(7 April 1934–31 October 2025)
Ian Brown, who died last year aged 91, was a retired eye surgeon and an engagingly eccentric figure who was held in great affection in the neighbourhood of Dublin Street and Queen Street Gardens and beyond.
Instantly recognisable striding out in his cap and brick-red trousers, with his warm greeting and (sometimes puzzling) jokes, he was known to a remarkably wide range of people, from publicans and Stockbridge market stallholders to local celebrities and grandees.
Ian was born in Edinburgh in 1934, the son of a stockbroker at Baillie Gifford. From Daniel Stewart’s College he went on to read medicine at the university.
For his National Service (1958–60) he served as medical officer attached to the 2nd Battalion 7th Gurkha Rifles on Blakang Mati, an island off Singapore. Ian remembered this as a 'a brilliant posting … magic!'
Having married Elizabeth (Liz) Cooper in 1966, he had a career of some distinction, practising as an eye surgeon in Shrewsbury and rising to be elected Master of the Oxford Ophthalmological Congress in 1993–94.
At Shrewsbury Eye, Ear and Throat Hospital he was much loved by nurses, porters and operators of the old-style switchboard, and even during times of stress he brought his ebullient spirit to clinics and operating theatres.
Ian and Liz came back to live in Edinburgh not long after he retired from the NHS, but it soon became clear that Liz had dementia, and she died in 2017. Ian had cared for her devotedly and was devastated by her loss, but instead of withdrawing from the world he was determined to 'KBO' (keep bu**ering on), as he would say, and to go out and meet people.
He made many friends in the neighbourhood. One was the actress Emma Welsh who, with her husband Irvine, kept an eye on Ian during the Covid lockdowns. 'I keep laughing when I think of his awful jokes,' she said. 'I’ll miss the Ian-ness of Ian. He was such a character. He brought out a common purpose in the community, we all wanted to look after him …. Most widowers that age stay behind locked doors, but Ian was on an Enid Blyton adventure every day.'
When my sister Cath and I gave the news of our father’s death to Cédric, who sells French cheese at Stockbridge Market, and Martín, who runs the paella stall, we were taken aback by their reaction – because their eyes filled with tears. Martín had never allowed Ian to pay for his weekly paella. Ian had brought cheer into their day, they said.
It was with only the tiniest exaggeration when the man behind the counter at Valvona Crolla called Ian 'a local legend'.
As well as his two children Andrew and Catherine, he is survived by five grandchildren: Jack, Flora, William, Alice and Mary.
—Andrew Brown
