beautiful gift of an antique ivory cutlery set.

The last time I saw Tony was in 2002 and he was very keen to meet our first son Ryan. So he generously asked us to a wonderful lunch at the RAF Club in Piccadilly. It was lovely to have lunch here as I know it had always been a special place for him during his life.

Even though I did not meet Tony many times during his life, he always made such an effort and an impression on me. As he really did make me feel like the most important person in the room.

Thinking especially of Penny at this very sad time.

Nicky Hazeldine

Enduring memory aged about 8 years old or so when Tony was searching for a farm in Shropshire. He told us that this place he had found was very posh, so we all had to wipe our feet very carefully on the mat – we dutifully did this and then opened the door and stepped into about a foot deep of cow manure!! As you can imagine Tony found this highly amusing!! I, for one, have never forgotten this moment!!

I will never forget arriving at Tony?s around August time one year to find that the Christmas tree from December was still up and a little more decorated with dust and cobwebs than it had been on Xmas day !! I think in the end it was a permanent fixture!

Tony?s games arcade in his old house with his space invaders and asteroids and the football table – it was a child?s paradise. And being able to draw on the walls – how cool that was! And the sledging down the field opposite on plastic hay sacks. Brilliant fun! Helping Tony put sheep through the sheep dip.

His lovely dogs – Bagins, Pickles and Puppy, all of whom I am sure are so very pleased to see him. And the horses he loved – Beaut, May and Foal (although the relationship with Foal was not always one made in heaven).

The time when Tony was injecting bullocks, but they were nearly bull type bullocks as he had left it a bit later than maybe he should. All bullocks were in one side of the barn, they were driven into a cattle trap and then injected and let out into the other half of the barn. Stupidly, Dad and I were standing in the half of the barn where the bullocks were let out after being injected. Tony injected the most troublesome bullock, let it out and of course it turned in rage, pawed the ground snorting, ready to charge at anything and anyone, that one being me. Tony instinctively and not meaning to be in-valiant, leapt into the cattle trap and shut the door shutting off my main point of exit, Dad then ran, scooped me up and threw me over the barrier before he vaulted over himself. . . a very near miss!!

I remember when I visited Tony with a friend of mine, Felicity. Tony and a friend of his were out rolling corn when the friend came into the house looking as white as a sheet, clasping his hand, with blood pumping onto the ground – he said he needed a plaster . . . In fact he needed a good deal more as he had been pushing corn into the rolling machine and his finger got rolled. Tony said that was one of 3 accidents in as many weeks, two others involving motor bikes I think, and he was in danger of a visit from health and safety people . . . !!

Tony and his damson jam and sloe gin making.

I remember balmy days on the back of the hay bailer trailer (getting sunstroke as I was 15 and refused to put any sun cream on!).

I remember spiders and webs overtaking the house.

Getting up in the early hours of the morning to watch Tony delivering lambs to this world. These had to be ?Adrianised? – i.e. all the gunk and blood and gooey stuff taken off them before Adrian could look at them without feeling faint!

I remember the half – tame / half wild pony in Tony?s bottom field which the postman was training, which I got bucked off.

Visiting the Lywoods in their mansion.

Tony?s stories about Aden and the amazing life he had out there. The people he met, the things he did!

Being presented with the Sword of Honour (was it that) by Grandpa.

Tony?s sheep scanning machine and when he offered to scan one of his guests when she was pregnant!

The prolonged fight he had to get planning permission for his new house as his old one crumbled around him, and in the end when he had used the slates from his old house to go on his new house, how he slept under a tarpaulin . . . And had to go upstairs by treading on the edges as most of the steps had collapsed.

His micro light plane which he was flying and his neighbour (Hugh Kennedy?) who tried to shoot him out of the sky.

When Tony saved Hugh Kennedy?s son from drowning in the manor?s swimming pool.

When Tony and mum and dad went to dinner with the Kennedy?s, Hugh pushed a bowl of cream into mum?s face.

When Tony fought for months to get the moto-cross off the land opposite his bottom field. His tenacity was amazing and meant he won in the end.

How proud he was taking us to the RAF museum and showing us the aircraft he had flown. He was such an amazing man. The life he lead! He was compassionate and understanding, opinionated (in the nicest way) but also able to hear everyone else?s argument and side of the story. He was a great listener and very supportive and ready to champion any cause you set before him. He was very caring.

It makes me smile when I think of him doing his astronaut training – that they told him he had to be over 18 but didn?t tell him what was too old! Him going to America for the space shuttle launch, him shooting off to Israel to research his book. And when he rang to tell me about it the highlight of his journey was throwing up on the carousel waiting for the luggage and also throwing up on the air hostess!!

He also delighted in telling me in detail about his recent eye operation.

It was also with real dignity, sense of humour and acceptance that he dealt with Bells Palsy – I really admired him for that, amongst other things.

He also charged through his 2 knee operations, choosing to watch one of them – I really did have to be firm about him not giving me the detail . . . Because even without being there I would have passed out!!

When he went to Nepal to rescue Piers and then got paid ?1,000 by Channel 5 but didn?t appear on the programme because he didn?t want to compromise his side of the story.

How compassionate Tony was and how he always offered help whenever I went through my low times in my life.

The Xmas hams which I will miss. Not as much as I will miss him though, of course!

He was so proud of his lovely new home. He was such a generous host and cooked incredible food and made sure there was always something fun and exciting for the children to do when we arrived. He was always happy to be invaded by hundreds of children and all the noise and stuff that comes with that and them.

Christmas at Tony?s was just so special – the journey from a rather worn silver tree which had stood the test of many Christmases past in his old and crumbling farm house to the 15 or so foot real tree which graced his new home.

He had hundreds of friends from all round the world of all ages and he was constantly entertaining or being entertained and shooting off round the UK and further to visit friends. A really sociable man with a fantastic sense of humour, who was very knowledgeable about almost everything you can be in life. Also very well travelled!

I loved Tony very, very much. He made a huge impact on my life right from a young child when weekends on Tony?s farm were hugely exciting and adventurous. Right up until recently when I had been going through the struggles with Thomas?s diagnosis and the Tribunal battles – he was so supportive right until the end. It was only a few days before we had spoken and arranged to get together in a July.

Julian Lang

Staying at Ouseley Farm in its early years was great fun but no sinecure. We all helped with the harvest, and I remember collecting straw bales from the field and loading them without gloves into Tony?s battered old car – no tractor or trailer in those days.

We had previously collected an at least second-hand combine harvester from its repairs in Bridgnorth, and Tony had driven it back with great glee at less than 10mph. I drove behind in a car with flashing lights, and we had a lovely long tail of cars behind when we turned off for Aston Eyre.

Tony and Patrick at the Lang?s

Steve Ralph

I am 40 years of age and have had the good fortune and honour to be influenced and guided in the way I grew up from the age of ten and feel I am the man I am today because of the informative guidance given to me over the years by Tony. When I became a young man we spent many hours in the kitchen of both the old and new house putting the world to rights over a good bottle of something. We had many hours of long debate on every subject you can think of and while being informed and guided, Tony also taught me to question things and turned me into a man he could have a discussions with that was balanced with to different points of view, and occasionally he almost came round to my way of thinking, but would not quite admit defeat (that’s Tony though, God bless him).

Tony was like a father to me as he taught me a lot more than my real dad while growing up, but unlike the family I only have memories and no pictures. I do have Tony’s grey coat that he wore in the RAF on parade that he gave to keep about 10 years ago. I had some much loved video footage of Tony and I having a laugh when he got his first video Camcorder, but my ex-wife threw them out, allegedly by mistake, that is now a devastating loss and another good reason for her being my e-wife!

I would love to be invited to pay my respects and to share in the memories of Tony’s colourful life. I feel like I know you, Penny, as we have been round the kitchen table many times when you have rung Tony. I would love to get hold of a copy of Tony’s round the world trip diary he wrote. It would be a great comfort and something of his life for me to hold on to, I have dipped in to it many times and been totally lost in the pages of his adventure. As I am not family I feel like an outsider looking in and feel I have no one to grieve with.

Sorry about the spelling and sometimes bad grammar, but I am very tired as it is gone Midnight and on top of that I am a little dyslexic as Tony used to point out with glee at times as some of my mistakes can be quite comickal! (that one was on purpose to illustrate and share the point).

