Philip Watts
In Memoriam: Philip Christopher Watts MA (Oxon)
Eulogies
Eulogy for Philip
by Milly Douglas
(read at Philip's funeral, January 3rd 2026)
Black leather driving gloves and flat cap on, full of knowledge for the landscape and countryside, our tour guide through rural Cheshire and into metropolitan Manchester. A mischievous glint in his eye, a thoughtful brow when he listened attentively.
How many of us have been regaled with Philip’s witty anecdotes and far reaching knowledge? He was a fabulous host, his home one he transformed in to a wonderfully curated cottage. Photos of so many friends wall to wall, paintings and crockery - everywhere. His adored English garden out the back, a source of pleasure and joy for him.
Winter was always hard for Philip, but he seemed so happy that last summer. He had recently become a patron of the cultural centre, Clonter, volunteered at Holmes Chapel Pride, began classes in watercolouring, joined Sandbach Choral Society, and was member to several poetry groups. Whilst we knew of his life-long battle with depression, Philip taking his own life was an earth shattering shock.
Whilst Philip could talk to anyone, there was the air of the eccentric and theatrical to him. Seeing photos of Philip’s very own Abigail’s party, I envy those of you who attended. Philip sent me photos, dolled up in a long auburn women’s wig, and striking blue smock dress (my mother lent the garish multicoloured beads). He wore the same get-up on a hen do ahead of his friends’ Ian and Nick’s wedding. Alongside dressing up as a butler at Tatton, this is possibly the campiest Philip got. Although Philip had been single for some years, he was a proud gay man and LGBT ally to the last. He had been a member of Manchester’s gay swimming and LGBT badminton clubs, and was a supporter of AKT, a charity for young LGBTQ people who find themselves homeless.
His friends at Elizabeth Gaskell's House and Tatton Park have told me how he pioneered both institutions, and his initiative and passion made being there a different experience. Writing poetry, plays, and vignettes, Pip had a vigorous and creative mind, both highly knowledgeable and imaginative. His poem Amaryllis, read here today, is testament to this. He was equally appreciative as a spectator of art, classical music, and ballet. He loved Gaskell, Shakespeare, Larkin. He kept a treasured autograph from the ballerina, Margot Fonteyn, which she had written out to him backstage when he was a teenager. He also had a soft spot for the talented (and coincidentally gorgeous) Carlos Acosta.
Whilst Philip had many hats (and the odd wig) he was always unmistakably himself. Philip was authentic, so charming, but genuine and direct. We won’t hear again that cheeky laugh, which seemed to escape from him in delighted glee. He was at times a schoolboy again, in a fun and endearing way.
As he grew older, Philip was paternal, but never patriarchal. My own son Bram became his Grand-godson, and he was a father to me after my own dad died. He was so pleased when his neighbour’s children came to pick fruit from the garden. A natural educator, Philip was easily able to connect with young people, and not many people could believe he was almost 70. Philip’s friends ranged in age from 27 to 93.
Fascinated by characters both fictional and off of the page, if we look around today, we see testament to Philip’s interest in, and love for, people. In correspondences since his death, the words “kind”, “generous”, “loving” show up again and again. Clever, hilarious, creative, and free-spirited. In his words “oh all of that, dear”. All of that, and far more. We will miss you, so much.
Eulogy for Philip
by Ruth Symes
(read at Philip's funeral, 3rd January 2026)
Philip, as we all know, had a particular admiration for the works of the nineteenth-century novelist, Mrs Gaskell. In fact, so fond was he of Elizabeth Gaskell that, at times, he would write to me jokingly in texts and emails as if he were her and I were her dear friend Charlotte Brontë. It was a game in which I felt particularly honoured to participate.
After Philip moved back up to Cheshire twenty-five years ago, and rather in the manner of his literary heroine, he started to build around himself a community of like-minded people. Philip’s original Northern community – a bit like Mrs Gaskell’s in her first novel Cranford - was made up of women - middle-class women of a certain age - you know who you are! Over the years, his friendship group - just like Mrs Gaskell’s - became more expansive and more socially diverse. He came to know people from all walks of life, women and men, young and elderly, people of different ethnicities, religions and sexualities. In the last few weeks, getting to know the breadth and variety of Philip’s community of friends has taken my breath away. He was, quite simply, a consummate friend, the connecting figure at the centre of a vibrant network of interesting people.
Mrs Gaskell’s novels swung between town life and country life, masters and workers, romance and tragedy. Philip too delighted in opposites and contradictions. He loved rural Cheshire but was equally at home in central Manchester. He appreciated the fine grounds of stately homes but found equal pleasure picking plums in his own small English garden. He revelled in visiting opera houses and cathedrals but also endlessly crisscrossed Manchester to visit friends in flats and terraces. He loved to discuss the finer points of Shakespeare but was equally happy talking about last night’s Coronation Street.
Drawing these comparisons to a close – if you read reviews of Mrs Gaskell’s novels, you will notice a common theme. She is always described as ‘profoundly kind’ with a ‘huge sympathetic understanding.’ This, I think, is how we will also remember Philip. He was fascinated by all the people who are gathered here (and online) and he had compassion for us. On top of that, he genuinely applauded our talents: among us are people who write poetry, people who enjoy history and literature, people who sing and play music, people who act, people who paint and make things, people who build gardens and people who improve things in numerous other ways. Philip encouraged each and every one of us. And, his own exceptional talent as a poet drew on all the varied stimulation that we brought his way. He was immensely grateful for this rich interchange and I know that he hoped that in time we would all connect together and be inspired by each other. The circumstances in which we find ourselves here are deeply sad and shocking, but perhaps, after today, some of us will be able to do just that. Thank you for everything but especially for that Philip.
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Timeline
Gallery
Videos
Tributes, Poems
Isabella Lockett, Clonter Opera
Philip came into our lives at Clonter only fairly recently, but he made a huge impact very quickly. First of all we met him with his father (as we thought he was), and it was a source of huge joy and job satisfaction that we were providing events for them to come to together. It was therefore with huge sadness that we heard that he had passed away, but Philip carried on coming, and even endowed two seats, one in his stepfather’s memory, and another with ‘The Man at the Front’ on it. I even mentioned this, and them, from the stage just after his stepfather passed away, when Philip was there, as he always was. He came to every performance of Tosca, every recital, and even our art exhibitions, and had recently become a volunteer and Patron. When he then didn’t appear for one recital, for the first time EVER I emailed an audience member to say ‘We missed you’ because genuinely we did. And we shall continue to do so.
He has left an enormous hole in our lives, and it is hard to believe that he shall never come through our doors again. This GIANT of a personality. I can only therefore imagine how bereft those closer to him must feel. But we will forever enjoy hearing his enthusiastic and deeply genuine ‘Bravo’ in our recordings of Tosca, and speak of him often. Dear, dear fellow.
Philip came into our lives at Clonter only fairly recently, but he made a huge impact very quickly. First of all we met him with his father (as we thought he was), and it was a source of huge joy and job satisfaction that we were providing events for them to come to together. It was therefore with huge sadness that we heard that he had passed away, but Philip carried on coming, and even endowed two seats, one in his stepfather’s memory, and another with ‘The Man at the Front’ on it. I even mentioned this, and them, from the stage just after his stepfather passed away, when Philip was there, as he always was. He came to every performance of Tosca, every recital, and even our art exhibitions, and had recently become a volunteer and Patron. When he then didn’t appear for one recital, for the first time EVER I emailed an audience member to say ‘We missed you’ because genuinely we did. And we shall continue to do so.
He has left an enormous hole in our lives, and it is hard to believe that he shall never come through our doors again. This GIANT of a personality. I can only therefore imagine how bereft those closer to him must feel. But we will forever enjoy hearing his enthusiastic and deeply genuine ‘Bravo’ in our recordings of Tosca, and speak of him often. Dear, dear fellow.
January 24, 2026
ROSEMARY
by Philip Watts
written for friend Marjorie's birthday. "I'll be taking it over to her with a jar of the herb from my garden."
there's rosemary
that's for remembrance
Ophelia in her madness
had not forgotten the lore that lay deeper
than grief for her dead father
reaching to pick a spear of sky-blue flowers
your skin brushes against the dark green blades
and you inevitably release incense
in a sudden unsought purification
which reminds you it is the name of the friend
you only see occasionally
yet whose presence you always find healing
like the involuntary oil touched from the leaves
pray you love
remember
September 2025
by Philip Watts
written for friend Marjorie's birthday. "I'll be taking it over to her with a jar of the herb from my garden."
there's rosemary
that's for remembrance
Ophelia in her madness
had not forgotten the lore that lay deeper
than grief for her dead father
reaching to pick a spear of sky-blue flowers
your skin brushes against the dark green blades
and you inevitably release incense
in a sudden unsought purification
which reminds you it is the name of the friend
you only see occasionally
yet whose presence you always find healing
like the involuntary oil touched from the leaves
pray you love
remember
September 2025
January 22, 2026
NO-ONE TO WATCH OVER YOU
i.m.o. Philip Watts
by Angela Topping
You’d confided you found Christmas difficult
but still gave me luxurious soap, that kept its scent,
lathered up to the very last sliver.
