What can I say about this man whose life touched all of us here and who had
such a profound influence on a generation of children?

Rob was born in Louth, Lincolnshire, on the 11th April 1950, the first child
of Alan and Kath Farrow.   He was to be followed in turn by Rozelle,
Lorraine, Nigel and Kate.   He was brought up in the quiet country town of
Market Rasen where his father worked in the insurance industry, was Chairman
of the Council and sat on the local Magistrates Bench.   His primary
education was at a Catholic boys school in Lincoln before passing his 11+
and transferring to the grammar school back in Market Rasen.

He was a bright, intelligent boy and a first-class sportsman - a fact many
of you who have only known Rob in the last few years may find hard to
believe!   At the age of 14 he left Lincolnshire to board at the de la Salle
Brothers Convent in Christchurch, Dorset.   Here he developed further his
skills as a runner and Rugby player, along with his love of books and
writing.   But he was multi-talented, being also a fine mathematician and
artist, as well as acting in school plays - his father recalls a memorable
performance in Gilbert and Sullivan's Ruddigore - and singing in the choir.
At one point it was thought that Rob might have a Vocation, but then he
discovered girls!

So at the age of 16 he returned to the Grammar School in Market Rasen for
his 'A' levels.   As predicted, he did well and won a place at Durham
University to read English.   His sporting prowess had continued - he ran
the mile and half-mile for his county - and at Durham he developed further
his love of Rugby, playing for the University.

As Rob's time at University drew to a close, he hadn't a clue what to do
next - he even toyed with the idea of becoming an accountant, a fact which
those of us who knew about Rob and money might find somewhat mind-boggling.
However, an astute tutor suggested he should take up a teaching post at
Mowden Hall, a highly-rated private prep school near Corbridge in
Northumbria.   Here he found his true vocation.   He loved teaching and had
a natural affiliation with young children.   He threw himself into every
aspect of life at a boarding prep school - especially Cross-Country running;
one of his pupils went on to become County Champion - Rob never did anything
by halves.

In 1981 he decided the time had come for a change of scenery and he moved to
Cambridge where he took up a position at King's College Choir School as Head
of English and Housemaster.   In due course he took over the Scholarship
Form as well.
He was an extraordinarily talented, charismatic and inspiring teacher.   He
instilled in his pupils the niceties of English Grammar - you won't find any
split infinitives or misplaced apostrophes in the work of Rob's pupils.
During his period of office, King's children won a staggering number of
scholarships to major public schools, possibly unrivalled before or since.
He taught them to think laterally and to be original.   With his distinctive
pipe, moustache, and bow ties, he was an eye-catching figure around the
school.   There are many, many pupils who will be lastingly grateful to him.
He was certainly no saint - he could be very intolerant of any pupil he felt
was not giving of his or her best - and there are many who will remember
cowering under a tongue-lashing from Mr Farrow - but much more importantly,
there are many others who would cite him, years on, as having had a profound
influence on their lives.

His interest in sport continued as well.   He coached rugby and athletics
(in his spare time he was a rugby referee at a high level).    He was
intensely involved also in King's theatrical productions, notably the two
major musicals produced soon after he arrived, and indeed played a full part
in all aspects of life at the school.

I think it would be appropriate here to pause and read out some
recollections e-mailed to me last night by Daniel Fritz, a former pupil who
is in fact with us today.....

"His bow-ties, his jumpers, his moustache, the smell of pipe tobacco.   Pigs
on the tie of a Farrow.   The black bone-shaker with its antique basket, the
brass ankle clips. The warmth of his form room, the radiators turned on full
against the weather.   The comfy seats, our files emblazoned with his bold
black italics.   The sign on the door "Please engage brain before entering".
Being mystified by the three grown-up letters on the blackboard
"W.I.P."(which, I think, for those of you who are also mystified, means
'work in progress')   The pride in a B- from RF, greater than the joy in an
A from any other teacher.   The drama of his reading of "Run for your life".
The Rattlebag.   Theatre trips, to the Arts or to London.   "To Kill a
Mocking Bird".   The gleefully led winter walks through Cambridge when snow
made the pitches unplayable.   His polo mint breath, like steam, at the end
of the cross-country race. His description of  the old course, longer and
more arduous than could be imagined. Watching in awe as he laid a
handkerchief on the football pitch and, unerringly, landed a ball on it from
20 yards, kicked with his defiantly old-fashioned wingtips. Rugby moves
drawn with a twig in the dirt by the old bike-sheds.   Athletics club on
Wednesday afternoons.