All my love and deepest sympathy. I will never ever forget that great man, know one could ever forget him, friend or foe he left his mark.

Penny Lang

At the Adams’ annually-rented lodge in the Scottish Highlands, Tony was the only amateur fisherman, and the only one that week to catch a fish …

Tony with his catch

Dermot Boyle (Australian cousin)

My immediate memory of Tony was his unique thunderous laugh. Tony?s laugh was infectious to all those who laughed with him and I believe this defined his true character. Furthermore, Tony was always sincerely interested about the lives and well beings of others ? a rare characteristic in today?s busy and hectic world.

However, one must not forget Tony?s eagerness for adventure! During his ?Round the World Trip On One Pair of Socks? in 1998, I was fortunate enough to experience Tony?s passion to seek out adventure at any given opportunity.

The story of our adventure goes something like this??.

It was the 18 January 1998 and Tony and I were standing in the confined foyer of the Roxby Downs Motel ? the only motel located in the desert mining town of Roxby Downs in central Australia. The chilled air from the reception?s air conditioner was refreshing and certainly more appealing than the thirst-quenching desert heat that confronted us if we decided to leave the serenity of our current surroundings.

Tony and I were contemplating about our previous discussions on whether I should take Tony 900metres underground to witness a new underground crusher system being constructed for which I was a Senior Engineer at the time.

The predicament for us was mine security. The mine was the largest of its kind in Australia and was famous for its unique ore deposit that contained uranium, copper, gold and silver. Further, the mines owners had an authoritarian policy of no visitors, no videos and no cameras in order to protect their unique mining operations.

As I discussed with Tony the consequences of entering the mine illegally ? my instant dismissal from my employer and Tony?s trespassing charge from the local police – we both shook hands and wished each other luck as we prepared to leave the safe confines of the motel?s reception to the mine??…of course with Tony?s video and camera tucked neatly in his rear baggy pant pockets.

Immediately upon exiting the motel the desert heat engulfed Tony?s face as sweat began to form on all parts of his body ? however Tony was focused and determined to complete the mission. Tony entered the mine gates under stealth despite the presence of numerous security personnel??.his previous experience in covet operations were obviously an advantage as Tony quickly familiarised himself with his new environment and occupation – an underground miner..??or a look alike at best!

With camera and video safely secured inside the sweaty groin area of Tony?s newly acquired uniform we commenced our 900metre vertical journey underground down the dark and treacherous decline ? the mines only one lane carriageway.

After successfully taking Tony to all parts of the mines operations, including a near miss with a 50Tonne dump truck and a close encounter with a jumbo rig that was drilling blast holes into the merciless hard rock faces, I safely smuggled Tony out of the mine and back to the welcoming tranquillity of Tony?s motel.

Tony thoroughly enjoyed his underground experience in the middle of the Simpson Desert in Australia. Tony, as always, was enthusiastic and appreciative of the experience????and for me it was an absolute pleasure!

Susan Lang

As a child, holidays at Tony?s were always a high point for me. I can still remember one occasion when my 2 sisters and I shared a bedroom with the family parrot, who kept us awake for most of the night saying ?poor parrot? as he was chased round the cage by spiders. During the day, we were allowed to make dens in the crops and play on the farm machinery, and when we finally came back inside we were encouraged to write and draw on the walls. There was a time at our grandparent?s house in Sway, when Tony kept the three of us highly amused by getting his dog, Puppy, to herd us as we crawled round the garden.

As I grew up, I began to appreciate Tony?s fantastic hospitality (although I was glad to be on the right side of him after being introduced to the flame-thrower he kept under his bed). For the last few years he revelled in telling me stories of his latest exploits and dubious foreign contacts that might get me into trouble with my government employer? When I proudly told him about my first marathon a few years ago, Tony emailed me to say: ?you know marathons are not good for you – you’ll need new knees before you are 60!?.

Simon Duckworth

I am very sorry that I won’t be there either to support Ma (who has had a fairly torrid time recently) or to wave farewell to a loved and appreciated godfather.

I’m glad that you are all going back to the house, Tony was so very proud of rebuilding it, though I have fond memories of sitting on Chippendale chairs in a crumbling cottage (increasingly crumbling!) during teenage visits!

We used to see a fair bit of Tony in my childhood, a combination of God fatherly and cousinly duties, let alone erstwhile best man to Ma and Pa. I can remember a number of times when he came to Aunt Diddles’ Fairbourne Cottage when we had summer holidays as little children. But despite teenage visits to Aston Eyre, I don’t really think that I developed an adult friendship with Tony until Diddles’ death and helping him clear out Shakespeare Street etc. That and sorting out the mini drama of Uncle Bundy’s Crests, three of which now litter the landscape, rather than the original one! Thereafter we would meet up most years and have bizarre conversations when Tony would ring out of the blue and still be on the phone an hour later.

I very much enjoyed my last visit to the house, probably a couple of years ago now, but he was very much at home, sitting in a comfortable chair putting the world to rights with a glass of whiskey to hand.

Anyway, enough of that. I will miss him, as will Ma, but that will be nothing compared to a sister’s feelings. So to you love and sympathy go hand in hand, and though not with you all in body on Wednesday, I surely will be there in spirit as that rather enigmatic but gallant godfather of mine flies off to another space.

Adrian, Fleur, Rosalie and Peter Boyle

? His Dogs – Bagins, who rounded up the cows and put them in the barn, before Tony left the kitchen. ? His Micro light – Using his wellies, that he pushed through the flaps on the floor, to brake once on the ground. + A few near misses. ? The 3D noughts and crosses that Tony, with a little help from me, made on the computer. ? The rattly knife (all my children want me to make sure it is kept in a safe place!) that Tony flipped through the gap in the table. ? He got me to plough a field, which later he told me a previous farmer had rolled a tractor on. I loved having a go. ? As a child of 3 or 4, I was staying at Sway and wet the bed. My first memory of Tony was talking this through with him. I explained that I had had a dream that I was going to the loo and so I did – in bed. Tony said, “Yes I can remember doing just the same thing”. It made me feel a lot better. ? Second memory. Visiting his flat / house in London, he had a jar of glace cherries, a luxury I had not had before. One of us dropped the jar, and it smashed. Unflustered, he reached into his cupboard and produced a second. ? The Billy Graham story – Lightning etc. (Those things seemed to happen when Tony was there). ? He made a Maths programme for children on the computer too ? Rosalie: driving the ride-on mower sitting on Tony’s lap ? Peter: playing in the hay stacks in Tony’s barn. He showed us how to rattle the knife down the crack in the table! And winding the grandfather clock with him. Our last memory of him as a family is him throwing an egg at our car window as we drove away after staying with him over Easter!

Penny Lang

A great battler for what he considered right, and worried by a fleet of recent laws which he saw as eating into our freedoms and our democratic processes, he took a great interest in Helena Kennedy?s Power Inquiry, but was disappointed when its recommendations, like so many, came to nought. I went with him once to one of their ? not hugely exciting conferences – where he noticed the security metal detectors, and insisted on passing through one to see if his new knees would set it off. They didn?t, so he knew he could safely fly without risk of being impounded. Or at any rate, not for having metal knees.

? Helping with troublesome bullocks ? Christmas decorations left up all yr round. ? Walks up the Long Mynd, visits to Ironbridge museum. ? Picnics up on the hill among the sheep. ? Christmas hams and chocolates ? Battles ? fighting for insurance on the old house. New house: new project. Fighting for planning permission ? So many interests:
? Used to stay in Dingle?s cottage in Wales. ? Followed Formula 1 ? Got a hole in one at golf. ? The damson jam ? and the most satisfactory wine cupboard.
? Read widely ? Collected pictures ? which all meant something special to him. ? Latterly he wrote a lot, and I shall miss the proof reading. ? Oz cousins – ?he was such a success in Oz? ? Roxby Downs ? 900 m down vast mine, managed by a cousin. Strictly no visitors or photography. And he was taken down by scanning one security card twice. ? Fascinated by the Easter Island statues.

In London, where his house was burgled and the policeman who came said: “It would have been alright if you’d shot him as he was leaving Sir, but always remember to turn them over and shoot them again in the front!”. Since Tony never saw the burglar and there was never any question of Tony shooting him, it became just another of Tony’s extravagant but highly enjoyable stories, that got better each time he told it.

