Spammers attack

Due to spammers attacking this site - may bad links follow you for the rest of your lives - I am disabling this site as far as I can. If you have any posts on Peter or Dil do forward them to me or Laxton and we will post them.

Best wishes,

Phoebe.

For More info on the Mursell Family

Hi Phoebe, I wonder would you add a Link to your Blog for Peter. To a site I have started regarding the Mursell family.

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Mursell-family/?yguid=138587594

best regards Brenda

Father

Tom Mursell, for the Memorial service

Mother / Dil, has settled quietly into Petworth Cottage Nursing Home. She is aware of the service here today and this morning was a wonderful moment for me as she asked that I send you her love, thoughts and thanks for coming here for Peter’s memory. This is echoed by all of us in the family.

Father always looked forward never backwards so some of what I’m going to say comes from the memoirs he and Mum wrote on the computer a few years back.

He loved sport of most forms – Swimming, Golf, Skiing, Skating, Tennis, Squash, Fives, Cricket, Soccer, Shooting, Climbing, Sailing, Power-Boating, Canals, Scuba Diving, Billiards, Snooker, Flying and even Water Polo. Really the only thing he didn’t do was running!! An adrenalin junky perhaps!!! He enjoyed the challenge each of these sports produced and he excelled at every single one. James and I can remember playing him squash, we had difficulty in winning a game (if ever) and when he developed tennis elbow he just became ambidextrous, he stood in the middle of the court and we’d rush round like demented terriers after the ball!

At Bedales he enjoyed swimming and to this day, he holds the 2 and 4 lengths record. Why? They were allowed a running start!!

Charles introduced him to flying in 1933 and they would take part in competitions, father would navigate. 1936 saw them fly a Short Scion to India and back to try and interest Maharajas in the plane, taking part in an air race from Madras to Delhi at the same time. During this journey they had to overfly some countries that forbade aerial photography and therefore your camera had to be sealed in a box by customs. Father built his own box and was happy for the seal to be applied. Shortly after take off he’d slide the base off the box and photograph to his hearts content! On this trip they flew over the Himalayas and during this part of the flight they decided to see how high they could fly before passing out!

Going through father’s photo albums I discovered an article he wrote in Flight Magazine, Jan 5th 1939. here’s a short section:
“I won’t bother you with how it started, but the main theme of the story begins on the hard at Hamble with a small 40hp aeroplane which had just been converted from wheels to floats. Neither of us knew anything about seaplanes. Charles had once done a few hours with an Avian on floats, but that was some time ago. The business was, therefore, more or less new to both of us; in addition, Charles always was rather an optimist, otherwise we should probably never have started on this peculiar form of aviating.
Charles did the first test flight alone, and Jemima behaved herself excellently. The next day, however, when we loaded her up with equipment, a two-gallon petrol tin and full main tank, we found it was rather a different story.
I am not light (or so I am told on quite reliable authority) and Charles is no streak of skin and bones, and Jemima seemed to resent the load we had put aboard her, particularly, I think, my own 180lb so far aft of the CG. Anyway, after two attempts to take off we had to lighten her by removing 2 gallons of petrol..
We also decided to consider this matter of take-off somewhat more thoroughly, and after a little discussion developed a sort of “team work-out,” as I believe an American might express it. It went like this: On taxiing out to a suitable point we turned into wind while I, who had now changed to the front seat, scanned the water ahead for the sight of an approaching gust. On notification of one about 200 yards ahead Charles would open up and coax her up onto the step as quickly as possible. As soon as she was up on the step I would stand up as high as possible above my seat, and on hitting the gust Charles would slightly ease back on the stick and at the same time shout “Down!” whereupon I momentarily relieved the aircraft of my 180-odd pounds by dropping down to a seated posture.
In theory, provided I didn’t fall straight through the aeroplane, we should now be in the air, and by ------ we were!

