Allan Massie, 1938-2026

Father died this afternoon.

Outside, my sister’s Dandie Dinmont terrier was barking in the garden as he quietly slipped away. It was a good and gentle end to a good and gentle life, the sort of death many of many of us might wish for ourselves: at peace, in bed, surrounded by all his children.

These past few days have been a kind of liminal space during which time has slowed almost to a standstill. It has felt somehow both weightless and oppressive and even the awareness such feelings are by no means unique - for they must come to us all, in time - has provided only a modest dollop of consolation. I wanted to write this piece some time ago but could not bring myself to begin it until this evening.

For it was a long life and a full one. As long as I can recall, our lives were filled with books and newspapers. Words poured forth from dad’s typewriter in a torrent that endured for more than half a century. If it weren’t for what he termed his “wretched cancer” he’d be writing still.

His jou…