He took enormous pleasure in describing at great length every detail of his various medical procedures, just to see how much his audience could take. When he had both knees renewed, he opted to have one done under an epidural so he could check the surgeon was performing adequately.

Richard Boyle

On the front cover of Tony?s book ?Round the World? it states ?on one pair of socks!? Bev in charge of washing would like to add and ?two pairs of underpants?.

It was lovely having Tony in Oz for Natalie?s wedding in January 1998. He was genuinely interested in the family, a very caring and generous person. Tony gave Natalie and Steve a most beautiful antique set of cutlery. Natalie says it is, by far, the best wedding present that she was given. We asked Tony how did he find it, he said he spent many days visiting antique shops in Birmingham and London until he found what he wanted. Also told us that the set had a tablespoon missing, so spent even longer finding a spoon which was added to complete the set.

After the wedding Bev and I took Tony camping for a week. Our last stop was Kalgoolie the famous gold town. Tony took us to a lovely meal plus plenty of drinks at the Palace Hotel. On arriving back at the camp site at 10.00pm Tony suddenly announces he is going to phone his Architect in Shropshire as it?s only 2.00pm in the UK. Tony spent 20 seconds discussing his house and about 30minutes telling his Architect all about Oz and what a beaut place it was! Before leaving Perth on 18 January 1998, Tony very kindly bought Bev an avocado tree and 10.5 years later his tree is going strong, and is a continuous memory Tony?s kindness.

Yet another delightful memory of Tony. In 1999 Bev & I were in London and Tony came all the way from Shropshire to take us to the RAF Club in Piccadilly. During the evening meal, having just received our main course when it was announced that there was a fire in the kitchen and all customers might have to be evacuated. Tony immediately, thinking outside the square, stated that what we should do, before leaving, was to save all the beautiful paintings hanging in the dining room. Tony was ready to start taking down the first painting when we were told the fire was under control. Who else, but Tony, in this situation would have thought of saving the paintings before himself.

Rosie Pearson (nee Lang)

Tony was a very generous host and good cook. My husband Stephen and I were plied with beer and wine one evening before eventually escaping to sleep at midnight as Tony tried to offer us a 5th(?) bottle. At the pub the next day where we had lunch, Tony was the only one who had recovered enough to order a beer.

When staying with Tony I remarked on his weed-free garden. He proudly showed us the secret of his success; a very powerful flame-thrower, which he stored in his bedroom.

Luke Dunbar

So sorry to hear about Tony. I spoke to him on Thursday and he was on top form as usual. It?s hard to believe he is not with us anymore. We had such a fantastic time in Florida earlier this year fulfilling our dream to see a Shuttle launch. He was a great friend and Godfather and will be truly missed.

Jean Banks

What has impressed me about the projects I have known Tony to be involved with, is that he always desired Righteousness and Justice and enquired of God.

When he went to Nepal with the aim of getting his cousin released from a Nepalese jail, he said that he would not be involved with any bribery and despite scepticism achieved his aim.

Nigel Spooner

This is a copy of an email from Tony to Nigel:

?Thanks Nigel – intriguing, if rather sparse, and dismissive of what I would call a solid, reliable aircraft, which plugged a gap in our all-weather, day and night defences before the Lightning came into operational service. We lost two aircraft during my time on Javelins at Leuchars. There were two squadrons of them, 151 and 29, probably numbering 32 aircraft, and some bright spark one day decided to scramble all of them through 30,000 feet of cloud. We took off in pairs every minute. Somehow one pair lagged a bit, and another pair was a bit fast, and the leader of the faster pair climbed into the tail of one of the front pair destroying the cockpit and killing the crew of the former and destroying the tail of the latter. The crew of the front aircraft ejected and were picked up relatively unscathed. Thereafter the spacing for pairs on scramble was increased to 2 minutes in bad weather! The Javelin performed quite well on one engine, and though there was a spell when engine reliability was a problem, single-engined landings were not. We routinely flew 300 miles north at altitude, turned one engine off to conserve fuel and waited in a holding area until a Russian ‘Bear’ or two hove into radar view. We then relit the dead engine, homed onto the Bear, and escorted it to its nearest point on the British coast (usually 25 miles) when it turned round and flew back to Russia, and we returned to Leuchars. If it approached closer than 20 miles to the coast we would be instructed to shoot it down. Quite how we were to achieve that was never very clearly explained. We had 4 forward firing Aden guns, they had a forward firing gun turret, a rear turret, a turret on the top of the fuselage, and another turret on the bottom, each was radar controlled. As we escorted them we tried various lines of attack, trying to find their blind spot, but there was always at least one turret trained on us. Fortunately for me they always turned away from the coast in time. I arranged with a friend of mine in the Hunter squadron at Leuchars (43 Sqn) to meet me in the air one day to try out the Javelin against the Hunter – highly illegal, but I felt it was important to know how the Javelin performed in a dog fight. The Javelin’s biggest problem was that if you stalled it the big delta wings blanked off the air flow from the tail plane, and you lost longitudinal control. So a stalled, or worse a spinning Javelin was unrecoverable. During prototype testing at least two test pilots had to eject for this reason. Instead of designing a fix for the problem they built in a low speed warning bleeper and a stall warning klaxon. I decided in advance of my dog fight with the Hunter that I would respond instantly to the klaxon but would ignore the bleeper. We duly met and immediately got into a dog fight spiral as we both sought to get behind the other so that we could bring our guns, (camera) to bear. For that you need to be turning as tightly as possible with as low an airspeed as possible. The Javelin was more maneuverable then the Hunter in every respect, and I was able to stay behind him, but while we fought for twenty minutes the low speed bleeper was on all the time, and I controlled the klaxon by easing the turn each time it came on. The exercise was most satisfactory, and not only gave me a distinct edge in subsequent discussions in the bar between Hunter and Javelin pilots, but also a confidence in flying the Javelin to its limits. Unfortunately my navigator took a different view and as we walked away from the aircraft he said that if I ever did that again he would ask for a change of pilot. I never did it again, but it was sad that he couldn’t realise that he would be much safer in my hands as a result of that flight, should we ever come up against a real foe. Enough of reminiscing! Love to you all. Tony?

The following are taken from phone calls or conversations:

Zara Dunbar

Remembers with some terror small children sitting on the baling sledge, being flung round Tony’s fields towed by the tractor. Picnics up on the big hill, surrounded by sheep.

Sanda Browne Remembers his lovely little mews house, Holly Mews, in London in the 60s early 70s and a party watching the first moon landing, playing silly games. Sanda put him in touch with Dame Laura Knight, the artist, which ended with him buying one of her ‘vapour trail’ paintings (at the top of the stairs on the landing).

Judith Duckworth

She remembers Tony & Patrick aged late 20s joking around one evening and portraying themselves as they would be: ?a doddery old pair, slightly gaga, and shuffling along arm in arm. It was very funny, but what a good thing both your brothers avoided that?. Tony was John’s best man at their wedding, and one of Simon’s Godfathers.

Holidays together at Dingle’s cottage in Wales, Tony & John attempting to fly remote-controlled planes on the beach, and when it wasn’t very successful, Tony explaining that it was of course very different from the real thing.

Ailsa Boyle

Remembers when he was apparently mistaken for Prince Charles once in the middle of London.

Joan Hutchings

Tony was very good to Aunt Doreen in her last few years. He visited her regularly in Stratford-upon-Avon and was a God-send. When she died, Tony was her Executor and did a marvellous job ensuring that everything went smoothly and was distributed fairly.

