My Dad died, age 92, on 10 January 2026. He had come down with influenza the week before Christmas, and although he initially seemed to be recovering, he developed a secondary pneumonia to which he succumbed after two weeks of struggle. His final days were easier, and he passed away in the palliative care unit of Tamworth hospital. It has been emotionally exhausting as we have moved through these weeks. The funeral was held on 28 January in our home town of Tamworth, NSW, and it was a wonderful celebration of his life. My brothers – Stephen and Peter – and I gave the eulogy, and I thought I would post it here. It is a long read but it’s an interesting story – so here we go. Before the text of the eulogy is a copy of the order of service. Click on it to scroll through. There are some pictures included in the order of service.

David’s bit

Ian Charles Ross Holford. It’s always been an impressive sounding name, with a special lilt to it that I wonder if his parents intended. I suspect they knew they were recording something of his family history when they gave him those names. 

Ian is the Scottish form of John and John is the English form of Johann. Dad had a Scottish great grandfather, but John was the name of another great grandfather, who was Irish – John Hickson from County Kerry. Another great grandfather was German speaking Johann Holdorf from the Duchy of Holstein (then part of Denmark).  Scottish, Irish, German (Danish) – they’re all there in his name.

In the German line Charles was the name of Dad’s father and grandfather (and Stephen liked it so much he added it to his other names when he was old enough to decide). I usually refer to Dad’s grandfather and father respectively as Charles the first and Charles the second. Dad (even if it was his second name) was Charles the third, and Stephen, I suppose, is Charles the fourth.

Ross was his mother’s maiden name – Winifred Ross – and her grandfather James Ross was from Ross-shire in the Scottish Highlands. Which explains the Scottish connection a bit more. But what of the English? Dad was an Anglophile his whole life (one of the last things we watched together on TV was three episodes of All Creatures Great and Small, on Christmas Day just gone), so where does that come from?  The three years we lived in England during the 70s made us all (especially Peter who was born there) a little bit English. Dad’s great grandmother, Mary Ann Marston was born in England, though she grew up in Wales, while a great great grandfather, William Watts was an English convict, transported to Australia for selling stolen chickens. And the grandmother he never knew, Florence Stacey, who died before he was born, the wife of Charles the first, was the daughter of an English migrant. 

What’s more, Charles the first, who fought alongside the British against the Germans on the Western Front during WW1, when he returned to Australia promptly changed his name from Holdorf to Holford, which had a very nice English ring to it. Though his parents spoke German during his childhood, Charles Holdorf clearly thought of himself as British rather than German – or even Danish. 

Dad’s parents married in 1929, Charles Holford (Charles the Second) and Winifred Ross. Their first born Patricia, Dad’s only sibling, was born a few years later. When I was a small child I used to ask Dad how old he was, which he for some reason steadfastly refused to tell me, until one day when I was about 6 he finally succumbed and told me he was born in the year Hitler came to power. That sent me scurrying to the 24 volume Encyclopaedia Britannica which had recently taken pride of place on our shelves – and which is still on the bookshelf at 77 Hill Street. 

I thus discovered Dad was born in 1933, and I realised that he was just six years old when WW2 broke out, so I understood why that war dominated Dad’s childhood memories. He told me once about the trench that his dad dug in the backyard of their Northbridge home in case a Japanese attack should come – which thankfully they never had to use.

Growing up in such an environment, and with a grandfather and father (Charles I and II) who had both been involved in the Great War effort, it is not surprising that Dad became a cadet during his years at North Sydney Boys High School, although his great joy during those years was tennis and rugby. With his family he attended St Marks Anglican Church in Northbridge, becoming convinced of the reality and relevance of God in his life, a faith that was to sustain him his whole life.  

His three months of National Service before university convinced him, however, that a military life was not for him; and he was never going to be a professional sportsman; he chose instead to pursue agriculture, disappointed only that the farming life was denied him because he had not been born into it. He was delighted, when he married Eunice in 2000, to be marrying into a farming family. But until that time his main contact with the land was through soil research, which he continued the whole of his working life.