During the war he served with the Air Transport Auxillary (affectionately know as Ancient Tattered Airmen) ending the war as Senior Commander in charge of training and recruitment. He flew over 140 different types of plane and logged more than 1500hrs flying. In September I met up with veterans of the ATA to collect his war badge. I met many pilots and ground crew who spoke warmly of him. Two notable conversations. Firstly a pilot who told me he’d been reprimanded by father for doing a barrel roll over the runway. “He docked me two days pay, I got off exceedingly lightly” The second an American who’s late mother, Ann Woods-Kelly, was one of the American lady pilot volunteers. He came up to me and said “Hi Tom , I’m Woody! Your Dad and my Mom had great e-mail exchanges!” He told me that there had been a long correspondence about the future of the veterans association with about 8 people “in the loop”. Father and Anne were of one opinion whilst others disagreed strongly. “Your Dad was always so concise and clear with his correspondence” said Woody. “My MOM copied me with all the correspondence and one day I sent her a mail headed “FOR YOUR EYES ONLY – HOW DID THEY WIN THE WAR?” Two weeks later I received a mail from your Dad. “Dear Woody – WE WERE DIFFERENT IN THOSE DAYS – Peter”

After the war boats became a major part in his life with many trips with Charles. Baltic, Ireland, Med, Atlantic. There was no Sat Nav in those days so he studied astronavigation for the Atlantic crossing and our course was plotted across a plain sheet of chart paper with us to arrive with our destination on the nose (I was 15 and this seemed like magic!). It was returning to Heathrow after this trip that gave Dad one of his memorable chuckles. He’d grown a full beard and looked most distinguished. It was late at night as we walked down the concourse to be greeted by Mum. Dad was visibly excited to see her again and gave her a hug only for her then to say, in a very loud voice, “AND IF YOU THINK YOUR COMING TO BED WITH THAT ON YOU’VE GOT ANOTHER THING COMING”. Both Dad and I were sooooooo embarrassed, thank goodness there weren’t too many people around. Within 30 minutes of getting home there was a clean shaven Dad!!!!!

The final chapter in boating was the Fanny Grace – a 50’ narrow boat, built in 1970 and cruised till sold in 1993. Dad arranged friends as crew who swapped with others mid week and somehow he never seemed to have to go far to collect a car to get home at the end. Meticulous planning was one of his fortes.

This all happened whilst he had his “day jobs”, farming County Council etc. yet to us, his children, he never seemed phased by it or short of time for any of us. To us he was just DAD but he did have this knack of never having to tell us off. Somehow we just knew when we’d done the wrong thing without him having to tell us!

During the last few years he devoted all his energies to caring for Mum. He organised a small army of carers and they all joined the family circle whilst at Taints. His people skills shone, as always. He organised trips out in the car with a carer driving. One carer would get into the car and say – “Sat Nav on Peter” – he’d then direct her where to go, much more reliable than the modern equivalent!!!!

To Dad a problem was always a challenge and he seemed to have the knack of being able to view such things from all angles and come up with (usually) the most stupidly simple commonsense solution you couldn’t imagine how you didn’t think of it yourself!

A newspaper interviewer once wrote “Mr Mursell has a twinkle in his eye and a smile never far from his lips”

Our memories of Peter make us smile too.

Word Cloud for Peter Mursell

This was created at http://www.wordle.net/ from all the posts on this blog.

Uncle Peter

UNCLE PETER - A Tribute from Gordon Mursell at the Memorial Service

+Tribute at Memorial Service
St Peter’s Wisborough Green
Monday 10: xi: 08

I am one of the small and exclusive elite (some others of whom are here today) for whom Peter was always Uncle Peter - and that despite the fact that, when we became teenagers, Peter insisted on us nieces and nephews dropping the “uncle” and calling them plain Peter and Dil. That was typical: he wanted an equal relationship, not a paternalist one. Which only made him all the more impressive as an uncle. When my father (Peter’s younger brother Pip) died very suddenly, while my brother Ian and I were still in our early teens, Peter made no attempt to take our father’s place (he couldn’t have done that anyway). Instead he became an even better uncle: a rock-like source of stability and wisdom and encouragement and fun and - especially as we grew older - friendship.