I keep finding cards you sent: one you forgot to sign
I recognised the black fountain pen scrawl like mine,
leaving traces of wet ink, footprints in The Secret Garden.
The daffodil one you sent when I was mired
in winter illness, to remind me spring would come.
I displayed it next to a beeswax candle for months.
This chilly December, you left us in the dark.
Early January sunshine for your funeral, as all
your loving friends packed out the chapel.
The chords of Elgar’s Nimrod rose and fell
from a quiet beginning. The white lilies on your coffin
scented the room, your favourite flowers, chosen well.
Ella Fitzgerald sang of a little lamb lost in the woods.
Two days later it snowed, the fresh start you craved
but the lamb was not saved, it is forever lost.
i.m.o. Philip Watts
by Angela Topping
You’d confided you found Christmas difficult
but still gave me luxurious soap, that kept its scent,
lathered up to the very last sliver.
I keep finding cards you sent: one you forgot to sign
I recognised the black fountain pen scrawl like mine,
leaving traces of wet ink, footprints in The Secret Garden.
The daffodil one you sent when I was mired
in winter illness, to remind me spring would come.
I displayed it next to a beeswax candle for months.
This chilly December, you left us in the dark.
Early January sunshine for your funeral, as all
your loving friends packed out the chapel.
The chords of Elgar’s Nimrod rose and fell
from a quiet beginning. The white lilies on your coffin
scented the room, your favourite flowers, chosen well.
Ella Fitzgerald sang of a little lamb lost in the woods.
Two days later it snowed, the fresh start you craved
but the lamb was not saved, it is forever lost.
March 24, 2026
Phil was someone you couldn’t help but like. He had that easy way about him, the kind of person who would always lend a hand if you needed it.
I first met him through badminton, and it didn’t take long to realise you were in for something whenever you spoke with him. He always had a story to tell. Sometimes you’d be laughing so hard your sides hurt, and other times you’d walk away still thinking about what he’d said, turning it over in your mind.
He was always welcoming, always happy to share what he knew, to teach, to include. You felt that when you were around him.
I have so many good memories of time spent with Phil, but one of the last stands out so clearly. We were out together, driving through country lanes in his new pride and joy, that Mini convertible. He loved that car. And honestly, it was impossible not to share in that joy, it was just such a fun day.
I’m really glad he bought it. It gave him happiness, and it gave us that memory.
In fact, just recently I ended up getting one myself. And in memory of Phil, I’ve named it “Phillip.”
It feels fitting somehow. A small reminder, every day, of the laughter, the stories, and the time spent with someone who made life just that bit more interesting.
I first met him through badminton, and it didn’t take long to realise you were in for something whenever you spoke with him. He always had a story to tell. Sometimes you’d be laughing so hard your sides hurt, and other times you’d walk away still thinking about what he’d said, turning it over in your mind.
He was always welcoming, always happy to share what he knew, to teach, to include. You felt that when you were around him.
I have so many good memories of time spent with Phil, but one of the last stands out so clearly. We were out together, driving through country lanes in his new pride and joy, that Mini convertible. He loved that car. And honestly, it was impossible not to share in that joy, it was just such a fun day.
I’m really glad he bought it. It gave him happiness, and it gave us that memory.
In fact, just recently I ended up getting one myself. And in memory of Phil, I’ve named it “Phillip.”
It feels fitting somehow. A small reminder, every day, of the laughter, the stories, and the time spent with someone who made life just that bit more interesting.
March 2, 2026
A GARDEN IN THE KITCHEN
by Angela Topping
For Philip Watts
Not just windowsill basil
but tiles planted on the wall:
Agapanthus, daffodil, agapanthus,
pansies preoccupied in vases
daisy saucers, violets on a plate
tall irises in profusion, channelling Monet.
Extravagant poppies show off their reds
shamelessly copying crimson tulips
in their weed-free ceramic flowerbeds.
One wall is an orchard:
Worcester Pearmain, Beauty of Bath,
James Grieve and Egremont Russet.
Then Victorian glasshouse grapes,
oranges and lemons, a pineapple bowl
bearing kiwi fruit, which hide
their vibrances behind dull hairy skin.
On the dresser a jug cultivates cabbages
furled round its voluptuous body;
Art Deco teapot of crocuses
in punchy Clarice Cliff colours;
Lily of the Valley, with her small
scented bells, decorously waits for light
in her milk glass candle holder.
Blue and white china whispers
of quintessential English landscapes.
By the sink, waterlilies flourish.
In the window a stained glass bee
returns to the honeycomb.
Outside the grass goes wild,
cleavers cling to ancient hedges,
roses go unpruned, produce rosehips
for overwintering birds.
Real bees meticulously strip
each golden dandelion of pollen.
by Angela Topping
For Philip Watts
Not just windowsill basil
but tiles planted on the wall:
Agapanthus, daffodil, agapanthus,
pansies preoccupied in vases
daisy saucers, violets on a plate
tall irises in profusion, channelling Monet.
Extravagant poppies show off their reds
shamelessly copying crimson tulips
in their weed-free ceramic flowerbeds.
One wall is an orchard:
Worcester Pearmain, Beauty of Bath,
James Grieve and Egremont Russet.
Then Victorian glasshouse grapes,
oranges and lemons, a pineapple bowl
bearing kiwi fruit, which hide
their vibrances behind dull hairy skin.
On the dresser a jug cultivates cabbages
furled round its voluptuous body;
Art Deco teapot of crocuses
in punchy Clarice Cliff colours;
Lily of the Valley, with her small
scented bells, decorously waits for light
in her milk glass candle holder.
Blue and white china whispers
of quintessential English landscapes.
By the sink, waterlilies flourish.
In the window a stained glass bee
returns to the honeycomb.
Outside the grass goes wild,
cleavers cling to ancient hedges,
roses go unpruned, produce rosehips
for overwintering birds.
Real bees meticulously strip
each golden dandelion of pollen.
February 22, 2026
John Renda
Dearest Philip,
It has been a few days since I learned of your passing and yet I've still not quite come to terms with the news. You will be missed.
I first met Philip whilst working at Bert & Bert in Altrincham where, after hitting it off with our love of language and art and it to forget our eccentricities melting together to bring to life some great conversations. I became Philip's regular barber and I was grateful he would make the trip from Holmes Chapel to visit me knowing full well there were closer barbershops for him.
Flat cap adorned on top of the curls he'd enter the shop and I knew I'd have to get the kettle on ready for a cup of tea. Now everyone knows I'm not the biggest fan of making tea for people but it was never an issue for Philip as I knew we were about to indulge in 40 minutes' worth of chatting about the things we both loved. He'd tell me about friends and always ask about my family. He would bring gifts for me, my wife and my daughters, and I'm only sorry they never had the chance to meet him. We'd talk about his days spent at the Gaskell House and later at Clonter, both of which he was passionate about. The smile that lit up on his face when talking about Milly and Bram coming to visit, I think these days were his favourite. I learned about times spent with Mikey, conversing in French and sharing the love of day trips. And Pru, he often spoke so fondly of you.
One of the things I liked the most about Philip was when I could get the schoolboy-esque giggle out of him, usually after some sort of innuendo or knowing that someone had caught his eye and giving him that look to say 'I know what you're thinking' - his laugh would fill a room and often send me into a laughing fit too.
I'll miss you Philip. I do hope there's a fine English country garden filled with poetry books wherever your soul is now.
Dearest Philip,
It has been a few days since I learned of your passing and yet I've still not quite come to terms with the news. You will be missed.
I first met Philip whilst working at Bert & Bert in Altrincham where, after hitting it off with our love of language and art and it to forget our eccentricities melting together to bring to life some great conversations. I became Philip's regular barber and I was grateful he would make the trip from Holmes Chapel to visit me knowing full well there were closer barbershops for him.
Flat cap adorned on top of the curls he'd enter the shop and I knew I'd have to get the kettle on ready for a cup of tea. Now everyone knows I'm not the biggest fan of making tea for people but it was never an issue for Philip as I knew we were about to indulge in 40 minutes' worth of chatting about the things we both loved. He'd tell me about friends and always ask about my family. He would bring gifts for me, my wife and my daughters, and I'm only sorry they never had the chance to meet him. We'd talk about his days spent at the Gaskell House and later at Clonter, both of which he was passionate about. The smile that lit up on his face when talking about Milly and Bram coming to visit, I think these days were his favourite. I learned about times spent with Mikey, conversing in French and sharing the love of day trips. And Pru, he often spoke so fondly of you.
One of the things I liked the most about Philip was when I could get the schoolboy-esque giggle out of him, usually after some sort of innuendo or knowing that someone had caught his eye and giving him that look to say 'I know what you're thinking' - his laugh would fill a room and often send me into a laughing fit too.