Dad’s first job after university was in Goulburn, where his father had spent his early years. There he met our mum, Gwen Simmonds, whose Irish grandparents had known Dad’s ancestors in County Kerry, though neither Mum nor Dad seemed aware of that at the time. They married in 1958 just after Mum turned 21, then immediately left Goulburn and moved to Fiji, where Dad got a job with CSR – the Colonial Sugar Refineries. This rather odd move – to the Pacific islands – says something more about Dad which became a prominent feature of his life. He was, like his Irish, Scottish and German/Danish ancestors, an adventurer. He was always dreaming of distant places, and finding ways to go there. His last twenty five years, with Eunice, were just one long adventure of travels to the four corners of the earth. 

As a Christian, a man of faith, his love for traveling and of distant lands made him dream of becoming a missionary. But just as he was only ever a farmer from the edges of that great calling, he was only ever a missionary from the edges. In Fiji he worked as an agronomist, but in his spare time he and Mum attended a Methodist Church and established a multicultural Bible study group – with both Fijian and Indian members. I suspect that when they left Fiji in 1964 it was their church involvement that they were most sad to leave.

Jenny was born in 1959, while we were living in Fiji, though Mum travelled home to Goulburn before she was due to deliver. I was born in 1961, in Lautoka. I was 3 when we moved back to Australia to settle in Tamworth, and as a small child I was terribly proud of my Fijian heritage. Dad started working for the Department of Agriculture at the Tamworth Research Centre. 

Stephen was born in Tamworth in 1966. When he was four years old, in 1970, we somewhat unexpectedly left Australia again, this time for England. This in some ways heralded the beginning of a new era of Dad’s life, during which Peter was born. I have related something of Dad’s early life, but now I will hand over to Stephen and then Peter to relate some memories of the years that followed.

Stephen’s bit

He was always just “Dad” to us, but as David has said, there was something rather grand about his full name: Doctor Ian Charles Ross Holford. As a small child I was deeply impressed. I knew the family name had once been Holdorf, and I liked to imagine dramatic German roots. It was after all the land of Bach and Beethoven, great writers and philosophers. Perhaps one of those romantic, ancient castles by the Reine could somehow be traced to our family? It later turned out the name had been changed from Holtorp. Our roots were in Denmark, which, to me, felt slightly less operatic.

I always thought “Ian” was an odd name, but “Charles” was magnificent. It belonged to princes and heroes in novels. I asked Dad why he hadn’t called me Charles instead of the rather plain Stephen. When he said it sounded too old-fashioned, I decided to take matters into my own hands and later added it by Deed Poll. I became Stephen Charles John, entirely due to the immense pride I had in my father.

I was also in awe that Dad was a doctor – until I discovered it wasn’t of medicine. When I was 8 or 9 he showed me his freshly awarded PhD and suggested I read it – I was horrified. I tried nevertheless and failed after a few pages. Many years later, when I completed my own doctorate, I suggested he read all 110,000 words of it. The look on his face was identical. At least by then we were both “Doctor.”

Dad and Mum gave us the gift of curiosity and the courage to dream. Dad loved books, so we read insatiably. Our dreams were filled with kings and queens, knights in shining armour and characters from the tales of Beatrix Potter. And we travelled. We children felt we were being dragged around the world, but in fact, we were having our eyes opened to it. In England, as David said, we became a little bit English as we spent our weekends driving around the country to visit castles and stately homes and immense gardens with their oak trees, roses and hollyhocks. In the U.S. we did extensive road trips, between Louisiana and L.A. and before long we felt a little bit American. None of us will forget the awe we felt when we first saw the Grand Canyon or Yosemite National Park. Even better was the excitement of Disneyland. 

In England, Dad had a friend who worked in finance at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden, and they were often given tickets to the ballet. I was under 7 years old, so not allowed to go, but when they returned from those performances, I would clamour to see the programmes with their impossibly beautiful photographs of Margot Fonteyn and Rudolph Nureyev. I was kept at home, but I dreamt of that stage. By the time I was 10 I had decided that ballet would be my career and a dozen years later I performed  at Covent Garden myself. Standing on that stage, I realised that nothing would have been possible without the unfailing support of my parents, sitting in the audience. Dad first allowed, then encouraged me, to follow my dreams. And I know he was proud that evening.