Among the many reasons that Peter was such a good uncle were these three: he never stopped learning, he never stopped listening, and he never stopped laughing. Peter was fascinated by both people and things, and was learning new insights and tricks right to the end of his life (which is surely the secret of a happy life). As he got older, and being tall, he found it harder to bend down and put his socks on. So he tracked down on the internet a kind of sock putter-onner and made one for himself; and when I confided in him that I was beginning to experience the same problem, he made one for me too. Equally striking: he was a marvellous listener. He made you feel you mattered, because to him you did. For two young fatherless teenagers like me and my brother, that was unimaginably important. And he never lost his wonderful sense of humour, essential for all good uncles. He wasn’t demonstrative, or emotional; but he was fun. And underneath you knew he loved and cared as well.

Peter, together with his brother (my father) and his sister Peg, was a pupil at Bedales School in Hampshire; and it must have been there that all three seem to have inherited or developed characteristics they all shared: a restless creativity, an intelligence that was more than narrowly intellectual, a practical and artistic wisdom, and a hatred of cant and humbug. Later he was to spend a total of twenty years as a governor of the school, a longer period (according to Denis Archer) than any other individual. He helped to steer the school through some major changes while never losing its essential and distinctive charisma. An example: Denis writes that “in particular he was a guiding, guardian angel to the reviving Outdoor Work department. He offered detailed practical advice and even physical support in the form of trees. His expert knowledge was invaluable in regenerating a department which has become increasingly important in the school's public image and [in these environmentally sensitive days] is now a key, distinctive feature in its marketing.” More generally, Jean Gooder, who was Chair of Governors during much of Peter’s time on the board, writes of Peter’s “unswerving sense of justice, quick appreciation of issues and the pragmatics of planning, fearlessly open in stating his views but without aggression or the slightest hint of pressure. A Socratic nature that worked from rational principles in the spirit of true disinterestedness (in the old and correct meaning of that word). Not for nothing was he a political Independent. He knew what he valued about the school but was completely open-minded about the re-thinking always required by current developments, both financial and educational.”

Let me end by returning to Uncle Peter. When I was made a bishop, three years ago, Peter insisted on coming to the service and reception, and presented me with his shepherd’s crook, which I have treasured ever since. Afterwards he wrote to me about the occasion, and said “I lost count of the number of total strangers who came up to me afterwards and said ‘You must be Uncle Peter!’” That remark brought home to me just how much I owed him, because it showed how often I must have spoken about him to friends and colleagues alike, and how intensely proud I was (and am) to have known him, not because he was a “Sir” but because he was an extraordinarily good uncle, and (even more, as I now realize) an extraordinarily good friend.

Thanks be to God.

Gorden Mursell's Tribute at Funeral

+Address at Funeral Service
St Mary’s Washington, Sussex
Friday 5: vi: 08


In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus is trying to help his disciples to distinguish between true and false prophets; and he says “ye shall know them by their fruits” (Matt.7:16 AV). It’s worth noticing what he doesn’t say. He doesn’t say you will know them by their beliefs: he says you will know them by their fruits - by how they live, by who or what they bring to birth, and by what they leave behind. I’ve no idea whether Jesus was a fruit farmer - I rather suspect he wouldn’t have known the difference between his Braeburn and his Cox’s Orange Pippin. But I think what he says is true. In a world like ours, so full of different kinds of exclusive fundamentalists, what matters in distinguishing the good from the bad is not what someone says, or even what they believe, but how they live, who or what they bring to birth (the fruits they bear), and what they leave behind. When I was thinking of becoming a priest, I wrote to Peter to ask his advice; and what he said was along the lines of: if the churches could only stop wrangling with each other about their (remarkably unimportant) differences and could work with others for the well-being of all, they could still be a powerful force for good. In other words: by their fruits you will know them.
Peter was born in 1913, in Kettering, where his father, Tom Mursell, was manager and director of a large shoe-making factory owned by William Timpson. Peter, together with his two younger siblings Margaret and Philip (or Peg and Pip, as we knew them), lived at Crossways in Kettering with their parents, until their father Tom became ill with lung cancer, and died in his forties on 27th November 1923. Peter was 10 by then, and at a boarding school called Dunhurst in Hampshire. We can only imagine what it must have been like for him to lose his dad at that age, and suddenly to find himself the oldest male in the family. But his mother Grace (known to all of us as Gaggie) was a remarkable woman, and all three children completed their education at Bedales School, which was an important place for Peter: he was head boy; he excelled at sport; he was taught the cello by the great Arnold Dolmetsch (entirely by ear - he never learned to read music); and it was at Bedales that he met Charles Gardner, who together with his future wife Nora were to become among Peter’s closest friends.