David Atkinson

I will always remember Tony for the following things: ? Open-minded to new technology: massive enthusiasm for his TomTom ? Old dog, new tricks: teaching him how to use a steel ? Surprised by well-stocked kitchen; less surprised by wine store. ? Hams at Christmas ? Always work hard at Ouseley (see right!), cutting down (hedges) or digging up (greenhouse). ? Beating the local moto-cross

Some brief extracts concerning Tony Boyle from: ?Looking for Trouble ? SAS to Gulf Command – The Autobiography? pp 202-206 Reproduced by kind permission of the author: Sir Peter de la Billi?re.

pp 202-3

??I was gradually drawn into another activity far more exciting than any of my official duties: I became an undercover agent. The man who introduced me to this new role was Tony Boyle, a tall, thin, dark airman then working as ADC to the Governor. The son of MRAF Sir Dermot Boyle, Tony had flown fast jet fighters in Scotland and Germany, and come out to Aden for an obligatory ground tour in the middle of his RAF career. Part of his job in Aden was to organise hospitality at Government House, and one day early in 1963 who should arrive to stay as a guest of the Governor but David Stirling. Tony knew, of course, that Stirling was the founder of the SAS, and soon saw that he and Sir Charles Johnston were old friends. One night after the two had dined together alone at Government house, Johnston excused himself and went to bed, leaving Tony to drink whisky with Stirling on the terrace. Presently Stirling started to talk about his idea for sending support to the Royalist forces who were waging a guerrilla war of resistance against the Republicans in the Yemen, and asked Toy if he would help people as they passed through Aden. So began an extraordinary, covert operation which lasted for five years, substantially debilitated the armed forces of Egypt, and had a profound effect on events throughout the Middle East …? ?? Because the operation had not been officially sanctioned by the British Government, the SAS itself could not take part. Yet here was an ideal opportunity for former members of the Regiment to exercise their skills in a mercenary role ? and who better to direct them than the one-time Commanding Officer of 21st SAS, Jim Johnson? …?

p205

??At first it was Tony Boyle who fielded the mercenaries in Aden and sent them on: he evolved an efficient system whereby a Dakota would be parked on the airstrip close to the spot where the twice-weekly Comet from London came to a halt, and passengers and their heavy freight would transfer straight to it, without passing through customs. In time, however, Jim Johnson felt that he needed an army officer to handle the traffic, and so he asked Tony to recruit me?.?

p206

??For communication with London, we used the normal post and civilian cable network, disguising our activities by means of simple codes ? with cipher-words ?? ??Another time, Tony Boyle (then back in England) sent a message ?IN SWAY OVER WEEKEND?, and everyone in Aden became tremendously excited, thinking a parachute drop of arms and equipment was imminent. Word went all the way up the line into the Yemen, and when nothing happened, we were acutely disappointed. So were the Egyptians, whose intelligence service had intercepted the message and alerted the Yemeni defences to look out for parachutists. All Tony had meant was that he would be spending the weekend with his parents at Sway, the village where they lived in the New Forest?? ??The pressure on me increased sharply in September, when Tony?s tour of duty ended. He had begun to suffer severe headaches, and an x-ray suggested he might have a tumour on the brain. Luckily this diagnosis proved wrong, and the trouble turned out to be migraine; but it was bad enough to prevent him flying fast jets any more, and he resigned from the air force. This was great loss to the RAF, as he clearly had a distinguished career ahead of him; yet it was a considerable gain to us, since he promptly joined Jim Johnson?s team in London, and several times returned to Aden during the course of the operation ??

Tributes to Tony from the funeral

St Mary Magdalene, Bridgnorth 28 May 2008

Penny Lang

Hello everyone – it?s lovely to see so many of you here, and I?d like to thank all of you who?ve been instrumental in helping us to organise today, and for the support you?ve given us over the last week. That, in itself, says a huge amount about Tony.

I?m going to start by going off-piste ? but only briefly: Tony?s old friend and colleague, Jim Johnson, is very sadly unable to be with us, but I?d like to tell one of his stories: Tony had volunteered for Christmas in the desert, where the only other military were 4 tough French paratroopers living in a cave. They invited Tony to Christmas lunch, which would consist of 5 fattened desert partridges. Tony arrived and ate a seriously haute?cuisine meal. Afterwards, he leant back contentedly and remarked how different Yemeni partridges tasted to English ones. Whereupon he was told that unfortunately all 5 partridge had been killed by a feral cat. Tony, with a sinking feeling, asked: ?so what have I just eaten?? Straight back came the answer: ?The Cat.?

I am proud to be able to pay a tribute to an amazing brother, Toto. As the youngest of 3, I remember as a child it was rather like having 3 ? very benevolent ? fathers. And Tony continued in that persona for many young people and family throughout his life. His interests were legion. He was always full of ideas for new projects, and was no stranger to drama. He was a kind, wise man of enormous integrity, a great raconteur with a wonderful sense of fun; the kind of man one could talk about for hours ? but don?t worry, I won?t.

He, with Patrick, had a wartime childhood in the country in Devon and Sussex where he loved to pass his time helping on a local farm; and in our grandparents? family home, Woodlands. After school, the RAF and some rather dubious activities in the desert, he returned to London, where he worked for a while with Patrick, on the Bottle Chopper, and at Post Plan. Then, on the proceeds of the sale of his London house, he moved to Ouseley Cottage, to fulfil his childhood dream of becoming a farmer. Those of you who knew the dilapidated old house, will remember fertiliser bags in the windows in place of glass. Even our parrot on entering the house said it was ?orrible.

Many of you will have exhausting memories of Tony?s early days here, when our meal ticket was to carry straw bales all day long, piling them laboriously, manually right to the roof of the barn ? often our small children up there with them. In the early days, bales were transported by car.

He settled so happily here, and Ouseley became the centre for his wide circle of friends and relations. It was regarded as a childrens? Mecca ? where they were instructed to scribble on the walls. Patrick?s children regarded him as a kind of surrogate father, and many others speak of him as an uncle. It?s revealing that his address books list whole families ? not only his generation, but their children and children?s children ? who were all his friends in their own right. When our parents, and aunt Dingle were ill, he put his own life on hold for several months to look after them to the end. A real family man.

He was very open-minded, and a bit of a scientist manqu? I felt ? fascinated by spaceflight & the moon shots of the 60s; and, like our father, was intrigued by new technology. His Tom-Tom Sat-Nav was embraced with more than average enthusiasm, and took us on many a winding tour. Tony also noted with glee that his recently-installed windmill had the effect of making his electricity meter spin backwards at great speed.

FINALLY, he was a well-travelled man, and often a not very conventional one. On a holiday in Italy, we visited Loreto, an important pilgrimage site, Tony ignored all the public car parks, drove right up to the main entrance, and parked. Miraculously, the car still awaited us on our return.

He was never short of a good story, whether of the exploding tree or being attacked by Vietnamese pirates. During the cold war period, in the old house, he awoke to find a tank gun projecting from his barn He collected his shotgun, and cautiously approached the tank ordering the occupants to show themselves. Slowly, 4 extremely nervous cadets emerged, hands high. And, when finally allowed to, they explained they were on exercise, had got lost and decided to hole up in the shelter of ?. ?.. a derelict farm.

So – I know how much we will all miss Tony, but he?s left a lasting impression on so many. As a military colleague said of him: ?he was a brave and thoughtful person, and a good comrade?. He was our rock.

St Mary Magdalene, Bridgnorth. 28 May 2008

Geoffrey Adams

I feel very privileged to have been asked to say a few words today.

Tony was my best friend; but then I imagine that there are many people here today who could say the same thing. Whether you were related or not, once you gained his respect ? and I don?t think he suffered fools gladly ? you entered a very special circle.

If you ever wanted to bounce an idea around, it was to Tony that we all turned. Whether they were small personal matters or of national importance. ?Ask Tony. He?ll know.?

I would have sent this piece to him to vet and any suggestions he?d have made would have been cogent and helpful: ?It?s too long. You missed the bit about the RAF Museum. What about my travels??

In recent years, Tony took up the cudgels about many things, whether it was the iniquity of the Public Trustee, wind turbines or the latest invention that he took under his wing; whether it was an interesting manuscript that a friend had written or a project that was dear to his heart, like Democracy, he didn?t just talk about it, he moved into action. Just like the book of his experiences in The Yemen that he was writing.

I was at school with Tony and, not being in the same house, our paths first crossed in the RAF Section of The Corps. When we left, I did my National Service and Tony began his more distinguished career in the RAF. Passing out as top cadet at Cranwell, he told me recently that his father, then Marshal of The Royal Air Force, and due to present the sword of Honour at the Passing Out Parade, and obviously embarrassed at the thought of accusations of nepotism, asked the C.O. whether he couldn?t think of anyone who was more deserving. The photograph we have all seen in Tony?s study proves that there wasn?t.

As many know and others are better able to tell you, Tony had an exciting time in the late fifties and early sixties. On 5th July 1964 the Sunday Times Insight team blew the whistle on the Yemen Operation ? I still have the article. He remained in London, first in Holly Mews, and then Settrington Road, working for his country in a different way but later ?upped sticks? and moved to a little farm in Aston Eyre, where he lived for the next thirty four years.

