Delivered by Luke, as I was too distraught to speak. 

"We don't need to tell anyone in this room what a one-of-a-kind person our dad was, or about the six-foot-four hole he's left in all our hearts.

Last night, my sister and I sat down and pieced these words together. It felt fitting somehow — our final collaboration with Dad. And, true to form, it was completed in a slightly chaotic last-minute rush. We suspect he would have approved. 

Dad grew up on the Irish border. He often described our family's place between two worlds as helping to explain English to the Irish and the Irish to the world. To the casual observer, he was never quite Irish enough or quite British enough. With his dark features, he was perhaps the least Irish-looking Irishman you'd ever meet. It wasn't unusual to see him cycling around in a kimono and flip-flops one day, and a tailored Nehru suit the next. To anyone who hadn't met Dad, we used to describe him as somewhere between Doctor Who and Caractacus Potts.

He was born into a story that was already unfolding. His mother, Agnes, was a Jewish refugee who fled Berlin, escaping the horrors of the Holocaust. His father, Desmond, brought together Anglo-Irish, American, Scottish, and, according to family legend, Native American ancestry. Dad inherited all of it. Perhaps that explains why he always felt more at home building bridges than drawing borders.

Losing his family home as a young man left a mark that never really faded. But instead of closing himself off, he spent the rest of his life opening doors. He sought out community, friendship, and connection wherever he went. Dad had an insatiable curiosity about people and a genuine delight in meeting them, regardless of who they were or where they came from. More than that, he had the rare gift of making everyone feel comfortable, seen and welcome. A conversation with Mark could begin with a stranger and end with a lifelong friend. 

He was shaped, too, by the unspoken parts of his story. As the middle child, he liked to joke that he was ‘the jam in the sandwich’ between everyone else's dramas. He hated conflict and was forever trying to bring people together.

He possessed a massive intellect that he wore lightly, and he could distill complex ideas. He discussed historical figures as if it were Hollywood gossip, assuming you knew exactly what he was talking about. He never talked down to anyone. And he never let the facts get in the way of a good story.

Dad achieved extraordinary things, leading the world-class team at Martello Media to create exhibitions that invited people not just to read history, but to walk through it. Countless visitors will never know how much of what moved them came from his imagination.

Perhaps what we admire even more than his achievements was the childhood he gave us.

As children, we didn't just have a father, we had the world's most enthusiastic playmate. He approached life with the curiosity of a child and the wisdom of someone who had lived many lives. He taught us to be creative, adventurous, and kind. No matter how busy he was, if you came to him with a problem, he offered an ocean of empathy. Dad cared deeply about the environment, politics, and the direction of the world. Yet somehow, despite everything he had experienced, he never became cynical or lost his sense of wonder.

Our parents were, in many ways, a perfect example of opposites attracting. They each saw in the other qualities they deeply admired. Dad was the eternal buccaneering Boy Scout, always chasing the next adventure, while Mum was so often the steady hand that kept life on course. It wasn't always the easiest role, but it was one she embraced with gentle strength… patience and love.

Mum, we want to thank you — not just for this week, but for a lifetime.

As we've navigated our grief and the whirlwind of practicalities that comes with saying goodbye, you have been our anchor in the storm.Mark was a force of nature. He explored every element: the skies in his hang glider, the depths of the earth through caving, and the sea, where he swam with his beloved seals. All our father ever wanted was more time with the people he loved.

Every ask, every invite, was always an enthusiastic, “Yes.” 

Recently, we'd been planning trips together — to London, New York, Egypt and Japan. Dad was even renewing his passport and, despite spending most of his life on this island, he finally applied for his first - Irish passport. We never made that last big family adventure. Instead, the sunshine came to us. Ireland became the holiday, and these long summer days together turned out to be a gift beyond measure.

Just a week before he died, Dad rang Leah and asked if she'd join him for a swim in the sea. Leah told him she couldn't get away until she finished work at 5 o'clock. Undeterred, he turned up at 4pm anyway. She reminded him — slightly exasperated — that she was still working. Five minutes later she looked out of the window and her heart melted... There he was, sitting patiently on the bench opposite the house, flippers and snorkel beside him, waiting like … Forrest Gump. That was Dad.

Time spent together was never something he fit into his day. It was the whole point of it.

Dad lived life in Technicolour. In a world that can often feel hurried and harsh, he never stopped finding wonder. He saw enchantment everywhere: in history, music, people, places, stories, and ideas. He sought it out and brought it back for the rest of us. The ‘Mark-opedia’ could tell you the history behind almost any place, remember every name, every date, every hidden detail. He didn't just collect facts; he brought them to life - he was a fountain of knowledge. 

Whether he had returned from sailing a tall ship to Vanuatu or Cape Verde, encountered a priest in a Hindu temple in India with a personal message for a friend, or simply bumped into someone on a walk through Sandycove, Dad always came home with a story. He had a rare gift for helping the rest of us see the world through his eyes, with a little more curiosity, romance, and hope. 

For many years, Dad stoically carried an illness that slowly wore out our gentle giant. As his body increasingly failed him, he bore it with relentless optimism and quiet dignity, rarely letting anyone see how frightened or exhausted he must have felt. He never wanted his struggles to become anyone else's burden.

Monday, July 20th was my birthday; we shared a wonderful family meal before going to see The Odyssey. As Odysseus's ship set sail and the music swelled, Dad leaned over with a huge grin and whispered, "I am... loving this."

The three of us walked home together afterwards, discussing the film. The Odyssey isn’t just about a man lost in the Mediterranean; The epic shows us how to stop wandering ourselves. It’s a story about getting knocked off course. The monsters are our inner battles, the sirens are distractions pulling us from our path, and the storms are the setbacks. Ultimately, Ithaca is whatever destination you strive to reach. The Odyssey is life itself, challenging us to question how we live. It’s a story meant to help us slay our monsters, weather our storms, and get back to our own Ithaca.

As we parted ways, I hugged Dad and reminded him I’d see him Friday; Mum had given us tickets to Hans Zimmer by Candlelight, and he told me he couldn't wait. As I put the key in the door, I looked back and saw him lingering a little way up the road, gazing across the moonlit sea towards the Forty Foot and the Battery, where our grandmother had once lived.I didn't know then - that I was seeing him for the last time.

We are profoundly grateful that Dad left us on his own terms: peacefully, at home, in his own bed. Even on his final day, he managed to enjoy so many of the everyday things that brought him joy: a dip in the sea, a cycle along the coast. Those simple pleasures sustained him, especially during this last glorious summer. He delighted in swimming with Leah and with his old friends, the seals, soaking up the sunshine that always turned his skin that unmistakable caramel brown.

He went to bed that night happy. Looking forward to seeing me and sharing an evening of music. He fell asleep with only love in his heart.

We simply believed… we had more time.

People often say that when someone dies, they find a way to let you know they're still close by. We smiled through our tears when, for three mornings after Dad passed, the seals gathered on the rocks opposite our house. They lifted their voices across the bay in a lamenting chorus. It felt as though his old friends had come to sing him home, calling him gently back to the sea that had given him so much solace.

And for just a moment, we could picture him swimming freely towards their song, the waves rising to embrace him… 

finally, free from his pain,

finally at peace."