The obituary notice of John Errington PICKERING

To further continue...
Even more years later, I had the opportunity to introduce my (by then) second husband Steve to the visiting Pickering's, at Lou and Mike's abode in Wooloweyah - where I witnessed an instant connection between John and Steve. Perhaps because Steve is a Bow Bells 'Brit' by birth, but more I feel because they spoke such similar 'language' about 'life'.
The loss of John will not diminish the positive impact he (largely unknownly) had on so many lives, both as a family member and friend - his kindness, self sacrifice, gentle manners, sunny outlook and genuineness as a person will live on into eternity with us all. Rest in peace good man - you did extremely well and will NEVER be forgotten.

To continue...
One of my fondest memories of John and his liberal peppering of romantic gestures to Pat, was a long, lingering, moonlit beachwalk, to the then somewhat dilapidated Tangalooma Resort bottlo. As they ambled along, stopping from time to time to admire tidal phosphorescence in the water; they were suddenly 'set upon' by we 'younger ones' perched high on mountainous sand dunes, smoking and drinking ourselves into oblivion, and heckling them every step of the way.
Although rather a quiet man by nature, John was always seemed very good humoured, and certainly ready for any doses of well intentioned fun handed out. In this regard I also vividly recall perching myself cheekily on his knee around many a campfire, while waiting for appetising clusters of foil covered 'spuds' and assorted 'bush tucker' delights to cook, and relentlessly teasing hell out of him. He always seemed a tad accident prone during these Moreton Island excursions so it wasn't hard to do (plenty of subject matter) but he remained EVER the gentleman, with thoroughly faultless manners.
A good example of John's polite demeaner came many years later when my son Aaron first relocated to the UK - we impulsively called in on Pat and John on our way south from north of Manchester. Having little advance notice of our visit, they'd prebooked seats to a local theatrical performance that night; but when Aaron announced he was too tired (from hours of driving) to attend, John announced he would stay at home - thus sacrificing his seat at the performance to me. Needless to say Pat and I thoroughly enjoyed ourselves, but I'm pretty sure I know where John would rather have been - especialy given his great love of the arts and no doubt painstaking efforts to make conversation with a semi comatosed young house guest.
Even more years later, I had the opportunity to introduce my (by then) second husband Steve to the visiting Pickering's, at Lou and Mike's abode in Wooloweyah - where I witnessed an instan

John will always live on in my mind as that dear, dear man who may have resided in the UK but whose TRUE heart belonged to the often wild and windswept open spaces of Oz, including his families landholding in Geelong.
I first encountered John through his daughter Louise (one of my dearest friends aka Lou) and her Australian photo journalist husband Mike.
Although MY memory is not so good anymore (specific dates and times frequently evading me) it was hearbreaking to learn of John's misfortune in this regard as he entered his twilight years. This was thoroughly devastating for Pat and the rest of the family of course, (who deserve medals for their endurance in more recent times, when I'm told John was in considerable pain); but by contrast I've retained strong mental pictures of truly golden moments from several Pickering holiday visits to Oz.
Much of this time in the early days (during seemingly heady, carefree interludes of what I would like to view as youth in its final hours; but realistically heralded the sneeky onset of my middle age) was spent on magical Moreton Island, which presented a far more rugged and predominently primative paradise than it would seem today. Being one of the regions best kept holiday destination secrets at the time, situated right on Brisbane's doorstep as a mere ferry ride away, it offered TOTALLY deserted pristine sandy beaches, Brumbies running free, wild surf, sunken maritime wrecks, an abundance of fish and exotic marine life, and large pockets of untouched native bushland. There was however a run down resort and time-share complex located at one end, but little else (bar a conveniece store 'of sorts' for a scant few local residents) at the other - a far cry from the hustle and bustle of Leicester, but it fitted John like a glove.
One of my fondest memories of John and his liberal peppering of romantic gestures to Pat, was a long, lingering, moonlit beachwalk, to the then somewhat dilapidated Tangalooma Resort bottlo. As they