Dick Jones: travelling through life in style

Allotment gardeners are used to the death and destruction of crops. They are used to the bitter chill of winter, the driving rain of autumn, as well as the sunny days of summer. Nevertheless it came as a cold, numbing blow when Dick Jones, a constant gardener and honest friend, died last week.

Dick and I would often meet at the cross roads of the Weald Allotment site and talk of this and that, of something and of nothing. It might be about the swallows soaring, the herring gulls feasting off the flying ants,or sky larks singing in the distant haze.

We might chat about the unused allotments, the overused allotments, the allotment Committee meeting that never ended early enough or the rebirth of the allotment shop.

The energy,social concern and generosity of spirit of Dick - an organic gardener through and through- he was the definition of the Constant Gardener. On those wet winter afternoons as the sun was sinking and the dark clouds came, he would be there digging for victory, digging for Australia in his voluminous luminescent jacket. He would wave a generous wave, as I rushed from the rain to seek refuge.

Dick was unique, with whiskers that went down to his wellies, he was a Magnificent Man in his Morris Machine . He tended his car as carefully as his plot. The car was a cool classic,a metaphor for Dick, quality not glamour, simple and sustainable- not a status symbol;it was a car that he cherished and serviced in his own self sufficient way. It was stuffed with everything any gardener could want, somewhere on the back seat . . . but where?

I am sure I put it under those pots last week.

In the last decade Dick had a number of illnesses, including being hospitalised on several occasions, I remember his enjoyment of the bustle and buzz of Seedy Sunday even with a broken leg. Eventually he died of a heart attack after enduring chemotherapy, yet he never complained of his lot in life- rather he always put a lot into life, a word for everyone and time to talk the sun down out of the sky.

A man for all seasons.

I will remember him each time I see the swallows soar, each time I pass our crossroad and each time I run from the rain.

Dick leaves behind his wife, adult children and many friends. I say good bye with one of my favourite pictures of Dick,the constant gardener, having triumphantly found what he wanted . . . on the back seat of his car under the pots.

Goodbye Dick, safe journey.