I'll miss you Philip. I do hope there's a fine English country garden filled with poetry books wherever your soul is now.
February 13, 2026
Philip was a man of many parts. He was a person who had a strong personality but could be very vulnerable at the same time. Towards the end of his life, he tried to be the best he could be. I miss his cheekiness, his strength and his love. I miss the man I call my love and confidante. Sleep well my Philip.
February 5, 2026
From Hamlet…
He was a man-
Take him for all in all.
I shall not look
Upon his like again.
He was a man-
Take him for all in all.
I shall not look
Upon his like again.
February 2, 2026
Mikey Dunphy
I met Philip during the summer following Covid when I started volunteering at Elizabeth Gaskell's House. We hit it off straight away, having so many interests in common, not least a love of Maggie Smith. I was thrilled to meet someone so clever and passionate, who really believed in the value of art and literature. 'Oh you'll love it!' was a constant declaration when he'd recommend another book or film or play he thought would interest me - he was always right and I shall miss those recommendations and wonderful conversations that followed more than I can say.
When I moved to Edinburgh to study, Philip suggested we video call to help me learn French by reading French plays together. Those weekly conversations carried on for five years and we guiltily spent rather more time gossiping and chatting than we did on the French, until an hour had gone by and Philip would playfully say he was leading me astray and insist we read some French.
When I moved back to Manchester a couple of years ago we got into the habit of day trips, both sharing a love of quaint villages and historic houses; we'd set off in Philip's convertible, picnic hamper filled with goodies, in pursuit of 'England-land.' If the weather wasn't on our side we'd often spend an afternoon in Philip's cosy house watching a favourite Shakespeare recording or chatting over homemade soup.
Philip's humour, wit and kindness enriched my life so deeply; he made life feel exciting and interesting, filled with beauties and joys that we experienced together. His kindness was to make me feel I had interesting things to say and something to contribute.
Philip's loss is incredibly impoverishing. I feel very fortunate that our paths happened to cross and am so grateful for his friendship.
I met Philip during the summer following Covid when I started volunteering at Elizabeth Gaskell's House. We hit it off straight away, having so many interests in common, not least a love of Maggie Smith. I was thrilled to meet someone so clever and passionate, who really believed in the value of art and literature. 'Oh you'll love it!' was a constant declaration when he'd recommend another book or film or play he thought would interest me - he was always right and I shall miss those recommendations and wonderful conversations that followed more than I can say.
When I moved to Edinburgh to study, Philip suggested we video call to help me learn French by reading French plays together. Those weekly conversations carried on for five years and we guiltily spent rather more time gossiping and chatting than we did on the French, until an hour had gone by and Philip would playfully say he was leading me astray and insist we read some French.
When I moved back to Manchester a couple of years ago we got into the habit of day trips, both sharing a love of quaint villages and historic houses; we'd set off in Philip's convertible, picnic hamper filled with goodies, in pursuit of 'England-land.' If the weather wasn't on our side we'd often spend an afternoon in Philip's cosy house watching a favourite Shakespeare recording or chatting over homemade soup.
Philip's humour, wit and kindness enriched my life so deeply; he made life feel exciting and interesting, filled with beauties and joys that we experienced together. His kindness was to make me feel I had interesting things to say and something to contribute.
Philip's loss is incredibly impoverishing. I feel very fortunate that our paths happened to cross and am so grateful for his friendship.
February 2, 2026
Dympna Gould
The photo at the top of the Gallery is of Philip with his great friend Ursula, my former Deputy Head at Loreto Convent. Brought back together by Elizabeth Gaskell's House, the three of us shared poetry, lunches at Ursula's and in Chorlton, and the best of times.
Philip was hugely supportive to his friends, including me. He called me The Baroness to his Max, his terrible twin - our genetic roots can be traced back to the same corner of Kilkenny, Ireland.
This great shot of him is on a project of mine, Castlefield Viaduct. I'd invited Philip and Ursula to an open air performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream.
I will think of you, Philip, with love every time I walk into the Royal Exchange, the place where we had so many happy Mondays.
The photo at the top of the Gallery is of Philip with his great friend Ursula, my former Deputy Head at Loreto Convent. Brought back together by Elizabeth Gaskell's House, the three of us shared poetry, lunches at Ursula's and in Chorlton, and the best of times.
Philip was hugely supportive to his friends, including me. He called me The Baroness to his Max, his terrible twin - our genetic roots can be traced back to the same corner of Kilkenny, Ireland.
This great shot of him is on a project of mine, Castlefield Viaduct. I'd invited Philip and Ursula to an open air performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream.
I will think of you, Philip, with love every time I walk into the Royal Exchange, the place where we had so many happy Mondays.
February 2, 2026
Patrick Pope
Philip was such a friendly person, so easy to get on with, who never had a bad word to say about anyone. He particularly enjoyed cultural activities, especially his regular visits to Clonter Opera. His knowledge of and love for the life and works of Elizabeth Gaskell was perfectly illustrated in the personal guided tour he gave me of her home in Manchester. His love of poetry was another integral part of his character.
He was also proud to be a gay man, supporting his recent, local community's Pride events. I am proud to have known him, and privileged to have been able to call Philip my friend.
Philip was such a friendly person, so easy to get on with, who never had a bad word to say about anyone. He particularly enjoyed cultural activities, especially his regular visits to Clonter Opera. His knowledge of and love for the life and works of Elizabeth Gaskell was perfectly illustrated in the personal guided tour he gave me of her home in Manchester. His love of poetry was another integral part of his character.
He was also proud to be a gay man, supporting his recent, local community's Pride events. I am proud to have known him, and privileged to have been able to call Philip my friend.
February 2, 2026
Judith Mitchell
I met Philip when he came into the gallery where I was working to have something framed. We got on so well through our love of art and wicked sense of humour! He gave me a personal guided tour of Elizabeth Gaskell's House and introduced me to The Portico Library and Rylands Library. He guided me through his beloved Manchester and enthralled me with his knowledge of Gothic architecture. I told him he was a joy to be with, and he really was. I always left Philip's company feeling happier and wiser! We laughed together and shared secrets and never stopped talking whenever we spent time together.
When I found out of Philip's passing, I was driving home from Skipton late one evening. When I arrived home I looked to the sky and whispered, "my darling friend, I hope you have found your peace". Two shooting stars flew across the sky, one immediately following the path of the other. I took this as his answer that he had.
I miss you, Philip. We had so many more trips to make.
I met Philip when he came into the gallery where I was working to have something framed. We got on so well through our love of art and wicked sense of humour! He gave me a personal guided tour of Elizabeth Gaskell's House and introduced me to The Portico Library and Rylands Library. He guided me through his beloved Manchester and enthralled me with his knowledge of Gothic architecture. I told him he was a joy to be with, and he really was. I always left Philip's company feeling happier and wiser! We laughed together and shared secrets and never stopped talking whenever we spent time together.
When I found out of Philip's passing, I was driving home from Skipton late one evening. When I arrived home I looked to the sky and whispered, "my darling friend, I hope you have found your peace". Two shooting stars flew across the sky, one immediately following the path of the other. I took this as his answer that he had.
I miss you, Philip. We had so many more trips to make.
February 2, 2026
Annie Mettam
Dear Philip, how I miss you every Wednesday when I am at Elizabeth Gaskell's House. The way (with Ursula!) you made me feel at home there so quickly. Your wicked sense of humour and your totally infectious love of all things Gaskell.
Memories of life in Oxford and of teaching sparked conversations which were so easy with you. In the Dining Room and the Drawing Room in particular, memories make it easy to imagine you just walking in. Long may that continue.
With love, Annie.
Dear Philip, how I miss you every Wednesday when I am at Elizabeth Gaskell's House. The way (with Ursula!) you made me feel at home there so quickly. Your wicked sense of humour and your totally infectious love of all things Gaskell.
Memories of life in Oxford and of teaching sparked conversations which were so easy with you. In the Dining Room and the Drawing Room in particular, memories make it easy to imagine you just walking in. Long may that continue.
With love, Annie.
February 2, 2026
Poem for Philip
by Edwin Stockdale
I remember your dark floppy hair
in the vein of Merchant-Ivory boys.
We first met in the writing group
at Elizabeth Gaskell’s House.
You dazzled me with your erudition
and sparkling eyes.
From that first instant we became friends,
read poems at events for the Gaskell House
and for Anne Brontë’s bicentenary
at Cross Street Chapel.
You styled us the 'louche poets' as we sat
on the velvet chaise-longue,
fingers nearly touching. I never
told you how much I loved you.
Sleep well, my darling.
by Edwin Stockdale
I remember your dark floppy hair
in the vein of Merchant-Ivory boys.
We first met in the writing group
at Elizabeth Gaskell’s House.
You dazzled me with your erudition
and sparkling eyes.
