Mick was a good man. The kind of man whose absence lingers in the air long after he’s gone. He didn’t chase attention, but you couldn’t help noticing him. There was a rhythm to his presence—a quiet kind of charisma stitched together by wit, resilience, and that unmistakable glint in his eye. His style? Utterly his own. A bit of the old world clung to him, like the smell of pipe smoke in a tweed coat—familiar, comforting, a little rough around the edges but never out of place.
Mick was a man from the Shire, in every sense. Not just by geography, but in soul. Grounded, loyal, stubborn in the best of ways. The countryside ran in his blood, you could hear it in the way he spoke—slow and steady, with pauses like punctuation that made you listen. He found joy in things most people miss: the smell of damp earth after rain, the silence of early morning, the story behind a well-poured pint. He had a dry humour too, the kind that crept up on you—mischievous but never mean. He could lift a room with one line, then disappear back into the background like a magician folding away his final trick.
But life wasn’t kind to Mick. A cruel fate—illness, injury, bad luck, or perhaps all three—struck hard and stayed too long. And yet he never let bitterness win. He spent years trying and waiting to come back from it, holding on with a stubborn grace that inspired those around him. He didn’t wallow. He didn’t shout at the sky. He just kept going. One quiet step at a time. Sometimes hope was all he had, but it was enough. He wore it like armour.
In a world that moves too fast, Mick reminded us to slow down, to pay attention, to laugh when we could, and to endure when we must. His was not a life of headlines, but of meaning. A quiet man, yes—but never a small one. And now, though he’s gone, you can still hear him in the rustle of the trees, still feel him in the stillness of dusk, still see him in the places he loved.
Mick was a good man. And that will always be
enough.
