I recently attended the funeral of my oldest friend, Roger Draper, in South Dorset, bathed in winter seaside light, among familiar childhood accents and within the solemnity of a Catholic Mass. There are too many funerals in my life these days, but this one pierced more deeply than most, tugging at roots that have been entwined for over sixty years.
Roger and I first met at Weymouth Grammar School in the early 1960s. A couple of years ahead of me, he was already making his mark as an organiser of after-school clubs dedicated to the natural world and visual arts. Even then, his welcoming spirit and quiet leadership set him apart, drawing in younger students like myself and providing a space for shared curiosity and enthusiasm.
Our friendship truly took hold when we found ourselves working holiday jobs on the seafront, selling deckchairs. Conversations about life, literature, religion, and politics flowed easily between us, beginning a dialogue that would span the rest of our lives.
Roger possessed a remarkable ability to cultivate community and creativity. Inspired by the Beat movement, he was determined that Weymouth should have an artistic and literary scene of its own. He gathered a small but dedicated group of poets, artists, and craftsmen, encouraging self-expression and offering me, the youngest among them, a glimpse into a world beyond teenage concerns. He introduced me to Kerouac and Ginsberg, esoteric science fiction, and even an obscure non-fiction book titled Zen Catholicism. He was my first publisher, assembling my early poems into booklets to be sold at a friend’s pottery stall. Though the earnings were stolen, the confidence he instilled in me remained.
Roger was always ahead of us in embracing adulthood—securing a job, a home, a family—while still maintaining his intellectual and creative passions. His flat in Clapham became a hub of discovery, where I was introduced to the culinary wonders of garlic, yoghurt, and green peppers, as well as the pleasures of red wine, ground coffee, and Gauloise cigarettes. These were not just novelties but symbols of a broader, more adventurous world.
Beyond our discussions and adventures, Roger was a man of immense generosity. His home in Bridport became a constant in my life, offering me meals, companionship, and, most precious of all, laughter. He and his wife, Val, even welcomed my family for a holiday—an act of kindness that speaks volumes about the warmth they exuded.
His love for Dorset, particularly its coastline, was profound. As a marine biologist, his knowledge enriched our many walks along the beaches, and his support was unwavering when I researched my grandmother’s tragic drowning in West Bay. In later years, he accompanied me on sections of my South West Coast Path project, as thoughtful and steadfast a companion as ever.
Roger’s dedication extended far beyond his circle of friends. His involvement in local politics and his tenure as Bridport’s mayor were a testament to his unwavering commitment to his community. He was not drawn to power for its own sake but to service, working tirelessly to make a difference without indulging in the petty rivalries that so often accompany such roles.
One of my fondest memories is from 1984 when Roger invited me to a local fundraising event where Paddy Ashdown was in attendance. At the time, I was canvassing for Tony Benn in Chesterfield, a fact Roger mischievously highlighted when introducing me. Ashdown, with characteristic energy, clapped me on the back and inquired earnestly about the campaign. Roger, ever the observer, stood by, savouring the delightful absurdity of the moment. Later, as always, we dissolved into laughter.
And that is how I will remember Roger: as a man of wisdom and warmth, of intellect and generosity, of steady friendship and irrepressible humour. His influence shaped my life in ways I am still uncovering, and his absence leaves an immeasurable void.
Thank you, Roger, for the conversations, the inspiration, and, above all, the laughter. You will be missed but never forgotten.