From that first instant we became friends,
read poems at events for the Gaskell House
and for Anne Brontë’s bicentenary
at Cross Street Chapel.
You styled us the 'louche poets' as we sat
on the velvet chaise-longue,
fingers nearly touching. I never
told you how much I loved you.
Sleep well, my darling.
February 1, 2026
Zainul Sachak
Philip was part of my life for over 30 years, and his presence shaped it in ways I'm still coming to understand.
When I first moved to Manchester, unsure of my footing and my future, Philip was there. Through his friendship, generosity and quiet encouragement, he helped me build a life in South Manchester. He and my wife worked together as English Literature teachers, and from those early days, Philip became woven into the fabric of our lives.
For many years he was a regular visitor to our home - thoughtful, witty, deeply knowledgeable, and endlessly passionate about words.
Philip's love of literature and poetry was not something he kept to himself. He shared it freely and enthusiastically, whether through teaching, conversation, volunteering, or his own writing. His commitment to Elizabeth Gaskell's House, the literary groups he helped establish, and the poems he published all came from a genuine desire to connect with others through language and ideas.
He touched more lives than he probably ever realised.
Behind his intellect and creativity, Philip lived for many years with mental health struggles. He faced these with courage, even when his burden was heavy. My wife spent countless hours with him during some of his darkest moments, and I know many others did too. He cared deeply, even when he was hurting, and he remained loyal to the people he loved. Though he never married, he was a proud godparent and a constant presence in the lives of those close to him.
In the weeks before his death, Philip became more withdrawn, and despite years of treatment and support, he eventually lost his battle. His passing has left a profound sadness for all who knew him - friends, former colleagues, students, fellow volunteers, and the many people in the literary world who shared ideas, laughter, and friendship with him.
Philip was a good man and a dear friend. His kindness, intelligence, humour, and love of poetry will stay with me always. I am deeply grateful for the role he played in my life and for the memories we shared.
He will be remembered with affection, respect, and lasting gratitude.
Philip was part of my life for over 30 years, and his presence shaped it in ways I'm still coming to understand.
When I first moved to Manchester, unsure of my footing and my future, Philip was there. Through his friendship, generosity and quiet encouragement, he helped me build a life in South Manchester. He and my wife worked together as English Literature teachers, and from those early days, Philip became woven into the fabric of our lives.
For many years he was a regular visitor to our home - thoughtful, witty, deeply knowledgeable, and endlessly passionate about words.
Philip's love of literature and poetry was not something he kept to himself. He shared it freely and enthusiastically, whether through teaching, conversation, volunteering, or his own writing. His commitment to Elizabeth Gaskell's House, the literary groups he helped establish, and the poems he published all came from a genuine desire to connect with others through language and ideas.
He touched more lives than he probably ever realised.
Behind his intellect and creativity, Philip lived for many years with mental health struggles. He faced these with courage, even when his burden was heavy. My wife spent countless hours with him during some of his darkest moments, and I know many others did too. He cared deeply, even when he was hurting, and he remained loyal to the people he loved. Though he never married, he was a proud godparent and a constant presence in the lives of those close to him.
In the weeks before his death, Philip became more withdrawn, and despite years of treatment and support, he eventually lost his battle. His passing has left a profound sadness for all who knew him - friends, former colleagues, students, fellow volunteers, and the many people in the literary world who shared ideas, laughter, and friendship with him.
Philip was a good man and a dear friend. His kindness, intelligence, humour, and love of poetry will stay with me always. I am deeply grateful for the role he played in my life and for the memories we shared.
He will be remembered with affection, respect, and lasting gratitude.
February 1, 2026
E.C.McCaffrey
THE BREAD OF MOURNING
(one of Philip's favourite poems)
‘The sun refused to rise today’,
Said the possum to the crow
‘It never came to dance and play,
No place for seeds to grow.
I see only the shadows,
Beneath this dismal grey.
On fields that have laid fallow,
Where yields have turned to hay.
No dawn has come to bring the light,
No hope found in the sky.
There is no end from night to night.’
Said the possum with a sigh.
The crow began to laugh,
As he soared about the trees.
‘You see only the chaff,
And judge the fallen leaves.
You weigh the darkened sky,
By the color of your soul.
The view within your eye,
Is how you view the whole.
But here above the hills,
I see horizons crest.
The amber way it spills,
Across the meadows breast.
The clouds, they act as veil,
To a modest rising sun,
Yet still her light prevails,
And still the day has come.
If only you could see,
The light behind the grey.
What beauty lies between,
The fields of life’s decay.
The sun will always rise,
To take away the night.
The view within your eyes,
Is how you see its light.
Hear the song I sing!
And let it be a warning!
Don’t let your sorrow bring
The bitter bread of mourning.’
February 1st, 2025
THE BREAD OF MOURNING
(one of Philip's favourite poems)
‘The sun refused to rise today’,
Said the possum to the crow
‘It never came to dance and play,
No place for seeds to grow.
I see only the shadows,
Beneath this dismal grey.
On fields that have laid fallow,
Where yields have turned to hay.
No dawn has come to bring the light,
No hope found in the sky.
There is no end from night to night.’
Said the possum with a sigh.
The crow began to laugh,
As he soared about the trees.
‘You see only the chaff,
And judge the fallen leaves.
You weigh the darkened sky,
By the color of your soul.
The view within your eye,
Is how you view the whole.
But here above the hills,
I see horizons crest.
The amber way it spills,
Across the meadows breast.
The clouds, they act as veil,
To a modest rising sun,
Yet still her light prevails,
And still the day has come.
If only you could see,
The light behind the grey.
What beauty lies between,
The fields of life’s decay.
The sun will always rise,
To take away the night.
The view within your eyes,
Is how you see its light.
Hear the song I sing!
And let it be a warning!
Don’t let your sorrow bring
The bitter bread of mourning.’
February 1st, 2025
February 1, 2026
Sheila Cartwright
I knew Philip from when he first came back to Cheshire. We worked simultaneously at Alderley Edge School for Girls, and at Tatton Park!
I was the reason he came to the Education Department and he was the reason I joined him in the Education Office at Tatton, during which time Philip and I would sometimes nip out for a quick lunch at his mother's house when she lived at Rostherne. We were very close and I'm devastated that this has happened.
Philip was funny, intelligent, wise ...could be a 'diva'... and we will all miss that naughty laugh! I remember, years ago, his car's Sat Nav was in the voice of a Hungarian grandmother....only Philip!
We were last together in November at Tatton and also at a funeral in October. We did so much together: unusual things, including Abigail's Party at his house... but I wasn't able to join the 'Cranford Group' because of my second job in a Library on Saturdays. There is a photo (see the Gallery) of us at Tatton, doing a Tudor day, with myself on the far side and his special friend, Judith (in green), who he looked after until her death from a brain tumour... (they looked out for each other). Philip arranged to have a bench for her at Brereton, which he visited often.
He wrote - which is so poignant, after her funeral in October, that such tragedy "teaches us to value those that we have whilst we still have them."
I knew Philip from when he first came back to Cheshire. We worked simultaneously at Alderley Edge School for Girls, and at Tatton Park!
I was the reason he came to the Education Department and he was the reason I joined him in the Education Office at Tatton, during which time Philip and I would sometimes nip out for a quick lunch at his mother's house when she lived at Rostherne. We were very close and I'm devastated that this has happened.
Philip was funny, intelligent, wise ...could be a 'diva'... and we will all miss that naughty laugh! I remember, years ago, his car's Sat Nav was in the voice of a Hungarian grandmother....only Philip!
We were last together in November at Tatton and also at a funeral in October. We did so much together: unusual things, including Abigail's Party at his house... but I wasn't able to join the 'Cranford Group' because of my second job in a Library on Saturdays. There is a photo (see the Gallery) of us at Tatton, doing a Tudor day, with myself on the far side and his special friend, Judith (in green), who he looked after until her death from a brain tumour... (they looked out for each other). Philip arranged to have a bench for her at Brereton, which he visited often.
He wrote - which is so poignant, after her funeral in October, that such tragedy "teaches us to value those that we have whilst we still have them."
