Robin lloyd-jones
When someone you love dies it’s always hard to put into words why you loved them, but with Robin Lloyd-Jones there is one word above all which sums him up: kindness. Robin was one of the world’s gentle souls, a man who encouraged the people around him and supported them whether times were bad or good. In a world which can often be bitchy and riven by feuds, Robin encouraged younger writers through his local writing group in Helensburgh and later, older writers through his organisation, the beautifully named Autumn Voices.
Everyone I’ve spoken to since he died has said the same thing, that he was kind to them.
Although he was gentle, he wasn’t a passive person but was an activist, speaking out and working tirelessly for the causes that engaged him. Her cared about things. His voice was gentle and mild in conversation but rich and sonorous when he spoke in public. A speaker of resonance, both in his delivery and the content.
I first met Robin through Scottish PEN, the writers’ organisation. I was a journalist seeking to find out how the world of fiction worked and it was a toss-up between PEN and the Society of Authors. The latter’s annual membership was more than double PEN’s, which was a big factor to someone constantly in debt, but more than that, PEN was a campaigning organisation dedicated to freedom of speech.
At that time Robin ran the Writers in Prison committee, which worked on behalf of writers oppressed and imprisoned for dissent against their governments. Straight away Robin drew me in with a trip to Istanbul to be an observer at the trial of Ragip Zarakolu, a Turkish writer forever being hauled into court for the books he published, which failed to demonstrate enough subservience to his government.
Seeing the stress Ragip was under from constant harassment by the authorities cemented my loyalty to WIP and I spent many years working with them. I was a nervous public speaker but Robin encouraged me to introduce Writers in Prison events, asked me to attend international conferences.
Despite his loyalty to PEN he was also deeply loyal to his friends and when I had a massive falling out with them he was incredibly supportive, listening patiently to my outpourings of distress and making no judgements.
He was an internationalist not just by inclination but by birth as well. He had been born in India and grew up there, till he was sent to boarding school in Devon at a young age. Many of his books were set in foreign places. Fallen Angels was a touching and compassionate book of short stories about the lives of street children in South America, displaying yet again his concern for the poor and persecuted.
Fallen Pieces of the Moon, a first person account of his kayaking adventures in Greenland, showed another of Robin’s passions – his love of nature. He was deeply spiritual in his response to the natural world and wrote a number of books about being in the wilderness, most recently That Sweet Especial Scene, a collection of his essays, which was published by Two Ravens Press in 2014. Most weekends he could be found walking in the hills or kayaking off the coast of Scotland. He told me that one time he’d been questioned by police – he lived in Helensburgh, which is very near the nuclear base at Faslane. At that point he was in his eighties, so hardly your normal profile for a terrorist.
If all this makes him sound a goody two shoes he wasn’t. He was flirtatious in the most innocent way with women, had an impish sense of fun and great gusto for life. We used to have Writers in Prison events in the home of one of our members, Maggie Anderson, who always provided cullen skink – Robin was always hugely appreciative.
When we formed Dove Tales he willingly joined us and served on the board, even continuing for a while when I think he would rather have retired, just so that we would have the prestige of his name.
I saw him at events later but the last time I had a long conversation with him was when he had a major accident while attending a retreat. There was a day of silence and he decided to do his meditation walking in the hills. Unfortunately he had a bad fall. He couldn’t get a signal on his phone and was out on the hills for eleven hours before he was finally rescued – he'd rolled over and over down the hill till he could phone for help. He was in his eighties then too and showed huge fortitude and courage.
I went to visit him in hospital in Stirling a couple of times during his recovery and once he was out, drove down to his home in Helensburgh - he and his wife Sallie lived right on the water’s edge. Robin’s office had been newly decorated and we sat there talking books and writing with the water lapping serenely outside. It was a lovely and peaceful afternoon and a memory I will always treasure. He was a special person to many writers and to me and it was a privilege to be his friend.