I met Schmit as punk rock teenagers then again in the 1990s, when we were both young and carefree, swept up in a life that felt like one long adventure. We were New Age travellers, living out of his beloved 1965 Thames Trader bus — which I affectionately called Brian. Together we drifted from free party to free festival, carried by music, laughter, and the sense that the sun never quite set on those days.

In 1995, our son Fearn was born, and with him came a new chapter. The rest, as they say, is history. We may not have stayed together, but we shared something far greater: a deep and unshakable love for our boy. Watching Fearn grow into the kind, thoughtful, and considerate man he is today has been the greatest joy for us both. Schmit was always so proud of him, as was I — and that pride bound us together in a way nothing else ever could.

Schmit was, without doubt, one of the most stubborn and cantankerous people I’ve ever known — but that was part of his charm. Beneath that rough exterior lay the biggest heart of gold, and a soul who never had a bad word to say about anyone. He lived on his own terms, with a spirit that was free and untamed, and that spirit will be remembered by all who knew him.

Our time together wasn’t forever, but it was vivid, unforgettable, and full of life. We had some of the best days of our lives together, and we created the most beautiful gift of all — our son. For that, I will always be grateful.

Schmit, you will always be remembered with love — heaps of love. Your laughter, your fire, your heart — they live on in Fearn, and in the stories we’ll keep telling. You’ll never be forgotten.