It was here that he provided comfort, generous hospitality and a refuge for those who sought it. Initially the price we paid was staying in a ramshackle house, with only the bare necessities and with one bedroom, known affectionately in our family as The Rat Room, that it needed particular courage to enter. We came prepared to hoover, dust, clean and tidy, which we did with a vengeance for the first twenty four hours but, by the second day we too were wearing wellies in the kitchen and by the third, actually going up the creaking stairs to bed in them.

If Tony was like a brother to me, he was a very kind and special ?uncle? to all my children. We ?lambed? with him at night, we watched his foal being born and we took it in turns to plough and sow his fields. We watched him take to the air in his micro light by day and laughed the evenings away around the kitchen table.

It was also here that my son Christian polished his art as a cartoonist by drawing on the walls. If Tony hadn?t moved to his brand new house, a request from Christian for the return of all his original illustrations would have meant that the walls and doors would have had to be removed and that the house would have fallen down. Which, of course, eventually, it did.

Tony was straightforward, utterly dependable and honest ? at least I thought he was, until we caught him one night, when we were playing Colditz, re-deploying his ?guards? around the castle with scant regard for the rules, when he thought we weren?t looking.

Through the years as we both grew older and they grew up, Ouseley Farm was ?open house? for us all. We just said: ?Can we come up on so and so day?? and if no one else was booked in, we went. We took a few bottles of wine and some whisky and did the ?first shop? in Bridgnorth and the next three days would be such fun that one wondered why, at the end of it, one had to return to civilization and a boring job in London.

In the evening we would yarn and dine and open bottles of wine at a prodigious rate, while the poker chips changed hands and Big Mississippi was the game.

Peter Crowther

(As Peter was sadly unable to attend the service, it was read by Air Commodore Michael Allisstone, CBE).

?I first met Tony in 1953 when we entered the RAF College. After all the tests we had to pass to get there, I was surprised to hear him say, on his first day there, that he had always wanted to be a farmer! His presence, qualities of leadership, and skilled flying gained him the Sword of Honour ? and it was amusing that on a gusty Lincolnshire day it was only Tony?s hat blown off during our graduation parade, in front of the reviewing officer ? his father, the then Chief of the Air Staff.

He then moved to Germany to a day fighter squadron. During his time there he visited a wine festival where the hotel owner?s pretty twin daughters showed him round. ?Did you take their phone number?? I asked. ? No? he replied, ?I was too busy with my Hawker Hunter.?

A spell on Javelin all-weather fighters followed, with the task of escorting the Russian Bear bombers intruding on our air space. But Tony loved to use the low wing loading of his aircraft to taunt the poor Russians, while his stall-warning sounded and his crewmen complained loudly.

He was then appointed ADC to the Governor of Aden, allowing him to see the uses of power. But a blob on an X-ray of his brain (a thumb print perhaps?) reduced his medical rating, and thus his future career prospects. Fate intervened, and he met Col David Stirling of the SAS. This led to his working with them, Yemeni royalist ?rebels? and other friends, to keep Nasser?s army and Russian air units in check, perhaps changing the course of history.

He then moved to his beloved Shropshire, to his farm and the hovel in which he lived, courtesy of the ?oxymoronic? town planners. These were harsh years, ageing him and destroying his knees.

But in recent years he was able to build his comfortable new house, when we had an amusing time, choosing his carpets and curtains together and placing his pictures on the walls, like a couple of fading ?lovies?! He obtained new knees, changing his life for the better.

Happily, he had a good safari holiday with his brother before Patrick died. And Tony went round the world ?on one pair of socks? as he put it. More recently he enjoyed the drama of a shuttle launch from Cape Canaveral.

To demonstrate his skills, he obtained the release from a Nepal jail of five young adventurers. In addition, he helped a friend to leave a central American prison. How? We do not know.

Many people have asked me why he never married. I do know that he proposed marriage to a young lady. I also happen to know he much enjoyed spending time on the beach at Aden in the company of a particular young lady of some standing; until the Governor?s wife warned him: ?Tony, I?m afraid this has to stop ? you can?t afford her.?

My wife bravely asked him why he?d never wed. ?Why should I be so stupid as to allow myself to be as bullied and ordered about as your poor Peter?? My wife also offered to look after him in his dotage, together with me and my brother. Crisply, he retorted ?Count me out?.

Staying with him a month ago, I suggested that we should struggle on for another ten years. ? I?m off in two? he said ? when I?ve finished my book on Yemen?.

I will miss the long, late night kitchen chats, with red wine, the reviews of democracy, ecology, stock markets and aircraft.

That great voice is stilled; he has entered his last ?great adventure?. A firm friend with warmth and kindness is no more. May God bless him.?

Margaret Cosh

When my family arrived in Aston Eyre in 1977 Tony had already been there for a few years building up his farm. My husband John and he became friends and that friendship extended to Ben, Emma and me when John died two years later. I suspect it was Tony who orchestrated the early support for us with other members of the village which saw us through those difficult early months. This was typical of Tony: when people were in need, he offered support, always willing to listen or act.

Over the years, the countless meals and cups of tea we have shared with him were always enhanced by Tony?s stories. He was a remarkable storyteller and he will be remembered by his friends, old and young, for his fantastic sound effects which accompanied many a tale, as well as his dramatic presentation. Stories were moulded into legends in his hands, adventures were chronicled as multi-part thrillers. You were never certain whether the colour was authentic or the detail correct, but it rarely mattered. The vivid pictures and implausible circumstances which he recounted will stay with us for a long time to come.

Tony was a magnet for young people and he always had a warm welcome for them. To a young child his old house was an Aladdin?s cave ? full of mythical creatures and booby traps. I think in retrospect these were the chicks hatching in the incubator and the hole in the stairs, but I?m sure he would have preferred the first explanation.

To teenagers his house was a sanctuary where they were always treated as an adult, but allowed to behave as children. Ian Fullerlove tells how his front door, was always open ? literally. Unlocked, whether he was there or not. When they were 18 or so, they used to visit Tony after they?d been to the pub, just to hang out with him, continue drinking, play table football, space invaders or bar billiards ? his games room was legendary and the Fullerloves, Coshes and friends gravitated there on many occasions. On moving to his new house he relished being able to entertain his many friends and relatives in more salubrious surroundings

Tony and I would often talk about Christian faith and the Church. Some years ago he commented that he thought I was trying to change things from within but he had decided organised religion was not for him. Jean Banks commented this week that in the many projects that Tony undertook she was always so impressed by his determination to act righteously and with justice, enquiring of God. His insistence on adhering to his own code made him both honourable and exasperating: a man who refused to enter into bribing officials in Nepal, and one who was intractable once his mind was made up.

My children grew up knowing that they could draw on his wisdom and friendship to see them through. A father figure and a friend; a mentor and ally; he took the mickey and gave encouragement in equal measures. Tony?s love of practical jokes and his sense of humour meant he was able to enter into the childhood mindset. In response to her childish refusal to eat cabbage, his reaction was to throw it across the table at Emma, or Ems as he called her; in taking directions through the Shropshire lanes, he chose the literal interpretation of straight on, and drove her straight through a field. To a child these were great jokes and they remain family memories: shared and laughed about even today.

Equally, his intellect and fascination with politics found an outlet and collaborator in Ben. They both derived such pleasure from the wide ranging discussions they had. He was able to seek counsel and advice during many discussions with Tony at his kitchen table. Their mutual interest in technology evolved into Tony offering his barn as a research site for installing wind turbines when he started up his own alternative energy business last year.

Tony was a man who appeared larger than life while alive, and will live on for long afterwards in the memories of all of us here. Surely there must be a kitchen table ?up there? so Tony can feel at home talking with all his friends and family who have gone before him.

