My dad died today, 3^rd May 2026.

He fell to his death on the Scottish Island of Lewis in the Northwest Hebrides.

I’d been out on a short walk with Neil. The dog didn’t want to come, which is common for him now. Neil and I had spent hours sitting on the sofa, trying to work out details to do with our summer holiday in England, Ireland and Wales, and we were tired, needing to get outside for some fresh air.

When we came back, we made a cuppa and I made to settle on the sofa while Neil went upstairs for a nap. The main home line rang, and I was about to ignore it, as I usually do, but then reasoned – “It’s Sunday – I shouldn’t be getting cold calls on a Sunday – I will pick it up.”

It was mum. I don’t even remember what pleasantries were exchanged before she said simply, “I have terrible news. Your dad’s dead.” I somehow managed to get to the edge of the sofa before she broke the news.

I have had too many calls now that begin, “I have terrible news”, or “I have terribly sad news.” More times, I feel, than I can count. I too have started many conversations that way. It’s an awful thing to put on someone on the receiving end of a line.

I felt my body collapse forward. Unable to take in the information. Mum sharing the little bits that she knew, which is not a lot.

Dad was out walking with his TARS friends (The Arthur Ransome Society). They run regular events for the Swallows and Amazons series of books, and this trip to Lewis was in connection with the book, “Great Northern?”

I gather that while they were out walking, he was ahead of the others and veered right to have a closer look at a waterfall. Dad had been blind in his right eye for 2 ½ years since October 2023. He must have missed the edge and slipped.

That’s all I know.

 

I feel numb and totally in shock. I feel sick. I learned all of 8 hours ago and it’s too much to absorb.

I just have questions.

How?
Why?
Did he know?
How long was the fall?
Did he die on impact?
If not, how long did it take him to die?
Where is he now?

I don’t know how mum will manage this now. Already depressed, sad, and morose since James died at Christmas. Already not wanting to live anymore. Dad always so full of life despite losing two sons in recent years. This was not the way it was meant to be. Life unravels so fast. And over again it unravels. Never any solid ground to be gained before it can happen again.

I am so sorry that again my family is hit with a sledgehammer. I cannot take it in. I don’t want to take it in.

The news is getting out. We do need to let some people know quickly. Our own kids. Figuring out the best way to let all of those in the family who no longer have a Pearson parent know, and letting the other parent figure out the best way to share the news. Grateful that we don’t have to make all of the calls. But then needing to field responses of condolence as they come back in. Some more clumsy than others, even if all are well-meaning.

Like, “He would have wanted to die this way.”
No. He wouldn’t. No-one wants to die falling from a cliff or whatever happened.

Or simply using the past tense about him. “He was a great man and I loved him deeply.”
How about putting that into the present tense? “He is a great man, and I love him deeply.”

More honouring, more real, more gentle.

I don’t know why I am writing. I have tried to sleep and I cannot. I feel sick and tense in my stomach.

I am wondering about his last seconds or minutes. I am unable to marry up the vibrant, if also very elderly man I know and love so well, with this news.

How many blows can a family system take?

My remaining siblings William and Laura are slipping into action for which I am grateful. Laura was due to go to visit mum and dad soon, and is simply bringing forward her trip. William is, or will be, liaising with the police and the hospital. We don’t know what we will be asked to do with the body.

I am deeply relieved that, over the years, following Edward and Mike’s deaths, I pretty much forced my parents into having conversations, together and with me, about their end of life wishes. I look now at this list of my dad’s wishes and know how few were met. So many of them redundant when it comes to a sudden, violent, accidental death.

 

Already I am wondering, reaching, grasping for meaning.

Already I am wanting clarity about such things as what next for my mum in that beautiful if enormous and unmanageable house.

Already I am wondering if his soul – which he didn’t believe he had – will find its way to wherever it needs to go. What happens with souls for sudden deaths?

The last time my dad and I spoke live was this week on Tuesday, the day before he was due to travel to the UK. He was very much looking forward to the trip. The Arthur Ransome Society was a large part of the fabric of his life. He sounded vibrant and well.

The week before we had chatted too, and he’d told me about an unfortunate rift that was ongoing with one of his best friends – someone with whom he had had an 80-year friendship. One of those situations that is easy for an outsider to see how it happened, but harder for him to fathom. My dad is of the generation that feels that “If people just behaved more logically, more rationally, we’d all be able to get along a lot better.” But the world doesn’t work like that, and nor do human relationships.

I don’t know whether my guidance around “feelings” and “needs” and “repair conversations” will have helped, or indeed if any live conversation occurred. I hope so. And if not, I hope that the surviving friend doesn’t carry the same grief and sadness that my dad was carrying.

 

Dad, what an amazing dad you have been – to me, and to all five Pearson kids. Kind, generous, thoughtful, supportive, genuinely happy for our success and well-being, admiring of our talents, and tender-hearted towards us with our various griefs.

I will miss you so much, whether it’s our gentle jogs, hill walks, playing piano, discussing the state of the world, or anything else.

I don’t know how to do life without a dad, but I know I am going to have to learn.

Thank you for living as long as you did. We cannot complain about the age you reached – 88. I just want to rebel against the how and why and when you died.

Go gently, dearest papa.

I love you.

Emma

Photo taken on 1st March 2026, on the occasion of dad’s 88th birthday. 
Col de l’Ouillat, Pyrénées-Orientales.