January 29, 2026
HOUSEKEEPER
by Philip Watts
opening the shutters even from here
I can see the stain on the skirt
she wore as a paid companion
and thinks is suitable for walking the dogs
with no-one around to notice or care
she and Jasper fork to the left
making for the happy valley
avoiding the right-hand path
that twists through the woods to the cove
which is not and shall not be hers
I take care of that for my mistress
whose impress is everywhere
seen and unseen, distilled
in the scent of the azaleas
where now her usurper walks
framed in the mullioned window
she looks out of place as when
I tricked her into dressing like my lady
and she smiled in gratitude
at her own undoing - poor fool
he never can and never will be hers
follow the left-hand path all she likes
he must always swerve to the right
thrashing through the undergrowth
and down to the shore
to stare in silence at the sea
where their destinies lie drowned
before turning to climb back to the house
past the blazing rhododendrons
whose flames lick ever closer
October 2023
by Philip Watts
opening the shutters even from here
I can see the stain on the skirt
she wore as a paid companion
and thinks is suitable for walking the dogs
with no-one around to notice or care
she and Jasper fork to the left
making for the happy valley
avoiding the right-hand path
that twists through the woods to the cove
which is not and shall not be hers
I take care of that for my mistress
whose impress is everywhere
seen and unseen, distilled
in the scent of the azaleas
where now her usurper walks
framed in the mullioned window
she looks out of place as when
I tricked her into dressing like my lady
and she smiled in gratitude
at her own undoing - poor fool
he never can and never will be hers
follow the left-hand path all she likes
he must always swerve to the right
thrashing through the undergrowth
and down to the shore
to stare in silence at the sea
where their destinies lie drowned
before turning to climb back to the house
past the blazing rhododendrons
whose flames lick ever closer
October 2023
January 29, 2026
Dinah Winch
I was the first manager of Elizabeth Gaskell's House and Philip was absolutely central to the warm, dynamic, creative and inviting place that we created. He was a regular, dedicated volunteer but he was so much more. He was passionate not just about Gaskell and the house but about people. He developed enduring friendships with volunteers. He was one of our best ambassadors - bringing friends to visit, connecting us with all sorts of wonderful creatives, inspiring visitors to become volunteers and encouraging amazing writers and musicians to support us. He was full of ideas and had the commitment, energy and organisational skills to make them happen. I honestly can't imagine pulling off that first year without him, and we had so much fun doing it.
Our last conversation last year wasn't even about literature, but Margot Fonteyn, as we both shared a love of ballet, one creative art that even Philip couldn't manage to get on our programme!
I was the first manager of Elizabeth Gaskell's House and Philip was absolutely central to the warm, dynamic, creative and inviting place that we created. He was a regular, dedicated volunteer but he was so much more. He was passionate not just about Gaskell and the house but about people. He developed enduring friendships with volunteers. He was one of our best ambassadors - bringing friends to visit, connecting us with all sorts of wonderful creatives, inspiring visitors to become volunteers and encouraging amazing writers and musicians to support us. He was full of ideas and had the commitment, energy and organisational skills to make them happen. I honestly can't imagine pulling off that first year without him, and we had so much fun doing it.
Our last conversation last year wasn't even about literature, but Margot Fonteyn, as we both shared a love of ballet, one creative art that even Philip couldn't manage to get on our programme!
January 29, 2026
A DAY WITH PHILIP
(i.m.)
by Liliana Pasterska
You see, we still can meet,
Soul to soul,
Across the bridge of writing,
Yours and mine –
As it was,
Room full of friends,
Sparkling with ideas,
Your mentorship.
And we can then step down
To her garden,
Plymouth Grove’s green revival.
You knew, how to speak her soul,
Indefatigable,
As I have tried.
Have you set a date with her
In your new place yet?
And then? Shall we go to places
You have held so dear,
Like Knutsford, Tabley,
Flying visits, just
As paid by your poems, Cheshire bard,
And to Haworth – the must:
Some dearest souls in their parlour
May join us.
Alas, when tea-time comes,
Let’s fly back
To your High Hedges,
Where you create, yet again,
A perfectly presented table,
Elegant companion to remembering, talk,
Sharing in the friendship that will
survive us all.
(i.m.)
by Liliana Pasterska
You see, we still can meet,
Soul to soul,
Across the bridge of writing,
Yours and mine –
As it was,
Room full of friends,
Sparkling with ideas,
Your mentorship.
And we can then step down
To her garden,
Plymouth Grove’s green revival.
You knew, how to speak her soul,
Indefatigable,
As I have tried.
Have you set a date with her
In your new place yet?
And then? Shall we go to places
You have held so dear,
Like Knutsford, Tabley,
Flying visits, just
As paid by your poems, Cheshire bard,
And to Haworth – the must:
Some dearest souls in their parlour
May join us.
Alas, when tea-time comes,
Let’s fly back
To your High Hedges,
Where you create, yet again,
A perfectly presented table,
Elegant companion to remembering, talk,
Sharing in the friendship that will
survive us all.
January 28, 2026
Naomi Symes
It was my privilege to know Philip for over 25 years and to introduce him to the rest of the family, who soon came to feel as much affection for him as I did. Philip was a unique person of many different qualities, and when we think of him, we remember so very many happy meetings - the long conversations which seemed to have no end, the lunches and afternoon teas shared with him in Cheshire. There were animated discussions about books we’d read, music we’d heard, people who’d surprised us, places we’d visited and the connections between all these things. We warmly anticipated seeing him each time, and we trusted that he was always going to be there.
Our boys were lucky enough to know him as a mentor figure who cared deeply about their futures; he was also a marvellous role model for them as an intelligent, kind and compassionate man. I would ask them to pause what they were doing so I could share his poems with them, as each new one came in. Not only did this teach good poetry by example, but more importantly, it gave them different and unusual ways of thinking.
So, through tears we come to understand that there will be no more new poetry, no more summer afternoons enjoying tea, cakes and warm conversation in Philip’s lovely house. We will, however, start to move slowly forward in the knowledge that so many others will feel a similar and enduring sense of loss, of silence. Because of the way in which he influenced each one of us uniquely and unusually, we pay tribute by missing him so very much.
It was my privilege to know Philip for over 25 years and to introduce him to the rest of the family, who soon came to feel as much affection for him as I did. Philip was a unique person of many different qualities, and when we think of him, we remember so very many happy meetings - the long conversations which seemed to have no end, the lunches and afternoon teas shared with him in Cheshire. There were animated discussions about books we’d read, music we’d heard, people who’d surprised us, places we’d visited and the connections between all these things. We warmly anticipated seeing him each time, and we trusted that he was always going to be there.
Our boys were lucky enough to know him as a mentor figure who cared deeply about their futures; he was also a marvellous role model for them as an intelligent, kind and compassionate man. I would ask them to pause what they were doing so I could share his poems with them, as each new one came in. Not only did this teach good poetry by example, but more importantly, it gave them different and unusual ways of thinking.
So, through tears we come to understand that there will be no more new poetry, no more summer afternoons enjoying tea, cakes and warm conversation in Philip’s lovely house. We will, however, start to move slowly forward in the knowledge that so many others will feel a similar and enduring sense of loss, of silence. Because of the way in which he influenced each one of us uniquely and unusually, we pay tribute by missing him so very much.
January 28, 2026
PILOT LIGHT
"A poem for the time of year"
by Philip Watts
in my living room the gas stove stares
blank - its cast iron hard as the day
behind ashen logs the pilot light flickers
like a sleeper's steady pulse
in the cathedral the ancient stones shine
as the choir rehearses Messiah
for unto us a child is born
rekindles memories of childhood joy
in the historic house the boiler is broken
we guides gather in the hallway
to help each other forget the cold
I read a poem aloud
through the windows we see
school children hand in hand
and teachers thread the park
their high visibility jackets
are promises of light beyond the dark
16 January 2018
rev. December 2023
"A poem for the time of year"
by Philip Watts
in my living room the gas stove stares
blank - its cast iron hard as the day
behind ashen logs the pilot light flickers
like a sleeper's steady pulse
in the cathedral the ancient stones shine
as the choir rehearses Messiah
for unto us a child is born
rekindles memories of childhood joy
in the historic house the boiler is broken
we guides gather in the hallway
to help each other forget the cold
I read a poem aloud
through the windows we see
school children hand in hand
and teachers thread the park
their high visibility jackets
are promises of light beyond the dark
16 January 2018
rev. December 2023
January 28, 2026
Eleanor Gorsuch
I was a friend of Philip's from his Tatton days. Philip was very kind to me when I had just started at Tatton, and was finding my feet. We had a shared love of books, poetry and history and had some wonderful, animated chats in our lunch breaks!
I remember a fabulous afternoon tea at his house with some Tatton friends and an enjoyable night out in Chorlton (where I was living at the time) with pie and beer. He was always so stimulating to talk to and an attentive and curious listener. He very kindly helped with some initial organising of our wedding at Rostherne church, where his mother was living in the village at the time. Philip took me to meet his Mum and introduce us to the vicar! He sent me the following poem as a wedding gift and it was printed in the front of our Order of Service.
A treasured gift from a treasured friend.
PREVISIT
for Eleanor and Tom
by Philip Watts
You visited the church earlier in the year
High on its hill in Cheshire, above
A mere mirroring the sky’s serenity,
When summer sunlight turned grey walls rose.
You thought it perfect, as the unlocked door
Opened to reveal the bare bones of
The set of your special day: an empty stone box, ready for
Family, friends, flowers, confetti
And the marking of an event.
Standing alone in the aisle,
You strained your ears beyond the silence
To hear his choir intone the as yet unchosen anthems,
And the gathered guests sing your favourite hymns,
As if they meant the same to them.