Writings by Tony

Pink Elephant Time By Tony Boyle, May 2007

If you insist on arriving at Tel Aviv?s Ben Gurion airport at a time when your hosts will be awake to meet you, you must leave London very early in the morning. My Lufthansa flight left at 0630 and I had to book in for security checks 3 hours before take off. How do you get to Heathrow at 0330? (Well 0300 actually ? allowing an extra quarter of an hour each for delays and for getting the shuttle from the car park to Terminal 2). Without a car you don?t, so I had to leave home at a quarter to midnight, just when I was ready for bed. But TomTom was wide awake and programmed, everything was packed into the car, and all the bits of paper you need for a journey were sorted in their correct order. I closed down the house and set off with a tingle of excitement that I was returning to Israel for the first time in forty years. The roads were empty, TomTom had been expecting normal traffic, so by 0230 I was in the Heathrow maze trying to find the Pink Elephant (yes, really!) car park. ?It is well signed from the M4?, Kylie, the helpful Aussie girl from ?Cheap Flights? had said. Not one sign did I see as I drove round searching, with TomTom becoming increasingly irritating as it tried to take me up sinister unlit lanes marked ?freight only?. In despair I drove to the drop off point at Terminal 2, collared one of the Shuttle coach drivers and, with extreme care in enunciating the words, and feeling very foolish at three in the morning, asked if he knew where the Pink Elephant car park was. He led me to it. Going into the office I complained I had not seen one sign to the Pink Elephant. ?No, they?re not visible at night!? The shuttle coach left as soon as I boarded, and I arrived at the Lufthansa departure desk at 0300. Terminal 2 would not grace a third world country. Twenty people had been misled into arriving at the same time as me. We were greeted by signs saying check-in did not open until 0430. There were six chairs to accommodate us, and the putative passengers were all sitting on or standing round them bemoaning their fate. I joined them and ? ah! the joy of being old ? was offered (and accepted) a seat. Conversation was varied and interesting. Then a young man, clean and quite well dressed, came up and asked if anyone could lend him 70p to ring his Dad for a lift from the airport. Everyone else turned their eyes from him, but I thought, well he might be genuine, I can afford it, and gave him ?1. Soon, tiring of the wait and the company, who made it clear that I had been conned, I set off in search of coffee. Six machine-gun toting policemen directed me upstairs ? the elevators of course were off for the night ? and I found exactly what I sought. Having ordered, I looked round at the few people sitting whiling away the time until the airport opened. Among them, tucking into the most enormous breakfast I have ever seen was the conman. I went up to him and said he must have done well ? ?Yes, I was lucky, someone gave me a fiver!? Then he asked, cool as anything ?Are you going on holiday or business?? I sat at a table and watched as he conned someone else out of a cigarette. When he left he walked past me and wished me a good flight. Why did that irritate me? Frankfurt, where I changed flights, is monstrously huge. After you go through check-in there is a map showing all the departure gates with a sign telling you how long it takes you to get to them ? the furthest one is a twenty five minute walk. The 747 from Frankfurt to Tel Aviv was my worst nightmare. Despite strenuous efforts to get a seat with leg-room the best they could do was to put me on an aisle. There was no room to get my legs behind the seat in front, so I sat with them out in the aisle for five hours, where they were kicked and bashed and tripped-over throughout the flight. Our stewardess produced the best trip. The aircraft was still climbing, and as she went towards the back of the aircraft she was going slightly downhill. The large tray of plastic-wrapped sandwiches she was carrying obscured her view of my legs, which she caught with both feet. Lunging forward like a sprinter off the mark, sandwiches well to the fore, she desperately tried to make her feet keep up with her body. The sandwiches quickly started to fly among the startled passengers. All too soon the toilets at the rear of the aircraft, looming large in her view, forced her to abandon the tray and the remaining sandwiches to save herself. When she had recovered her dignity and the sandwiches and distributed the latter, she came up to my seat. She seemed quite upset, so I forestalled her by asking to see the purser or the senior flight attendant: ?No hurry, whenever it is convenient?. In due course a very nice stewardess came up and I explained the problem ? she started the usual excuses: ?We can?t have seats that accommodate people who are exceptionally large . . ? I interrupted: ?I am not exceptionally large, and I thought the Germans had agreed not to transport Jews in conditions worse than cattle?. This produced chuckles from my Jewish neighbours, and completely torpedoed her, so she said she would be writing a report about it. Good, said I, me too, and this is my name and my contact details and I hope Lufthansa will do something about it. Over-reaction perhaps, but clamped in the vice of Lufthansa?s seating, and after a night with no sleep it seemed reasonable at the time. Tel Aviv was a vibrant revelation. A brand new, enormous terminal dwarfs the passengers. My first experience of Israeli customs and immigration (after twenty or so visits to Israel when I was whisked from the aircraft and taken out through a side door), was painless, and my passport was quickly stamped with a three month visa. My host, Nahum Admoni, was waiting to meet me, and I was soon installed in a comfortable flat above his penthouse in a new eighteen storey block with an enormous rooftop garden growing roses, lemons, oranges and figs outside my bedroom. If half the world?s giant cranes are in Beijing the other half are certainly in Tel Aviv. Everywhere I looked from the windows I saw massive high rise buildings being erected. Israel was booming, having a larger balance of payments surplus than Britain, with the skyline of diverse shapes and designs trumpeting this prosperity. Nina, Nahum?s lovely, intelligent, hard working wife prepared a delicious supper, and quite soon afterwards I was relishing my first bedtime for nearly two days. Next day Nahum took me up to Jerusalem with his nephew (who had not been born when I was last there), acting as driver and guide. My last visit had been two days after the Six Day War in 1967 ? on that occasion Nahum had also accompanied me, and had insisted I carried an ouzi sub-machine gun which neither he nor I knew how to operate. Then, the streets were filled with people: Arabs nervous for their future, and Israeli servicemen rejoicing in their conquest. The tatty shacks which had grown up along the Temple Wall had already been bulldozed and many Israeli soldiers were praying along its length. Now the narrow streets were a huge traffic jam, and the Temple Wall had been surrounded by a security wall of wire mesh, with checkpoints where people were searched before being allowed to enter. The whole area was seething with people. From afar, while the ancient city appeared mostly unchanged (any change causes such problems between Arabs and Jews, or among the many Christian sects, that little can be altered), the sprawl of new settlements outside the old city, both Arab and Jewish, was very marked. The Arabs appeared to be flourishing, though barely tolerating Jewish domination. The main roads are now four or six lane highways connecting Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, and the main Ben Gurion Airport. Tel Aviv is almost unrecognisable ? the sea front hotels have all been rebuilt, and breakwaters have been erected several hundred metres off shore, not for security, but to calm the water for the bathers. The roads within the city would make London proud, and the railway system has been completely modernised. Everywhere throughout the sprawling suburbs there are high quality shopping malls within walking distance of the houses. Yet underlying all this prosperity there is a deeper and more pervasive anxiety than I have ever before detected in this tormented people, even when they were threatened by a simultaneous attack by every one of their Arab neighbours. I wonder if this anxiety is not the driving force behind the extraordinary development which you see everywhere in the country ? a sort of national retail therapy? Arieh Oz, who commanded the Israeli?s Stratocruiser squadron in the 60?s, and flew many of the parachute drops into Egyptian occupied Yemen with me aboard, took me for a day?s sightseeing to Galilee and the Golan Heights. On the way he reminded me of our first flight together. We had successfully dropped arms and ammunition to Royalist Yemenis only fifteen miles from the enemy occupied capital, Sana?a, and its Russian manned airfield – well stocked with Russian Migs and Russian pilots. On our way home up the Red Sea, passing Jeddah, Tel Aviv informed us that they were clamped in fog. Arieh decided to throttle the engines back to save fuel and slow down, to give the sun a chance to rise and burn off the fog before we arrived. On reaching Tel Aviv we saw a huge bank of fog, with a fifty yard strip of runway just visible to one side of it. He set the massive Stratocruiser down right on the end of the runway and we were immediately engulfed in fog. He completed the landing on instruments. When he switched off the engines we had fifteen minutes fuel left in the tanks, after a flight of sixteen and a half hours. He then told me of his experiences in Holland during WWII. In 1938 his father, anticipating what was to come, emigrated to Israel to make a place for his wife and their two children, Arieh, then aged six, and his four year old sister. When the Germans invaded Holland the Dutch Resistance came to his mother and said she must go into hiding with the children. When she refused, they said that they would not force her ? if she wanted to be murdered it was up to her, but they were not going to allow her children to be killed, and would remove them. They took them both, and hid them in separate farmhouses. Shortly afterwards his mother also agreed to be hidden by the resistance. None of the family now knew where any of the others were ? it would have been too risky if any of them were caught. Arieh lived as one of the children of a peasant farmer, and whenever the Germans came to search their house, which they did quite frequently, he was hidden in the roof. From here he could see out through a small slit where a tile was slightly dislodged, and through this slit he remembers watching the parachutists landing at Arnhem. When the war ended they had all survived, and the family was reunited with the help of the Red Cross and the Resistance. Arieh and his mother and sister were evacuated in one of the refugee