“Bill in Walberswick”
Bill’s ebullient personality brought him quickly into contact with the fisherman and locals at the Bell, he loved sport and Walberswick provided him with bass fishing, darts and cricket and the pub, and he loved these alongside his painting. He developed a genuine affinity for the place and its people that endured throughout his life.
Over the last twenty-two years he lived in Walberswick for half of the year. Vera his wife supported him with great care and encouragement; even after a stroke in the autumn of 1997 he did not lose the twinkle in his eye. He continued to paint, visit the Bell and the Anchor, eat oysters and drink whisky.
He would paint from his mobility scooter on location, but would often get marooned on his scooter on the beach. He would just take out a cigar and smoke it until one of his many Walberswick friends would come and give him a push.
The relaxed confident rhythm of his day is now his endless perfect summer.
We would like to thank Walberswick and all his many friends for the messages of support and condolence.
The Bowyer Family.
At William's funeral his grandchildren read the following poems, which the family have kindly agreed we may publish here. Chester and Laura wrote theirs and Leo read Rudyard Kipling's When Earth's Last Picture is Painted
A summers day so warm and so fair,
sun’s light gleaming down on the village square,
Already set up; the green, the stumps, the bails,
ready to decide which team would prevail
Tea was over, the game did restart,
Infamous 'Bill' Bowyer paced and found his mark
Steely blue eyes peirced deep into the openers soul
it mattered not for their middle stumps did roll.
One over, one run remained in the game
4 wickets already against Bill Bowyers name
The captain strode over and tossed him the ball
"Now old chap, its time for your five wicket haul"
"I'll only need one ball" he did pronnounce
Confident as master of swing and bounce
True to his word the last wicket did fall
Infamous Bill Bowyer, now forever etched on clubhouse wall.
It’s All His By Laura Edralin
He had a deep brown voice.
Deep like burnt umber.
Like brown ochre with strokes of a dark Indian yellow soothing, soft and slow.
He spoke little, but with effort and emphasis to clarify above the crumbly timbre. And in social circles he soaked up the chatter. An independent mind. Knowing others were enjoying conversations around him. Letting lives bustle about him.
He looked through watery Prussian blue eyes with gentle copper gold blending into his gentle observing sight. They loved from the moment they saw you.
They sagged, comfortably, and the smoke settled skin showed years of joy and artistic expression.
Shelving the large bifocals that distanced the quiet eyes was the notorious nose. Sitting proud with perfect character.
Framed with a zinc white beard, usually stained. It reached round to his large listening ears.
And his full crown of bright white, combed hair. Receded, but always smart.
He weaved his own determined routine through the hubbub of work and family life, brushing purposefully, crisscrossing over each other.
His chair. His too many layers. His hats. His darts, his studio, his space: in his place. For everyone.
People flocked and pandered and indulged. It was him.
His friends and his family. Now ever growing.
His cricket pitch, his sea and stones and sand. The harbour with his boats and pubs and buckets and crabs.
His muddy mysterious marsh.
His shop and his street.
His Walberswick.
It’s all his. Forever.
When Earth's Last Picture Is Painted by Rudyard Kipling
Read by Leo Bowyer
When Earth's last picture is painted
And the tubes are twisted and dried
When the oldest colours have faded
And the youngest critic has died
We shall rest, and faith, we shall need it
Lie down for an aeon or two
Till the Master of all good workmen
Shall put us to work anew
And those that were good shall be happy
They'll sit in a golden chair
They'll splash at a ten league canvas
With brushes of comet's hair
They'll find real saints to draw from
Magdalene, Peter, and Paul
They'll work for an age at a sitting
And never be tired at all.
And only the Master shall praise us.
And only the Master shall blame.
And no one will work for the money.
No one will work for the fame.
But each for the joy of the working,
And each, in his separate star,
Will draw the thing as he sees it.
For the God of things as they are!