You didn’t quite yet know
What you would decide to wear, or
Just how and where you would feed so many,
But you were listening beyond the business
Of a Saturday afternoon in November,
Down a vista of unspoken vows and unvoiced laughter,
Through days unmarked and years unsequenced,
To joy unknown and unnumbered.
September 2010
I was a friend of Philip's from his Tatton days. Philip was very kind to me when I had just started at Tatton, and was finding my feet. We had a shared love of books, poetry and history and had some wonderful, animated chats in our lunch breaks!
I remember a fabulous afternoon tea at his house with some Tatton friends and an enjoyable night out in Chorlton (where I was living at the time) with pie and beer. He was always so stimulating to talk to and an attentive and curious listener. He very kindly helped with some initial organising of our wedding at Rostherne church, where his mother was living in the village at the time. Philip took me to meet his Mum and introduce us to the vicar! He sent me the following poem as a wedding gift and it was printed in the front of our Order of Service.
A treasured gift from a treasured friend.
PREVISIT
for Eleanor and Tom
by Philip Watts
You visited the church earlier in the year
High on its hill in Cheshire, above
A mere mirroring the sky’s serenity,
When summer sunlight turned grey walls rose.
You thought it perfect, as the unlocked door
Opened to reveal the bare bones of
The set of your special day: an empty stone box, ready for
Family, friends, flowers, confetti
And the marking of an event.
Standing alone in the aisle,
You strained your ears beyond the silence
To hear his choir intone the as yet unchosen anthems,
And the gathered guests sing your favourite hymns,
As if they meant the same to them.
You didn’t quite yet know
What you would decide to wear, or
Just how and where you would feed so many,
But you were listening beyond the business
Of a Saturday afternoon in November,
Down a vista of unspoken vows and unvoiced laughter,
Through days unmarked and years unsequenced,
To joy unknown and unnumbered.
September 2010
January 27, 2026
Michael Barlow
I first came to know Philip through those who loved him best, and it didn’t take long to understand the reasons for the affection he inspired. He was creative and thoughtful, highly intelligent, a gifted poet and writer — but never in a way that placed distance between himself and others. There was no sense of ego about him; he was balanced, attentive, and humble.
He nurtured people in whatever they were trying to do, often without them quite realising they were being supported. He possessed a sharp and clever humour that softened moments and made room for ease, even when topics were difficult. Philip gave his time, his care, and his generosity freely, and he was especially attentive to those who needed, or lacked, friendship. He was, to many, a supporter, a confidante, a skilled conversationalist, a benefactor, a carer — and above all, a friend. One you could rely on, whatever your aims, achievements or troubles. Many people bear his loss deeply, they thought he would be there always, and I count myself amongst those missing him, quietly but lastingly, by having been blessed to have known him. He leaves behind a space that no one else can fill — a space held open by warmth, kindness, and love, and by the memory of who he was.
I first came to know Philip through those who loved him best, and it didn’t take long to understand the reasons for the affection he inspired. He was creative and thoughtful, highly intelligent, a gifted poet and writer — but never in a way that placed distance between himself and others. There was no sense of ego about him; he was balanced, attentive, and humble.
He nurtured people in whatever they were trying to do, often without them quite realising they were being supported. He possessed a sharp and clever humour that softened moments and made room for ease, even when topics were difficult. Philip gave his time, his care, and his generosity freely, and he was especially attentive to those who needed, or lacked, friendship. He was, to many, a supporter, a confidante, a skilled conversationalist, a benefactor, a carer — and above all, a friend. One you could rely on, whatever your aims, achievements or troubles. Many people bear his loss deeply, they thought he would be there always, and I count myself amongst those missing him, quietly but lastingly, by having been blessed to have known him. He leaves behind a space that no one else can fill — a space held open by warmth, kindness, and love, and by the memory of who he was.
January 26, 2026
Andrea Ellis
of the Gaskell House Book Group
When I started volunteering at Elizabeth Gaskell's House in 2018, Philip was one of the first people I met. He was so welcoming and generous with his knowledge. I always enjoyed our conversations - he was extremely erudite but wore his learning with a grace and lightness of touch, that made everyone feel they were as clever as he was. His contributions to this group were invaluable and I particularly loved the discussions about Hardy because Philip was so perceptive about his novels. I feel incredibly sad that he saw no other way out of his depression.
However, it is a great tribute to him that we all remember him with such fondness.
of the Gaskell House Book Group
When I started volunteering at Elizabeth Gaskell's House in 2018, Philip was one of the first people I met. He was so welcoming and generous with his knowledge. I always enjoyed our conversations - he was extremely erudite but wore his learning with a grace and lightness of touch, that made everyone feel they were as clever as he was. His contributions to this group were invaluable and I particularly loved the discussions about Hardy because Philip was so perceptive about his novels. I feel incredibly sad that he saw no other way out of his depression.
However, it is a great tribute to him that we all remember him with such fondness.
January 25, 2026
Billy Barlow
Philip Watts had a calm and thoughtful nature and made people feel welcome, valued and at ease. He was someone who listened carefully and cared deeply about others.
Philip first met my mum and my Aunty Ruth at Abbey College in Manchester in the early 2000s. Working there as an English teacher, he was deeply passionate about language, literature and learning.
Not only was he a teacher - he was also a mentor and friend to many. He had a lifelong love of words and wrote poetry that reflected his thoughtful and sensitive nature. Philip's creativity and appreciation for language were central to who he was.
Philip often visited the Oxford Road Café in Altrincham with my Aunty Ruth, filling these moments with conversation, laughter and genuine friendship. He valued these simple but meaningful times spent with people he cared about.
When we visited his home, he always welcomed us warmly and kindly and made us tea and snacks. He filled these visits with laughter, comfort and a strong sense of togetherness, and this we'll always remember. Philip's humour was gentle, intelligent and full of warmth.
He also worked at Elizabeth Gaskell's House in Manchester, where he continued to show compassion and dedication. He cared deeply about supporting others and making a difference in other people's lives, his kindness extending beyond friendship into everything he did.
The life of Philip, from 1956 to 2025, mattered and he will always remain in our hearts. He will be deeply missed and lovingly remembered.
May he rest in peace, knowing how much he was loved.
Philip Watts had a calm and thoughtful nature and made people feel welcome, valued and at ease. He was someone who listened carefully and cared deeply about others.
Philip first met my mum and my Aunty Ruth at Abbey College in Manchester in the early 2000s. Working there as an English teacher, he was deeply passionate about language, literature and learning.
Not only was he a teacher - he was also a mentor and friend to many. He had a lifelong love of words and wrote poetry that reflected his thoughtful and sensitive nature. Philip's creativity and appreciation for language were central to who he was.
Philip often visited the Oxford Road Café in Altrincham with my Aunty Ruth, filling these moments with conversation, laughter and genuine friendship. He valued these simple but meaningful times spent with people he cared about.
When we visited his home, he always welcomed us warmly and kindly and made us tea and snacks. He filled these visits with laughter, comfort and a strong sense of togetherness, and this we'll always remember. Philip's humour was gentle, intelligent and full of warmth.
He also worked at Elizabeth Gaskell's House in Manchester, where he continued to show compassion and dedication. He cared deeply about supporting others and making a difference in other people's lives, his kindness extending beyond friendship into everything he did.
The life of Philip, from 1956 to 2025, mattered and he will always remain in our hearts. He will be deeply missed and lovingly remembered.
May he rest in peace, knowing how much he was loved.
January 22, 2026
Angela Topping
Our dear friend and much loved group member, Philip Watts, died unexpectedly on Thursday 11 December. This afternoon, December 15th, a small group of us met to read poems about him and remember him. Some of his own poems were read, some by his favourite poets and others poems written about him.
Philip was an inspiring person to know, a vivacious man passionate about literature, art, music, historic sites, and a fount of knowledge on these things. He was generous with his time, his support and his hospitality.
He is pictured in the very centre of our group photograph currently displayed, and he will remain at the centre of our group, as we will never forget him.
We will all miss him, not just at meetings, but his email correspondence, his thoughtful private messages, his habit of occasionally sending a beautiful card when someone needed cheering up. Here he is in our midst, as he always will be.
(see Gallery)
Our dear friend and much loved group member, Philip Watts, died unexpectedly on Thursday 11 December. This afternoon, December 15th, a small group of us met to read poems about him and remember him. Some of his own poems were read, some by his favourite poets and others poems written about him.
Philip was an inspiring person to know, a vivacious man passionate about literature, art, music, historic sites, and a fount of knowledge on these things. He was generous with his time, his support and his hospitality.
He is pictured in the very centre of our group photograph currently displayed, and he will remain at the centre of our group, as we will never forget him.
We will all miss him, not just at meetings, but his email correspondence, his thoughtful private messages, his habit of occasionally sending a beautiful card when someone needed cheering up. Here he is in our midst, as he always will be.