The crying when he left, the scholarship class inconsolable on back pitch.
Javid's eyes filled with tears.   A school in resentful, uncomprehending
mourning.   The lump in my throat when I watch "Dead Poets' Society", and
the inward memorial smile whenever I meet a life-enhancing eccentric.   His
laughter, his wit, his bow-ties."

Thank you, Daniel.

While at King's he married Cheryl, whom he had met at Mowden.   Together
they lived in the boarding house, as housemaster and assistant matron.   The
love and care they showed their young charges, many of them boarding for the
first time, was unlimited.   Sadly, however, the signs of his illness were
beginning to show.   In 1986 Adam was born and the family moved to Ely where
Simon-Luc arrived two years later.

His illness started to take its toll.   Rob fought against its ravages,
sought help, but the "Black Dog" of manic-depression could never be totally
controlled.   He found it almost impossible to cope with the stress of
teaching and in 1992 was forced to take early retirement.

It was at this point that Rob's love of poetry came into its own when he
compiled "I Remember", a book of celebrities' favourite poems from childhood
in aid of the Malcolm Sargent Cancer Fund for Children, but sadly his mental
health continued to deteriorate.   In 1994, following a major breakdown the
previous year, he moved to Cambridge on his own, although continuing to keep
close contact with Cheryl and his adored boys.   He was so proud of them and
lived for the times when he could be with them.   They in turn have a father
of whom they should be proud.

His last years have not been without their moments of happiness, but of late
they were few and far between as his illness gathered pace.   He loved the
trips he took with Cheryl and the boys to Majorca and Eurodisney and he
shared two very happy holidays with us in Italy.   He greatly enjoyed the
Counselling Course he did and he made many new friends through AA, who were
an enormous help and support to him in his battle with alcohol.   He took up
Bridge again after many years and in the last few weeks seemed to have found
a new purpose in life at The Clubhouse, a Centre for people with mental
illness here in Cambridge where he quickly got very involved with the
administration of the place.   There was even some talk that he might be
sent on a Training Course in the States.

His tragic death last week at the age of fifty, while not totally
unexpected, is nonetheless a great loss to those of us who loved him - and
there were very many - and to the world in general.   There are some who may
feel that Rob's life, by being cut short and with the last few years of
illness, was wasted.   I don't believe this is so.   He lives on, not only
in Adam and Simon, but in all those hundreds of children whose lives have
been illuminated by the influence of Rob Farrow.   They are his memorial.

He was a man of enormous talents in so many different spheres.   He loved
music (especially Evensong at King's), art, architecture - it was he who
taught me always to look up at the top halves of buildings when walking down
a High Street - the theatre, the cinema and above all, literature.   He was
an avid reader with an enormous library.   He was a sports fanatic - a
life-long supporter of Newcastle United - a D-I-Y expert, one of the first
among the general population to realise the importance of computers and make
himself computer literate.   He loved gadgets, indeed his compulsion to
acquire the latest toy was frequently the despair of his family and friends.

He was impulsive, lovable, disastrous with money and utterly infuriating.
In many ways still a child at heart - which is perhaps why he related so
well to the children in his care.   Even in his last troubled months there
were many small unrecorded acts of kindness.

I would like to conclude by reading one of Rob's favourite poems.   This is
from a anthology called Rattlebag  (mentioned above by Daniel) which he
strongly recommended to all his pupils.   It is by Thomas Hardy and it is
called "Afterwards".


When the Present has latched its postern behind my tremulous stay,
And the May month flaps its glad green leaves like wings,
Delicate-filmed as new-spun silk, will the neighbours say,
'He was a man who used to notice such things'?


If it be in the dusk when, like an eyelid's soundless blink,
The dewfall-hawk comes crossing the shades to alight
Upon the wind-warped upland thorn, a gazer may think,
'To him this must have been a familiar sight.'

If I pass during some nocturnal blackness, mothy and warm,
When the hedgehog travels furtively over the lawn,
One may say, 'He strove that such innocent creatures should come to no harm,
But he could do little for them;  and now he is gone.'

If, when hearing that I have been stilled at last, they stand at the door,
Watching the full-starred heavens that winter sees,
Will this thought rise on those who will meet my face no more,
'He was one who had an eye for such mysteries'?

And will any say when my bell of quittance is heard in the gloom,
And a crossing breeze cuts a pause in its outrollings,
Till they rise again, as they were a new bell's boom,
'He hears it not now, but used to notice such things'?


I think that encapsulates Rob very well.   He observed and he cared.  He
will be sorely missed, but I trust and pray that at last he is at peace.

Vivian Falk
6th October 2000