ships, which the British, (then controlling Palestine through the UN Mandate), declared illegal. They fired at and torpedoed them to stop them. They got through all that, and were reunited with his father who had a small flat in Tel Aviv. Settling again as a family was far from easy ? his parents had been separated for nearly nine years, his mother was a city girl and hated the heat and dust of Tel Aviv, and the children hardly remembered their parents. But they got through all that too, and when Arieh joined the Israeli Air Force and had a little money he invited the Dutch couple who had sheltered him at the risk of the lives of all their family to come to Israel to receive Israel?s highest award for such courage. Of the 140,000 Jews in that area of Holland the Resistance managed to hide 5,000. Of these 3,000 were caught, so for Arieh and all his immediate family to survive was quite extraordinarily fortunate. It is surely a measure of those desperate times that these appalling experiences can be called fortunate. Whenever he heard that one of his surrogate parents was ill he flew to Holland to see them; he went to the funeral of the lady who had risked so much for him, and when he heard that her husband had died he went to Holland for his funeral too. He hired a car at the airport and drove straight to their house, where he was greeted by the daughter ? one of the little girls he had been brought up with ? with the request that he move his car from the front of the house ? ?A German car with a Jewish driver is a little too much?. He left the farmhouse, his childhood refuge from certain death, and flew home immediately after attending the funeral. He will never return. We drove a while in silence, lost in thought, until I asked what he had been doing since we last met over dinner in London almost forty years ago. Working with Nahum he had led a formation of four Hercules aircraft carrying medics and paratroopers into Entebbe to rescue the Israelis who had been taken hostage there. As he was coming in to land, with the lights of his aircraft extinguished, he was spotted by an alert air traffic controller. This man sided with the hijackers and ordered all the airfield lights to be turned off. Arieh, temporarily blinded by the after-glow of the lights, nevertheless managed to land safely, as did the three aircraft following him. Had they failed the outcome of the Entebbe operation would have been very different. He told me how the Stratocruisers, ageing, increasingly unreliable and unable to land on short, hastily prepared strips alongside the forward troops, were replaced. The Israelis had been trying for some time to persuade the Americans to provide them with Hercules aircraft, and during the next war ? when they were attacked by three Arab countries simultaneously without warning ? acquisition of the Hercules became vital to their survival. In the nick of time, in the middle of the war, thirteen Hercules landed by night in Israel, one then took off carrying the crews of all the others, leaving twelve aircraft for the Israelis. Next morning, after working all night to master the controls and characteristics of the Hercules, which they had never flown before, Arieh?s squadron started to operate the Hercules in support of the army. Only when the war was over did the pilots attend a conversion course in England to ?learn? how to fly it. When he retired from the Air Force Arieh joined El Al. He soon became a 747 Captain, and flew all over the world. But his best memory was when he again worked with Nahum, who was running an operation in Ethiopia to extract Jews who wanted to go to Israel. The Ethiopian authorities forbade their departure, so it had to be done clandestinely. Nahum found a disused airfield and brought thousands of Ethiopian Jews by different means to this airfield, where he set up a camp for them. When necessary the Israelis use their civilian facilities in support of their forces. To get the Ethiopians to Israel Nahum commandeered an El Al Boeing 747 with Arieh as Captain. It flew repeatedly from Tel Aviv to the camp in the desert, with the aircraft stripped of seats and all non-essentials, loaded with tents and water and food, returning with hundreds of Ethiopian Jews sitting on the floor. He was particularly pleased that his best load was eight hundred and eighteen people, the largest number ever flown in a 747, now recorded in the Guinness Book of records. We were heading for a viewing platform built in memory of Colonel Motti Hod, who I had met when he was involved in approving the Yemen operation on behalf of the Air Force, of which he was then second in command, and subsequently commanded. The platform is set in a grove of olive trees overlooking the Sea of Galilee, which appeared small and steel grey below us, surrounded by sand, rock, and green patches of agriculture. Hard to imagine that it was the scene of such drama two thousand years ago. It is now a key factor in the Israeli water system, which today, with the massive increase in population, and the decrease in rainfall, is causing great concern. Already the river Jordan is completely dried up a few miles downstream of Galilee, and the underground reservoirs which are crucial to Israel?s survival are not inexhaustible. The Dead Sea is drying up, and there is talk of building a canal to connect it to the Red Sea, and to use the height difference in the water levels to generate power for a massive desalination plant, but environmental concerns are delaying progress on this. The Golan Heights command this north eastern corner of Israel. From them Hisbola fired rockets into, and attacked, the settlements until the 1967 Six Day War, when the Israelis occupied the heights and set up a defensive line on the Syrian side of the summit. Rising steeply perhaps a thousand feet from the fertile plains of Israel, this curiously smooth, sandy coloured mound is shaped a little like Ayres Rock in Australia, though much larger. A great barrier against an enemy below, the Israelis cannot allow it to be returned to the Syrians unless it is part of a peace settlement. Nahum took me to meet Mair Amit, who had been running Mossad when I was collaborating with the Israelis. He was very elderly and infirm, but still lives in his family home in Tel Aviv with his wife, and recalled our operation together with warmth. He showed me his study ? cluttered with photographs and mementoes of his historic contribution to the founding and survival of the Israeli state. He was particularly proud of a photograph, taken from above, of a Russian Mig 21 fighter aircraft, with Israeli markings, flying over Jerusalem. He told me its story. He had been talking to Aza Weitzman, the head of the Air Force, and had asked him if there was anything he could do for the Air Force. Weitzman, half joking, said that if he could get hold of a Mig 21 it would be useful. So Mair Amit set his staff the task of finding an Iraqi Mig pilot who wanted to defect. Soon they had one lined up, and met him for discussions in London. When the Iraqi said he would like to see what sort of country he would be defecting to, they flew him to Israel and showed him round, even letting him fly one of their jet fighters with a safety pilot. Everything was arranged, and the Israelis even agreed to extract seven members of his family from Iraq to Israel while he was defecting in the Mig. The biggest problem, said Mair, was arranging that it wasn?t shot down by the Israeli Defence Forces, while still keeping the defection secret from the Iraqis. Everything went perfectly, and as the Mig landed, an Israeli helicopter crossed into Israel with the seven members of the pilot?s family on board. It was the intelligence coup of the decade, all Israel?s friends wanted to get their hands on it, and it provided the West with vital information. The Mig today has an honoured place in the Israeli Air Force Museum. Mair was very hospitable, matching me, shot for shot, with neat vodka. He said that while he headed Mossad he had a strict rule that they would never kill any of the leaders of a hostile country just for threatening or abusing Israel, citing Yasser Arafat as an example. But he said that the concern in Israel about the nuclear threat from Iran was so great, that if he were in power now, he would seriously consider killing the one man in Iran who was behind that threat. I asked what the Iranians were planning, and he said, quite unequivocally, that they were going to attack Israel with nuclear missiles. I asked if the Americans would stop it. ?What do you think?? The UN? He laughed. Discussing this later with Nahum and Arieh and several others, they all spoke of the concern throughout the country about this threat. It had always been Israel?s policy to deny the existence of Israel?s nuclear facility in the Negev Desert ? remember Vanunu?s kidnapping and incarceration in solitary confinement in Israel for revealing its existence in the British press? Now Nahum really startled me by saying that they had always acknowledged the existence of their nuclear reactor, but that there was no question of them having a nuclear weapon. In diplomatic terms this was a seismic shift of policy, caused no doubt by the Iranian threat. Arieh and I had talked of this as we drove from Galilee to Tel Aviv, and he had expressed the opinion that he would be horrified if they did not have nuclear weapons. Dinner with Nahum, Nina and Arieh, the night before I left, in an excellent restaurant in Tel Aviv, was full of discussion about the trouble in Gaza. Nahum, describing it as a pin-prick, said that Hamas and Fatah were fighting in the streets of Gaza, and to distract their people from this, were firing rockets over the security wall into Israel. There was little or no warning, as the missile, in its launcher, was taped onto the frame of a bicycle which was wheeled up to the wall, left leaning against a nearby house pointing roughly in the right direction, and the missile was fired remotely as the cyclist walked away. Of course people were injured, a few killed, but the real problem was that if the Israelis retaliated, it was they who were blamed by the international press. In the morning there was just time, before my aircraft left, for Nahum to drive me to his golf club where he has nine holes with his old Mossad colleagues before breakfast every morning. When he introduced me as having been with them on the Yemen operation they were enthusiastic and grateful. One even stroked me! Gaza was on their minds, but, once again, the threat of nuclear obliteration kept arising. ?We are just recovering from one holocaust, Tony, we are not going to allow anyone to inflict another.? When I arrived home thirty six hours later, after two comfortable flights, both with good legroom, and a day?s filming in London for Banged Up Abroad, my mind was still full of all that I had heard and seen in Israel, and confident that, of all the nations, they are best able to deal with their nightmare threat robustly and efficiently. But that makes the anxiety, for them and the world, no less acute.

