My father, Stephen Ashworth, who has died suddenly from a heart attack at the age of 57, was a committed planning lawyer and a fantastic father. In his 35-year career, he was motivated by a desire to make sure the value of property development was captured for the public good and used to fund community infrastructure such as schools.
His work included leading for Camden council in London on the redevelopment of King’s Cross, securing permission for new towns in Essex and Hertfordshire, and Renzo Piano’s Cube in Paddington Square. But I knew him best as my father, a man who loved walking, long-distance cycling, cooking and gardening and wouldn’t shut up about how we should watch the Godfather Part II.
Born in Lichfield, Staffordshire, Stephen was the son of Ann (nee Aldous), a local historian, and Victor Ashworth, an engineer at the electricity board. After they divorced, Stephen was close to his stepfather, John Hearle, a professor of textiles. He and his sister, Catherine, grew up on the edge of the Peak District in Mellor, Stockport. After Marple Hall comprehensive he studied law at Trinity Hall, Cambridge, graduating in 1985.
He joined the legal firm Dentons (then Denton Hall Burgin and Warren) in 1986 and was made partner in 1995, becoming its head of planning in 1998. Stephen worked for Dentons continuously through various mergers for 35 years. He was passionate about the built environment and created a diverse practice, mentoring several generations of lawyers and planners.
In 1990 he took a year off to cycle solo from London to Botswana via Algeria, Niger and Zaire (now Democratic Republic of Congo), with a fold-out map of Africa and a sheaf of spare bike spokes.
In 1995 he was awarded a Harkness fellowship to study at the Lincoln Institute of Land Policy, Cambridge, Massachusetts. On his first day in the US, he met my mother, Jennifer Anderson, who is currently the director for consular services at the Foreign, Commonwealth and Development Office. They married in 1997 and travelled the globe, from Belgium and Botswana to Indonesia and Turkey, as he became a Foreign Office “trailing spouse”, often commuting weekly between London and overseas postings. Their two children, Luke and me, were born in London between postings.
We all moved to Botswana when I was four, when my mum became high commissioner, and my dad worked remotely on the flimsiest of internet connections. We returned to London from a posting in Turkey just over a year ago.
My father continued to cycle, becoming one of the staple Mamils (middle-aged men in Lycra) of Regent’s Park. He was also a walker. He would drag us up craggy hills and through valleys full of stinging nettles, despite my complaints.
Dad was the cook of the house and an Ottolenghi enthusiast who whipped up delicious Iranian herb fritters. He made soda bread with treacle from a recipe that no one can now decipher due to his viciously poor handwriting.
He is survived by Jennifer, Luke and me, by Catherine, his half-sister, Samrah, and three step-brothers, David, Adrian and Marcus.