(see Gallery)
January 22, 2026
Pauline Eyre
Thinking about what I would say about Philip, is that I am just so glad our paths crossed. I found our friendship so fulfilling. I came across this poem by Anne Brontë which I think sums this up perfectly - entitled A Reminiscence.
My daughter Jemima has also drawn what, in the last exchange of messages, Philip deemed to be his ten favourite British novels.
(NB These book illustrations can be found in the Image Gallery).
A REMINISCENCE
by Anne Brontë
Yes, thou art gone and never more
Thy sunny smile shall gladden me;
But I may pass the old church door
And pace the floor that covers thee;
May stand upon the cold, damp stone,
And think that frozen lies below
The lightest heart that I have known,
The kindest I shall ever know.
Yet, though I cannot see thee more
'Tis still a comfort to have seen,
And though thy transient life is o'er
'Tis sweet to think that thou hast been;
To think a soul so near divine,
Within a form so angel fair
United to a heart like thine
Has gladdened once our humble sphere.
Thinking about what I would say about Philip, is that I am just so glad our paths crossed. I found our friendship so fulfilling. I came across this poem by Anne Brontë which I think sums this up perfectly - entitled A Reminiscence.
My daughter Jemima has also drawn what, in the last exchange of messages, Philip deemed to be his ten favourite British novels.
(NB These book illustrations can be found in the Image Gallery).
A REMINISCENCE
by Anne Brontë
Yes, thou art gone and never more
Thy sunny smile shall gladden me;
But I may pass the old church door
And pace the floor that covers thee;
May stand upon the cold, damp stone,
And think that frozen lies below
The lightest heart that I have known,
The kindest I shall ever know.
Yet, though I cannot see thee more
'Tis still a comfort to have seen,
And though thy transient life is o'er
'Tis sweet to think that thou hast been;
To think a soul so near divine,
Within a form so angel fair
United to a heart like thine
Has gladdened once our humble sphere.
January 21, 2026
Lorraine Rudyard
We met Philip at a party and found we shared a love of the arts, gardening, music, art and films etc.
We quickly became good friends and introduced Philip to the rest of our family. He had decided that we were to become his family of choice, although I am very sure Philip regarded all of his carefully chosen friends as his family of choice.
I am an artist, and was hosting and creating various pieces of art for Central Library, including twelve Shakespeare workshops for local schools. Philip was so supportive and would educate me on various topics from Shakespeare. He never stopped telling me how proud he was of me.
Philip really enjoyed coming over for lunch, and I would always set the table with the nice cups and saucers and napkins, as I knew Philip liked things to be nice. I remember one particular lunch date, I hadn't put the coffee on, and asked Philip would he like a cup of tea or coffee. Tea would be lovely darling!
As I put the teabag into a mug, I could see Philip's face drop! He said, 'actually, I won't thank you.' Philip was always polite!
I quickly realised it's because I hadn't brewed it in a teapot, so I asked 'would you like me to brew it in a teapot?' Philip replied, 'that would be lovely darling!'
I too like the finer things in life and Philip was my friend to share them with.
We all loved him very much.
We shall miss our dearest family friend.
Philip, may you sleep in peace and have wonderful dreams.
January 20, 2026
Angi Holden
A Reminiscence and Poems
I can't honestly remember when I first met Philip. We certainly rubbed shoulders at launch events for Homage to Cheshire (2009) and multiple Cheshire Prize for Literature Award anthologies, when we were both invited to read our contributions. But I think Philip became a friend rather than an acquaintance when he started to attend Blaze events at Northwich. He was always kind and thoughtful in his comments on members' poems, encouraging rather than critical. And when sharing his own work, he was open to suggestion while maintaining his own unique perspective and voice.
His generosity extended beyond kind words - a welcome to his own house, and sweet treats for sessions, even when he was dieting himself! I shall always think of him when I see trays of ripe strawberries. He never forgot a kindness returned either, as I discovered when he sent my daughter Beth a poem for my 70th Birthday Book. There in his poem: a gardening history book I bought for him from a National Trust shop. And a bar of lemon-scented soap I found in a Haworth gift shop which reminded me of his bowls of Sicilian lemons. When I told Beth of Philip's death, she immediately said "Oh no, not Philip!" recalling his 'heartfelt' contribution to my book. Although she never met him, she was touched by Philip's kindness and was moved to write a poem for him. (Beth's poem can be found below).
I have two particular stand-out memories of Philip. In the summer of 2024 he had planned to attend an evening music event at Manchester Museum, featuring students from RMCM. His companion - Marjorie, I think - wasn't able to attend and he invited me to take up the spare ticket. It was called Nature's Music and involved moving around the galleries listening to a variety of solos, duets, quartets, ensembles across a range of instruments and voices. We were both particularly keen to hear Vaughan Williams' Lark Ascending but found the seating area packed. "Do you trust me?" I asked him, and he nodded. So I led him from the hall, out to the lift and we emerged onto the empty landing above the musicians where I knew we could listen to the music rising around us. A skylark's view - it was sublime. I wrote about the experience and some months later Philip was delighted to see 'his' poem published, with its dedication to him, of course.
More recently, I attended a workshop at Chester Cathedral with Philip and other members of Blaze. It was run by Julia McGuinness in honour of sculptor Peter Walker's touring installation Peace Doves. The concept was amazing, an ambitious and thought-provoking community project which for Philip in particular was elevated by the opportunity to read our poems a fortnight later alongside visiting poet Imtiaz Dharker, whose work he deeply admired. He was spellbound - his joy and wonder was infectious.
I could go on, for example about a summer evening spent in his home and garden for a poetry workshop he ran with Angela Topping. Or about kind emails sent at just the moment they were most needed. Or... Or...
AFTER THE FUNERAL COMES THE HEALING
i.m.o. Philip Watts by Angi Holden
Alone, I travel home, the Nimrod strains
a memory, like something nearly said
by puzzled mourners counting rings of grain
on storm-felled trees. Among the poems read,
his own assertion “You can get it right!”,
the teacher in him setting minds aglow,
his presence through each cold, cold winter night
a lamplight now, inspiring us to grow.
He was the ‘someone’ watching over us –
always his gentle word, always his smile.
“Begin again” he said. And so we must.
We’ll raise our voices, brushes, pens. And while
we sing and paint and write he’ll be our map.
Beneath the crisp white snow we’ll find his tracks.
---
NATURE'S MUSIC:
The Royal Northern College of Music at Manchester Museum
for Philip
by Angi Holden
Our ears ring with Nature’s Music,
a smorgasbord of sound.
We’ve wandered through galleries –
Egypt and Sudan, South East Asia,
The Living World – sampling solos and duets,
quartets and chamber choirs.
We have tasted wine and salt tears.
Beyond the suspended skeleton of a whale
a lark has ascended, heralding the sun;
across refectory tables gibbons have swung
hand over hand, riding the creepers.
From one landing a piccolo sings
a morning chorus, calling to its mate,
and as we spill into the city streets we listen
for the distant reply, its song returned in kind.
---
A POEM FOR MY MOTHER (Angi Holden)
i.m.o. Philip Watts
by Beth Ripper
Fleeting, as the magpie,
his words, iridescent
and laden with love and friendship,
land on the page I make for her,
and fill my heart
with gratitude as I kneel
on the floor, two storeys high
among the litter of torn papers,
purple and brown
scattered around me.
A Reminiscence and Poems
I can't honestly remember when I first met Philip. We certainly rubbed shoulders at launch events for Homage to Cheshire (2009) and multiple Cheshire Prize for Literature Award anthologies, when we were both invited to read our contributions. But I think Philip became a friend rather than an acquaintance when he started to attend Blaze events at Northwich. He was always kind and thoughtful in his comments on members' poems, encouraging rather than critical. And when sharing his own work, he was open to suggestion while maintaining his own unique perspective and voice.
His generosity extended beyond kind words - a welcome to his own house, and sweet treats for sessions, even when he was dieting himself! I shall always think of him when I see trays of ripe strawberries. He never forgot a kindness returned either, as I discovered when he sent my daughter Beth a poem for my 70th Birthday Book. There in his poem: a gardening history book I bought for him from a National Trust shop. And a bar of lemon-scented soap I found in a Haworth gift shop which reminded me of his bowls of Sicilian lemons. When I told Beth of Philip's death, she immediately said "Oh no, not Philip!" recalling his 'heartfelt' contribution to my book. Although she never met him, she was touched by Philip's kindness and was moved to write a poem for him. (Beth's poem can be found below).
I have two particular stand-out memories of Philip. In the summer of 2024 he had planned to attend an evening music event at Manchester Museum, featuring students from RMCM. His companion - Marjorie, I think - wasn't able to attend and he invited me to take up the spare ticket. It was called Nature's Music and involved moving around the galleries listening to a variety of solos, duets, quartets, ensembles across a range of instruments and voices. We were both particularly keen to hear Vaughan Williams' Lark Ascending but found the seating area packed. "Do you trust me?" I asked him, and he nodded. So I led him from the hall, out to the lift and we emerged onto the empty landing above the musicians where I knew we could listen to the music rising around us. A skylark's view - it was sublime. I wrote about the experience and some months later Philip was delighted to see 'his' poem published, with its dedication to him, of course.