Unimagined Heights By Tony Boyle, September 2006

Written for Penny in appreciation of her having me at her 60th birthday party villa holiday, September, 2006

Drive north from Amandola to Sarnano. If the road gives you pause look left to snatch a glimpse of Italy?s Apennine mountains – its best kept secret. Even here the foothills cause the road to snake. A small square house appears, first on one side of the car, then below you on the other as you twist and turn. Roofed with curly terra-cotta tiles, surrounded by the work-worn tools of generations of subsistence farmers each house has its vegetable patch – the pride of its owners. An ancient crone wearing a blue plastic shower cap tends one, an old man another. Bright red and green, tomatoes and peppers shine from ordered rows of plants. Two huge orange pumpkins lurk on straw, protected, each night, from early frost by gaily coloured beach umbrellas. Alas, from many houses the roofs are gone, the trees reclaim the rooms and rise triumphant through the ruins. Yet still the treasured vegetables are cared for in their patches. In places the road is slippery with wild figs fallen from their tree. Stop if you can and gorge on them for they are nectar. Sarnano, when you have passed its cranes and ugly factory outskirts, is a joy. Mellow ochre, the massive walls of mediaeval buildings crown its rocky outcrops, and the narrow streets host a weekly market. Everywhere the food is good, the wine a bright surprise. Leave Sarnano northwards. Take the second turning to the left, signed Bolognola. The tarmac road climbs through hamlets nestled in the thickly wooded landscape. Small mongrel dogs stand guard and yap while others, half wild, trot hopefully behind the car, as if seeking something lost. Wild boar still roam the woods, their meat a favoured dish. When all is quiet at night, their crashing progress through the undergrowth startles you awake. As you climb and turn the trees give way to woody scrub and tantalizing glimpses of Sarnano, still recognisable, but losing definition in the view surrounding it. A multicoloured field of delicate wild flowers appears large then vanishes as you turn another bend; is spied again as a tiny, bright, jewel of colour in the moss-green of the scrub, almost lost in the developing view. One last steep turn and you are on a light green undulating plateau, quite Alpine. The road, like the mountain, relaxes into gentle curves. Wild flowers abound and shrub gives way to grass. On these wild pastures sheep and cattle graze, unfenced, in summer. Small, strong wooden huts, shelter for the drovers, dot the landscape. Ahead a structure takes your eye and, as you near, reveals itself to be a crucifix of steel, painted red and standing twelve feet high. Picasso might have dreamed it. Two steel circles form the head, the rest is like stick-man. Welded above the outstretched hands, parallel to the ground, two steel bars indicate the cross. Its isolation, miles from habitation, and the confident faith of the people who put it there, touch some deep emotive chord. You cannot resist its pull, and stop to look more closely. As you walk up towards it the full meaning is revealed, for it stands atop, and gazes on, a glorious panorama of Eastern Italy: the Just Man crucified tends his faithful people for all time. Walk on towards the view. You hear the distant clack of wooden bells, then see a herd of white charollais cattle grazing contentedly on a billowed plateau far below. Do they notice the view? Drive on again. A flock of sheep grazing both sides of the road briefly blocks your passage, a massive white sheepdog lying, nose on paws, protecting them. These dogs are fierce, staying with the sheep day and night on guard. A friend was attacked passing near a flock on his 43motor-scooter. They mainly guard from wolves – which conservationists are re-introducing to the area – and the farmers shoot them as they have for centuries. The road bears right, away from the view. Small groups of mules and horses graze on the plateau along the way. They are unconcerned by man, and the rope around each neck betrays its domesticity. Turning right at the T junction you go slightly downhill, heading into the heart of the mountains. Craggy sheer cliffs, five miles away, fill the windscreen. Even leaning forward and peering up, you can hardly see the tops. A straight line, as if drawn by a ruler, runs diagonally across the precipitous mountain ahead. It starts below you, to your left, and climbs to the top on your right. Half right the plateau plunges out of sight. Down there, at the end of a fearsome, snake of a road lies Bolognola. Pressed close all round by massive mountains it rarely sees the sun. A flash of aquamarine escapes its enveloping trees to reveal the lake with which Bolognola shares this sump in the depths of the earth. In the lake, when the winter torrents yield to the heat of summer and the water level falls, a gun, pointing skyward from a tank, bulldozed into the lake in some forgotten skirmish, mutely rebukes man?s folly. Soon another crossroads gives you a dilemma: to the right, Bolognola; ahead, the diagonal line on the mountain is revealed as a track, a gravel track, hewn into the wall of the mountain, and climbing to the summit ridge. Signs in Italian warn the unwary, (or forbid its use?). It is irresistible. The track is hardly wider than the car. No passing places, no room to turn around. Just go a little way, if it proves too bad you can reverse. And so you get sucked in, with bated breath and churning stomach you go from moment to moment, climbing inexorably. Its OK so far, do a bit more. You gain confidence, increase speed to 10 and 15 miles an hour. There are places where the road has clearly fallen away and been rebuilt; elsewhere rocks have fallen from above and lie, shattered piles, obstructing you. But your continuous apprehension is counterpointed by the majesty of the surroundings. It is like driving up the inside of a massive volcano. But this is no volcano: it was caused by ice, which ground away half the mountain, and when it melted, deposited the spoil to form the gentle upland pastures you?ve just left. But it is also an area of earthquakes, so the strata in the rock has been tormented. Some are even vertical, great cracks horizontally across them, mis-aligning the strata. As you climb, the view from the crucifix is beginning to reappear behind you (oops!). Ahead, the mountain fills your sight, imprisons you, rocky, craggy, awe inspiring. To the left are the rock walls at the base of the precipice that rises sheer above the road, tufts of coarse grass clinging in cracks. To the right the edge of the track rims the dark mysterious depths, whence the mountain climbs triumphant to the sky. The majestic power of nature leaves you gasping and aghast. What great need caused this extraordinary feat of engineering? It must have cost lives, as well as money, yet seems to have no commercial use. For tourism, yes, but why then is it not on the map, marked green to indicate its unparalleled scenery? Perhaps the answer lies with the military, for the summit to which the track leads would be a prize in conflict. Metal stakes have been driven into the rock at the edge of the road to warn the unwary, when snow lies deep, of their danger. Can it really be safe in winter? A pair of light brown hawks use the stakes as vantage points to watch for their prey of small lizards. Apart from them nothing stirs. . . except . . A car is coming down. At once there is relief that the rest of the road is open, quickly quenched by the fear that the cars must pass. Search for a suitable place – this might do. Get as far to the right as you dare, don?t look down. Hope the edge doesn?t collapse. The rock on the left curves away from the road at this point and he might just be able to make it. Soon he is squeezing slowly past without mishap. The ridge at the top has now appeared in the windscreen. A concrete bunker, stark above it, recalls the turbulence of war. The track, following the contour of the mountain, is turning gently to the right. Now, through the right hand window you can see, far below, the pastures, and beyond, the coloured patchwork map of Italy running right to the Adriatic, an azure strip below the misty horizon. It is hard to keep your eyes on the road with so much to look at. Then suddenly you are on top of the ridge. You can stop. The relief, and the stunning realisation that not only can you see the Adriatic to the east, but now you can also see a new and spectacular panorama across Italy to the west, leaves you shaking with sensory overload. For an eternity you stay, poised on top of the world, intoxicated with the beauty that surrounds you.