Dad was generous. With his time, his money, his energy. For a lifetime Dad has been there for Jenny, helping with just about anything possible. He loved her, as he loved us all. David and Maria felt blessed to have a visit from Dad and Eunice when they were on the Mercy Ship Anastasis and no less than four visits during the years they were living in Sweden, even bringing Jenny one of those times. The last time they came was 2016 – the year the family left Sweden – when they had the chance to see Hanna and Sam graduate from High School, which is a very big event for all Swedish students.

Midway through my own time in Europe, Dad didn’t hesitate to suggest to Mum that they fly to Zurich to, first see me perform there, then go for a road trip, driving back and forth to Vienna, staying in impossibly cheap bed and breakfasts along the way. Back in Zurich he helped me pack up my life into a van and then drive it all to Geneva and set up my new apartment. We had the time of our life. A couple of decades later, they flew to London, and were equally enthusiastic as I showed them the chapel that was the subject of my own PhD. They were nevertheless surprised that I could spend 5 years writing about 20th century Catholic iconography!

Dad loved the movies too, and it was an unforgettable family event going to see Star Wars, in 1977 in the U. S. When the sequel came to Tamworth in 1981, Dad took Peter to see it at the old Regent Cinema – just the two of them – it was an experience he’ll never forget because the cinema was evacuated one minute before the end due to a hoax bomb threat phone call. 

As well as a home full of books, we had a home full of music. Dad was always prepared to pay for private tuition for us to learn musical instruments: David on the piano; me first on piano and then cello; Peter first on the piano and flute. This was costly, but Dad was only concerned if we didn’t do our practice! Notably, Dad had an extensive collection of classical music, including opera which Mum didn’t like unless it was turned down. Dad much preferred Wagner at full volume.

When Peter was a teenager (after Jenny, David and Stephen had left home), he expressed to Dad a desire to learn to sail. Dad felt it was too expensive, and anyway, where would you go sailing in Tamworth? When Peter found a second hand boat for sale in the Northern Daily Leader for only $500, Dad agreed to look, and, with very little persuasion, bought it. The thing that stood out to Peter most, though, was that Dad generously gave up whole days on the weekend to drive him to Chaffey Dam so that he could teach himself to sail in the little skiff they had bought.

At the heart of Dad’s life was his faith. Not loud or showy, but thoughtful, steady, and deeply lived. He believed in asking questions, but also in trusting God when the answers were not clear. He believed in kindness, in integrity, in doing your work well, and in loving your family without condition. His faith shaped the way he looked at the world – with wonder, humility, and hope.

And that is his legacy. Not just the degrees, the travels, the books, or the stories, but the way he taught us to think, to look, to question, and to believe. He gave us roots and wings: roots in faith and family, and wings to follow our own paths.

He was simply “Dad” to us. But what a remarkable Dad he was. And how grateful we are to have been his children.

Peter’s bit

David has covered Dad’s professional life to 1970. What he didn’t mention, is that Dad completed a Master of Science in Agriculture, also at Sydney University, while working full time in Fiji, graduating in 1964. And I thought I was the family expert on distance education!

Once back in Australia, his work at the Tamworth Agricultural Research Station focused on crop and pasture nutrition and soil fertility. In 1966 he started two long-term lucerne rotation experiments which continued for the next 26 years and were to become the longest running experiments in Australia.

In 1970 Dad was awarded a scholarship to undertake doctoral research at the Imperial College of Science and Technology, University of London. The whole family (now five, including my brother Stephen) boarded the ship “Fairstar” and sailed to England. He was based at the Rothamsted Experimental Station, the oldest agricultural research station in the world (founded 1843). When he returned to Tamworth in 1973, this work enabled him to do much more advanced research on the phosphorus fertility of soils.

This sounds pretty uninspiring (to me, anyway, and I can understand how Stephen at nine years of age gave up on reading Dad’s PhD) but Dad used to say that few people know that phosphorus depletion will be the first physical factor that will limit life on Earth. Unlike other nutrient elements, phosphorus is irreplaceable and cannot be recycled, so depletion will lead to declining soil fertility, declining food production, and ultimately increasing global starvation. So, Dad’s research was pretty significant for all of us.

In 1977 Dad accepted an invitation to undertake research at the Louisiana State University on the phosphorus fertility of rice-growing soils. So the whole family (now six, including myself) moved to Baton Rouge, Louisiana where I completed my first year of school.