Bedales encouraged an all-round education, and Peter didn’t shine there at exams. On leaving school, he had thought of following his father and joining Timpsons; but (not, I suspect, for the only time in his life) his mother had other ideas. She suggested (perhaps not a strong enough word) that what he might like to do was to go to university and read agriculture, after which he could come and help her and his Uncle Tim (Wyldbore) to run a fruit-growing business on a farm they had bought called Dounhurst, near Wisborough Green. This would not be the last time Peter put the wider needs of family before his own. He went to Downing College Cambridge and worked so hard that he got a first in agriculture. He paid a price for this: it meant he was so busy studying that he had little time to make friends. It was so characteristic of him to learn from the negative as well as positive experiences in his life: I can’t have been the only relative to have been grateful for his wise advice to me, on going to university myself: don’t forget (he said) that the friends you make at university will be friends for life. It was, and is, excellent advice. What I didn’t know (because he never told me) was that he’d never had the chance to do that himself.

So Peter left Cambridge with a first and came to work at Dounhurst (virtually the same name as the school he attended). It was utterly typical of Peter that he never assumed that just having a good degree would equip you to work on a farm: instead he went to learn from Bert, a local man who probably left school at 15 and who was to be one of Dounhurst’s most dedicated and committed farm workers (throughout his life Peter was to stress the vital importance of co-operation, working together for the common good). Working on a farm in the 1930s must have been unremitting hard work. But it didn’t stop Peter taking time for other things. Through his mother he’d got to know the new arrivals at Loxwood Hall (the North family). Peter was playing tennis with Mr North when up swept this dazzling daughter in a motor car swinging tennis rackets. Peter said (to himself?) “I’m going to marry that woman.” Their courtship was hair-raising. Peter had by then inherited from his friend Charles Gardner a love of flying, and Dil’s first date with Peter involved flying upside-down in a small private (and presumably horrifyingly primitive) plane. Dil got her own back by taking Peter for a drive in Herbert, her Austin 7 (still alive and working today), and hurtling over speedbumps at over 60 miles an hour. One other anecdote from that period is worth telling: Peter was asked by his future father-in-law, a member of the North family (who were serious Nonconformists and even more serious teetotallers) which church he worshipped in. “Under the apple trees,” Peter replied.

Those stories tell us a great deal about who Peter was: someone who put family before self; someone capable of very hard work, but for whom there was always more to life than work; someone with a tremendous sense of fun; and someone with a mind of his own, not overwhelmed by the need to conform to others’ expectations. “By their fruits you will know them.” Peter and Dil were married on the 1st January 1938 in Alfold Parish Church, and this year they celebrated their seventieth wedding anniversary; during the celebrations, Dil, briefly confused, said to Peter “will you marry me, Peter?” Peter said: “I did that 70 years ago, dear.” To which Dil replied: “And you’re tired of me already!” As we all know, Peter never tired of her, nor she of him; and the love and tireless care and devotion he showed her thereafter, and above all in the last years of his life, are and remain an inspirational example that surely deserves a knighthood even more than anything else Peter did.

