Fordyce Maxwell: 'You don't have to be a world traveller to make a difference'

JAZZ, Johnny Cash and waves of laughter in a country church is not everyone's idea of an appropriate send-off. Even in a full-house congregation under last orders from the deceased to dress casually and have fun, a few sat upright and disapproving, unable to shake the feeling that we should be there to mourn a death not celebrate a life.

But I guess that most of us, believers and non-believers alike in the packed pews, got into the spirit of the thing and thought: "When the time comes, no rush, I'd be happy with this."

That was why, after early hesitation, applause began to ripple, then resound, for every number played by local jazz maestro Peter Roughead and his band in the pre-service entertainment, up to and including the final let-it-rip 'When The Saints Come Marching In' for the arrival of the bereaved family.

That paved the way for reminiscences, two lively hymns, Johnny Cash, a Bob Dylan tape and TJ Johnson's 'Glory Land' before we walked out, laughing and chatting, to Nkosi Sikeleli Afrika.

It was a splendid farewell to Ian McGregor, now buried in the – there's no other word for it – picturesque stonewalled churchyard of St Michael and All Angels, thick with daffodils and looking across to the Cheviots, in Ford village where he was born. In the 65 years to his death he was never more than a few miles from it.

But as every tribute in the memorial service noted you don't have to be a world traveller to make a difference. If you're passionate about everything you do, a disease that caused permanent curvature of the spine at 17 and a lifetime of battling ill health won't stop you from being an effective, vocal and committed Liberal Democrat councillor, a loving family man, cricket fan, keen gardener, jazz devotee and unblinking Christian. He was also a speedway fan, but none of us is perfect.

I knew Ian's father as a good local league referee. I knew his brother Walter as one of the best local cricketers. I knew Ian mainly as a regular reader who would congratulate me on getting something right or equally criticise me for getting it wrong.

Liz knew him from her 20 years as chief reporter with our local paper, reporting his efforts as a councillor to encourage recycling long before it became fashionable, his endless battle for housing that locals on local wages could afford, his work as long-term postmaster on Holy Island, his not necessarily vote-winning support for wind farms, his insistence on asking the awkward questions and most of all his eternal optimism.

We were reminded during the service that he was seldom off duty. Visitors to Holy Island would go in to the post office to buy a postcard and leave some time later convinced that proportional representation was a good thing. On almost the last day of his final illness a close friend and fellow councillor called. She didn't bring flowers or fruit. She brought the latest report on affordable housing – which he insisted on having read to him. I'm only surprised there wasn't room for an extract during the service.