Dad’s research output was prolific, producing around 75 peer-reviewed scientific papers (search for “ICR Holford” in Google Scholar and you’ll find them). Former colleague, Jeff Esdale said of Dad: “Ian was a pioneer in the way he established the long-term experiments with lucerne and wheat production. He was a quiet achiever in his field. He left a valuable legacy to agricultural science: sustainable crop rotation which will maintain the nutrition and vitality of the soil.”

In the year he retired (1994), Dad was awarded a Rockefeller Scholarship which enabled him (and Mum) to spend a glorious month writing up his research at the Bellagio Center, an ancient, vast and beautiful villa on Lake Como, northern Italy. This place has hosted some of the most ambitious, innovative, and committed leaders of the last 60 years, including over 85 Nobel Laureates. For Dad, the time at the Bellagio Centre was a highlight of his life, meeting scientists and scholars from around the world working in diverse disciplines while living and working beside the idyllic Italian lake.

But Dad was not only a scientist; he was (as Stephen said) a man of faith. 

It was at a Scripture Union camp at Katoomba that Dad made a personal commitment to follow Jesus. It was the week the war in the Pacific ended, early September 1945, when he was just eleven years old. He realised that he didn’t have to do anything but to accept Jesus as his saviour and decades later recalled, “I accepted God’s greatest gift to humanity – his son Jesus Christ.”

As a student at Sydney University, he got involved in student outreaches right from the start. It was in these years (1952-1954) that Billy Graham came to Dad’s attention.

Billy Graham had a lifelong impact on Dad: he was not only encouraged; he was inspired to start running outreach events himself. He formed an interdenominational committee to run monthly evangelistic rallies in Northbridge called, “This is Life.” They featured guest speakers, a choir, and screened Christian films. Later in Goulburn he did the same thing, and the committee formed there included a young lady called Gwen Simmonds who later became his wife, my mother. They also started a Christian radio program and a Christian bookshop.

In the South Pacific, Mum and Dad’s work among the Indian and Fijian people informed their support for cross-cultural missionaries for the rest of their lives. Fiji in the 1950s was a harsh experience: no air conditioning, just wide verandahs and sleeping under mosquito nets. Not even any refrigeration in the home. Those years in Fiji enabled Mum and Dad to get a sense of what it was like to be missionaries: the hardships, challenges and joys as well as learning to trust God for their needs.

In Tamworth, Dad helped with Scripture Union rallies, and was on the board for the Tamworth Christian Bookshop, which served the local community for decades. Although Dad preferred not to speak in front of crowds, he overcame this reluctance and was a lay preacher for most of his adult life. He says the Holy Spirit enabled him to do it. I remember in my childhood going with him out on the circuit to the little churches of the district: places like Dungowan and Limbri, Loomberah and Nundle.

Dad said our mother’s sudden and unexpected death in 1999 was “the greatest trauma and grief of his life” and I think it really challenged his understanding of the goodness of God. He moved only slowly through that season of sadness and loneliness.

In 2000 he married Eunice Orr, who had been a family friend for about 18 years. Last year they celebrated their 25th wedding anniversary and I think each of us can see how she has been a great blessing to him, and also to us, his adult children, as she has consistently sought to love, bless and encourage us in our endeavours and life situations.

Dad and Eunice shared a lot: their beliefs, values and convictions; but also a great love of travel and music and the landscapes and farms of Australia. They became adventurers together, enjoying trips to family in Parkes and Wagga, Sydney, Newcastle, Leura and Armidale just as much as the trips they made to visit friends and family around the world. They joined Friendship Force and travelled to many places around the world. Together they practised the ministry of hospitality, welcoming countless people, local and international, to their home in Hill Street. Together they sang in the St John’s choir, reviving Dad’s love of singing and music. They had a rich and rewarding life together and I know Dad thanked God daily for Eunice. We are all thankful for Eunice: for the life they shared and her faithfulness through good times and hard, right to the very end, and now beyond.

Dad himself wrote later in life: “As I look back on my life I can see God’s hand at work and the way he has guided me in the important decisions of my life. For these many blessings I am truly thankful.”