If you walk to the end of Stevenage station, down to the place where Don last stood, and look south, it's not the past that will grab you but the tranquillity... the empty rails run off into the distance over gravel and under an open sky, punctuated by signals and lights that promise adventure, and beckon you out into the unknown - the big blue yonder. There's no bad feeling, just one of infinite wonder.

And here we are marking the end of a life that once seemed to be equally infinite. Celebrating a man who spent his life celebrating us. Everyone who met him will have a story to tell. That's the way Don was, that's the way he still is. He lives in all of us.

It's hard to know what to say about a man who lived to about 150 but managed to cram it all in to just 70 years. He did so much, talked so much, laughed so much... but I have a confession to make, I didn't know him well at all.

I knew that money was never his priority, and we're all better off for that, (except for my camping addiction). We can repair cars, fix windows, re-point brickwork and smell bullshit a mile off. We all have an undeniable passion for family, creativity and fair play. We have Don to thank for that.

I know that Don was in his element at Number 9 New England Street, our first house, he made it famous for gatherings and parties. It was where seemingly hundreds of people met in an open-house for evenings of wine, music and peanut butter... jelly, cream and ginger shortcake too. And days of coffee and flapjack and chats with Sylvia who must have counselled more girls than Maggie Smith. It was where teenagers met policemen, our babysitters met journalists and musicians met choirs of hells angels. It was where Bruckner met Hendrix and Messiaen met Pink Floyd, and where the occasional passer-by, who'd taken the wrong turn or simply asked a stranger for somewhere to stay, would hide in an alcove to avoid meeting the hair and bodies and candles that carpeted the floor and the fireplace - it was a safe place, an enchanted place, more than a house it was a world. But on Sundays Don would often sit alone in the living room, with the full force of Wagner pressing the doors firmly shut, and for all that we still didn't get to really know our dad.

I've no doubt he was an extraordinary friend who'd drive miles for you, invite you home, listen intently then challenge every word you said, he just wanted to know you, hear you, understand you, climb trees with you, eat baked beans and sausages out of the boot of the mini with you and laugh at you. Sometimes light-hearted, sometimes profound, in Don's company anything could happen and usually did... everyone got a share of him, but only a few, a tiny few really penetrated the man. Sid, Pat, Tammo have all sadly gone too, I imagine he felt then, what we feel now - I can also imagine the looks on their faces as he joined them on the 1st of July. Hat, cravat, cigar and a flash of teeth and spectacles and maybe a fur stoal and a can of WD40 just in case. "Whaddya hear, whaddya say?"

I've no doubt he was a incredibly demanding boss who asked for the impossible but serenaded you with words like STUNNING! and STUPENDOUS! when you achieved it and I've no doubt you loved him when it all, finally, made sense. He was on a man on a mission and wouldn't let up, he left no stone unturned, research was watertight, evidence corroborated and the stories that ran were simple human, ballsy and engaging, I've no doubt that at some point you've said "he taught me everything I know".

I've no doubt he was an inspiring brother, despite never having come to terms with his father's illness, he must have raised a smile as he took-off on his ridiculously long bike rides, wearing ridiculously short shorts and a ridiculously large grin to pedal 80 miles, map in pocket, to meet a girl he suspected might be lounging at the seaside - he always had an eye and a almost uncontrollable passion for bikes. Then home it was with just enough time to captain the school cricket team… before being plucked from school at 15 to work on the local paper and then whisked into the RAF only to be buried beneath a hill in a bunker disguised as a farmhouse and filled with radar screens and more maps - Donald Walter Smitty Jr. must have been a spiffing chap.

And as a husband? That's probably best for Sylvia to tell, but it's nice to know his love of maps drove him to Finchley Central library where he spent endless lunchtimes planning his next adventure. Unfurling countless ordnance survey maps to plan the next adventure... and creating countless opportunities for chatting up the librarian - yes, our mum. I can imagine him now, knee-deep in unfoldable paper asking questions like 'So sweetiepie, does Naples wrap over Venice, or should we fold Rome in first? I know a nice little Italian restaurant where we might find out".