The war followed soon after their marriage; and by then Peter had become an accomplished pilot: he’d flown to India in 1936 to sell planes to maharajahs, and he had numerous terrifying adventures in his friend Charles’ flying boat. When war broke out Peter joined the ATA and worked his way up through the organisation, training innumerable other pilots (women among them). When the war ended, he was offered the job of running BEA (as it was then called) - a major national post; but once again he decided to put family first, and returned to Sussex, where he and Dil settled at Farthings in Kirdford and he resumed his work on the farm, eventually swapping houses with Gaggie after Uncle Tim’s death and settling at Dounhurst where he and Dil remained until moving here in 1987. By then they had started their family: first Jill, then Ann, then Tom and then James, a family that was also to include their nephew Adam - and in a sense all of us too.
Those forty-plus years working flat out as a fruit grower were desperately hard work. A single late frost could wipe out a year’s crop and a year’s income. The only way to avert the threat was to install a frost alarm and heating lamps, which was expensive and meant you had to get out of bed in the middle of the night when the temperature dropped. Peter wrote a poem about it based on Hamlet. It began:

To heat or not to heat. That is the question.
Whether tis nobler on the farm to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to put lamps against a sea of coldness
And by their kindling end it....To freeze, to sleep; -
To sleep, the alarm to fail: ay, there’s the rub.
For in that fearful sleep what harm may come
While we are tucked up cosily in bed,
Must give us pause.

Peter got up - again and again and again. And the farm prospered: the story of Kirdford Growers, and Peter’s involvement in fruit-growing nationally, tirelessly promoting home-grown fruit, tirelessly warning of the dangers of over-dependence on food from overseas, is outstandingly distinguished, even if too long to tell here. Nor was the farm his only workplace: he was drawn into local government, eventually becoming Chairman of West Sussex County Council, a key member of the Royal Commission on Local Government, a Deputy Lieutenant, a knight of the realm, and eventually Vice-Lieutenant of the county: one Lord Lieutenant, Lavinia Duchess of Norfolk, described him as “the nicest man in Sussex.” Peter’s own values shone through everything he did: getting people to work together (just as he had done with Bert and others); trying to get decision-making brought down to local level and getting local people involved; and (as someone else once said of him) knowing the vital difference between rigidity of mind and fixity of purpose.

But work was by no means the only thing in Peter’s life. He and Dil built up a vast circle of friends, which underlines another of his core values: people always come first. And Peter never lost a gift for learning new skills: in 1971 they had acquired the canal boat Fanny Grace (named after Gaggie), and travelled all over the country in it, both on their own, with family and with friends. When he and Dil retired to Taints Orchard in 1987, they both threw themselves into local life; Peter became a school governor here and took a huge interest in the life and well-being of the school. He became very active in the garden, developing squirrel-proof bird-feeders and growing his first vegetable garden (some of it in old tyres). When his heart began to cause problems and the GP forbade him to use a strimmer, he went straight out and bought a lightweight model and carried on. He loved projects, loved gadgets, loved organizing and planning and managing things. But most of all he loved people: he was (though it will embarrass them) hugely proud of his family, his children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren and all their varied achievements; he loved them all, undemonstratively but unconditionally; and they loved him back. He had to learn from scratch how to care for Dil during the past few years, and he brought to that care all he had to give. And I know he and Dil, as well as their children, would want to express their deep gratitude for the wonderful care they themselves received from the different carers who lived with them and supported them.

Peter died suddenly in hospital in the late evening of Saturday 23rd August; and our hearts as well as our love goes out to Jill, Ann, Tom and James, but most of all to Dil, in their sudden and unexpected loss. How best to remember him? In addition to the qualities already mentioned, Peter was someone who always remembered the positives (and sometimes completely forgot the difficulties); someone who always looked forward: Peter was a hopeful person because he was also a grateful person (even very late in life he would often say “we’re so lucky”). I wonder whether it would be right to say that all three of Gaggie’s children - Peter, Peg and Pip - reflected the same childlike enthusiasm for life, a kind of restless creativity and infectious sense of fun, and a fascination in every aspect of people and things. Especially people: hours before he died, Peter was trying to get Jill to buy one of the nurses caring for him a bottle of champagne because he thought she was working too hard. Peter made other people feel they mattered - because to him they did. He went on bearing fruit in abundance right through his long and full life; and we, inspired by his character, his company, and his courage, are also inspired by his example to do the same.
Thanks be to God.

More Photos