More recently, I attended a workshop at Chester Cathedral with Philip and other members of Blaze. It was run by Julia McGuinness in honour of sculptor Peter Walker's touring installation Peace Doves. The concept was amazing, an ambitious and thought-provoking community project which for Philip in particular was elevated by the opportunity to read our poems a fortnight later alongside visiting poet Imtiaz Dharker, whose work he deeply admired. He was spellbound - his joy and wonder was infectious.
I could go on, for example about a summer evening spent in his home and garden for a poetry workshop he ran with Angela Topping. Or about kind emails sent at just the moment they were most needed. Or... Or...
AFTER THE FUNERAL COMES THE HEALING
i.m.o. Philip Watts by Angi Holden
Alone, I travel home, the Nimrod strains
a memory, like something nearly said
by puzzled mourners counting rings of grain
on storm-felled trees. Among the poems read,
his own assertion “You can get it right!”,
the teacher in him setting minds aglow,
his presence through each cold, cold winter night
a lamplight now, inspiring us to grow.
He was the ‘someone’ watching over us –
always his gentle word, always his smile.
“Begin again” he said. And so we must.
We’ll raise our voices, brushes, pens. And while
we sing and paint and write he’ll be our map.
Beneath the crisp white snow we’ll find his tracks.
---
NATURE'S MUSIC:
The Royal Northern College of Music at Manchester Museum
for Philip
by Angi Holden
Our ears ring with Nature’s Music,
a smorgasbord of sound.
We’ve wandered through galleries –
Egypt and Sudan, South East Asia,
The Living World – sampling solos and duets,
quartets and chamber choirs.
We have tasted wine and salt tears.
Beyond the suspended skeleton of a whale
a lark has ascended, heralding the sun;
across refectory tables gibbons have swung
hand over hand, riding the creepers.
From one landing a piccolo sings
a morning chorus, calling to its mate,
and as we spill into the city streets we listen
for the distant reply, its song returned in kind.
---
A POEM FOR MY MOTHER (Angi Holden)
i.m.o. Philip Watts
by Beth Ripper
Fleeting, as the magpie,
his words, iridescent
and laden with love and friendship,
land on the page I make for her,
and fill my heart
with gratitude as I kneel
on the floor, two storeys high
among the litter of torn papers,
purple and brown
scattered around me.
January 20, 2026
A REMEMBERING
For Philip
by Amy Raeburn
Let’s not think about it.
Instead consider:
How ivy scales the walls
of Lindeth Tower
Arley’s borders redolent
with lavender, rosemary, sage
Water spills to lilies
from a perpetual fountain
Your neck
where the hat’s shade doesn't reach
reddens in May's sun
How Floria’s aria enveloped
the man on the front row
vissi d’arte, vissi d’amore
The last rose
from the last summer
cerise and perfect endures
The fruits of your place
a fullness
Your eternal lines
to time remaining
For Philip
by Amy Raeburn
Let’s not think about it.
Instead consider:
How ivy scales the walls
of Lindeth Tower
Arley’s borders redolent
with lavender, rosemary, sage
Water spills to lilies
from a perpetual fountain
Your neck
where the hat’s shade doesn't reach
reddens in May's sun
How Floria’s aria enveloped
the man on the front row
vissi d’arte, vissi d’amore
The last rose
from the last summer
cerise and perfect endures
The fruits of your place
a fullness
Your eternal lines
to time remaining
January 20, 2026
FOR PHILIP
by Carolyn O'Connell
I see you sitting in a chair
leaning back your head turning from the room
eyes focused on the garden
you aren’t seeing my garden, its tended plots
your eyes, thoughts are elsewhere.
You’d always cared for us:
ready to make tea when we met
to discuss poetry, life, write
at Angela’s or mine
always erudite, you blazed!
Yet ensured we were always comfortable.
I remember a summer
when we stood close on her balcony
as we discussed inspiration
the merit of a line, people we knew
and Autumn or Winter Sundays
when we’d meet in my lounge
you’d bring poems
delicate as fine China,
intricate and polished, to share.
You embodied the beauty of China
the delicacy of a flower you loved.
by Carolyn O'Connell
I see you sitting in a chair
leaning back your head turning from the room
eyes focused on the garden
you aren’t seeing my garden, its tended plots
your eyes, thoughts are elsewhere.
You’d always cared for us:
ready to make tea when we met
to discuss poetry, life, write
at Angela’s or mine
always erudite, you blazed!
Yet ensured we were always comfortable.
I remember a summer
when we stood close on her balcony
as we discussed inspiration
the merit of a line, people we knew
and Autumn or Winter Sundays
when we’d meet in my lounge
you’d bring poems
delicate as fine China,
intricate and polished, to share.
You embodied the beauty of China
the delicacy of a flower you loved.
January 20, 2026
BEAUTIFUL HEART
by Pru Jupe
Dedicated to our dearest friend,
Philip Watts.
May his soul rest in peace.
Sparkles, sweet treats, joyful songs
hail the advent of Christmas.
How can we not all catch the mood?
But we have lost our dear friend
Who cannot share with us the merriment.
Unknown to us, imperceptibly
his spirit grew heavy, sad and weary,
neither friendships, carols, nor fairy lights
could re-ignite the snuffed out flame
of his loving, warm and beautiful mind.
His secret desperation brooding,
darkly nestled in his giant’s chest.
His lonely, broken heart
began to beat to a different rhythm
that was not heard or understood,
which led him to the precipice of despair,
where life itself was extinguished.
We hardly know ourselves at times
so how are we to understand
this lion-heart’s mind or motives
in wishing to shun this world forever?
Standing beneath the Christmas tree,
faces alight with twinkling stars,
our hearts shall whisper thanks to him
for the gift of love and joy this beautiful man
has given so generously to all of us.
And with each tear that falls,
may it be a kiss sent to him in heaven.
Pru Jupe.
by Pru Jupe
Dedicated to our dearest friend,
Philip Watts.
May his soul rest in peace.
Sparkles, sweet treats, joyful songs
hail the advent of Christmas.
How can we not all catch the mood?
But we have lost our dear friend
Who cannot share with us the merriment.
Unknown to us, imperceptibly
his spirit grew heavy, sad and weary,
neither friendships, carols, nor fairy lights
could re-ignite the snuffed out flame
of his loving, warm and beautiful mind.
His secret desperation brooding,
darkly nestled in his giant’s chest.
His lonely, broken heart
began to beat to a different rhythm
that was not heard or understood,
which led him to the precipice of despair,
where life itself was extinguished.
We hardly know ourselves at times
so how are we to understand
this lion-heart’s mind or motives
in wishing to shun this world forever?
Standing beneath the Christmas tree,
faces alight with twinkling stars,
our hearts shall whisper thanks to him
for the gift of love and joy this beautiful man
has given so generously to all of us.
And with each tear that falls,
may it be a kiss sent to him in heaven.
Pru Jupe.
January 20, 2026
Pamela Nash
I once dialled Philip's number by mistake, at an embarrassingly late hour. The ensuing welcome turned, serendipitously, into one of the warmest exchanges and affirmations of friendship I can remember. His voice through the phone is still recalled, musical and resonant - a grateful comfort now that he has gone. But how I wish there had been more talks, projects, more visits and adventures (we never did go for that walk) - a richer bank of memories of Philip, to draw upon and buoy me through the years ahead.
Philip did so much to foster fellow feeling, to elevate the spirit, to encourage, collaborate and commend unconditionally....
'to watch over us.'
His huge heart and inspirationally fine and rare intellect will be bitterly, painfully missed and his legacy of poetry will carry for us a deeper and ever more resounding poignancy.
Philip's constellation of friends was a glowing treasure in his firmament, outshone only by Art, in all its forms, and especially by his love of books:
"These my solace and my refuge, these my firmest friends,
Whom no disaster chills, no accident annoys."
I once dialled Philip's number by mistake, at an embarrassingly late hour. The ensuing welcome turned, serendipitously, into one of the warmest exchanges and affirmations of friendship I can remember. His voice through the phone is still recalled, musical and resonant - a grateful comfort now that he has gone. But how I wish there had been more talks, projects, more visits and adventures (we never did go for that walk) - a richer bank of memories of Philip, to draw upon and buoy me through the years ahead.
Philip did so much to foster fellow feeling, to elevate the spirit, to encourage, collaborate and commend unconditionally....
'to watch over us.'
His huge heart and inspirationally fine and rare intellect will be bitterly, painfully missed and his legacy of poetry will carry for us a deeper and ever more resounding poignancy.
Philip's constellation of friends was a glowing treasure in his firmament, outshone only by Art, in all its forms, and especially by his love of books:
"These my solace and my refuge, these my firmest friends,
Whom no disaster chills, no accident annoys."
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