Ian Marchant – a personal reflection

“He was rubbish, but I loved him”. That’s how Ian Marchant characterised the relationship with his best friend Chas Ambler, in an episode of BBC Radio 4’s Open Country entitled “Dark Side of The Lune”. The programme went on to place a village near the mouth of the River Lune in Lancashire, where Chas spent his last days, under Ian’s unique microscope; it was a perfect demonstration of his writing and broadcasting skill. There was always an emotional angle, or hook to his work, but it wasn’t put there to bring the page to life or spice up a dry subject. It was just Ian being Ian.

I first encountered Marchant – alongside Chas – at a pub in the Shropshire village of Clun, performing as the musical duo Your Dad. It was not your typical White Horse Inn Friday night: in the first half this large, loud bald man dressed in a green velvet jacket pranced around a near empty bar area invading the personal space of a few startled customers, accompanied (musically) by his somewhat dishevelled keyboardist. The presentation was in the style of a stereotypical pub singer, but the humour and choice of material, a cut well above that. It was a tough gig, but after the break, Ian reeled them in, and by the end of the evening the crowd, now spilling out onto the village square, raucously joined in the final chorus of Oasis’s “Don’t Look Back In Anger”. They were eating out of his hand.

I didn’t know at the time that the man in the green velvet jacket had already written two novels and non-fiction books including the wonderful Parallel Lines described in the Guardian’s review as “a little classic”. I didn’t know at the time that he had an association with a national charity called The Arvon Foundation. I didn’t know at the time I would shortly have the pleasure of calling him a colleague.

When I joined Arvon, I felt a sense of Ian being omnipresent: he was a Centre Director at Totleigh Barton, had recently travelled up to Lumb Bank to help out, following the premature departure of two key members of staff there, and in the aftermath of Helen Osborne’s death, became actively involved in assessing the John Osborne memorabilia and library at The Hurst. He held court at staff meetings, arguing vociferously and passionately; often presenting controversial points of view, but always backed up by sound logic, extensive knowledge, and above all, humour. By the time he left, Ian had figuratively carved out his initials, not just on the big dining table at Totleigh, but on Arvon as an organisation.

Thankfully he then moved from Devon to the Welsh borders and was a regular visitor to The Hurst over the ensuing years – as a tutor, guest speaker, member of relief staff, provider of entertainment at staff gatherings, and all-round friend of Arvon’s Shropshire branch. It was always a pleasure to see his white Hyundai – a vehicle that by then had seen far better days – trundle up the drive. But of course, Arvon was now a side hustle; his day job consisted of writing, teaching at Birmingham University, radio presenting and even a little TV work. The Longest Crawl, his account of a journey from the UK’s most south westerly public house, to its most north easterly, was published in 2006, followed by my personal favourite, Something of the Night in 2012, and A Hero for High Times, 2018. His final non-fiction book, One Fine Day is the product of the pandemic, and his cancer diagnosis in January 2020 “ … not the good kind that you die with, but the bad kind that you probably die of”. It is a heartfelt, heartwarming, exploration of his roots and identity.

Ian Marchant’s knowledge of minutiae across so many subjects was remarkable, his ability to impart it, extraordinary. Tangents and rabbit holes were his stock in trade. By the end of the book, or the workshop, or the episode, he made you realise you needed to know it. You just didn’t know you needed to know it, and if you weren’t wiping away tears of laughter, you were clearing a lump in your throat. He could do this to everyone from school children to pensioners, and embodied the inspiring, playful, creative spirit of Arvon. But he never took himself too seriously and expected the same of everyone else.

At the launch of his third and final novel, The Breaking Wave at the Presteigne Assembly Rooms in September, his razor-sharp wit, blunt honesty, and warm, generous heart were there for all to see. Ian was the opposite of “rubbish” and will be hugely missed by the many people who loved him.

I know everyone at Arvon will join me in sending condolences to Ian’s wife Hilary, his daughters Esme and Eleanor, two stepdaughters, Victoria and Stephanie, and four grandchildren, Cordelia, Aurelia, Rafael and Miguel.

—Dan Pavitt