Vita brevis

Old friends have lost their younger child, aged only 31. I drove over the county border into Warwickshire in order to attend a sad Mass of thanksgiving, ending with the draped coffin being carried from the little church by members of the family.

The Gospel - unusual for a funeral - was from the Sermon on the Mount, the new standard higher than the old. It was a passage Hugh was said to have written out, found in his room. And a saying of his was printed on the back of the beautiful service sheet: "If you look well, you may find beauty everywhere." RIP.

"When Chris shall come..."

Another funeral at St Gregory's, the second within a week. Today's affair was rather less meaningful, I felt. The feeling started during the entrance hymn, "How Great Thou Art" when (as prompted by the service sheet - replenished with typos throughout) I found myself about to sing "When Chris shall come..." The deceased, who often had a twinkle in his eye, would perhaps have joined in the giggles.

"How great thou art" comes to mind also when I walk in or near Coldwell Bottom. Not for the first time has it featured to illustrate a freeranger post. Despite too much conifer planting and the distant pylons beyond the Churn valley, this beautiful view often remains the one I'm drawn to when - as this morning - obliged to take over the dog run.

In memory of Meigh

At my office in Rodney Road, we were lucky to have the services of Martin Wright for a while, after we took over the firm opposite, Ticehurst Wyatt & Co. for which he worked. His wife Mary was one of the Meigh clan: she died a while ago, her brother Philip six years ago and her brother Walter last year. Now Harry Joseph Meigh, the survivor of his generation, has also died aged 90. His splendid requiem took place today.

Harry and Clothilde themselves presided over a large family, occupying a good proportion of the front of St Gregory's Church. Unlike at many Catholic funeral masses, however, there was nothing reticent or bewildered about the next generations' participation in the rituals. Indeed quite the reverse, Dominic leading the way both with his singing, and a very fine tribute: it was something I could not have begun to manage for either of my parents.

His father, Dominic told us, was said to have been blessed - as a child - with the face of an angel and the temper of a devil. A Christian Brother who taught at his school once admonished him: "Harry Meigh! Don't harry me." But he excelled in practical tasks, and in a career making aluminium bronze castings. More importantly, he and Clothilde worked out their understanding that the laity were as much called to holiness as the religious by bringing Equipes Notre-Dame (Teams of Our Lady) to these shores: of the 11,000 teams across the world, over 120 are in Britain. (The organisation's colourful fish symbol, with intertwined wedding rings, adorned the service sheet.)

In his homily, a monk from Prinknash described one of Harry's final acts - blessing each of his six children and asking them to forgive him. Having arranged a meeting, we were told, Harry was forever fixing a post mortem: we certainly gave him a good one.

I was sorry not to be able to track down a photograph I was sure I had taken of Harry in his prime. This one will have to do instead: it's of the representative of the local Normandy Veterans Association who attended the funeral. Harry having landed on Gold Beach on D-Day, his medals were placed on his coffin.

PS The family have now sent me this happy picture of Harry:

Tim Britten RIP

I knew Tim from church, but not his name. Then we saw each other at Longborough and elsewhere, and more recently sitting in the front row at Cineworld for the Met opera relays, which he loved. He told me he was going into hospital to have his back straightened: I could see he was apprehensive about it. Sadly, he never returned home.

At his funeral mass this morning, a friend recited The Burren Prayer by John O’Donohue, a new one to me and very beautiful: it contains the lines, "May the light that turns the limestone white remind us that our solitude is bright." Perfect for someone "who didn't always carry the world lightly" - and for Charles, his grieving partner of four decades.

Altogether, it was very proper occasion. Not many of those present were Catholic (Tim was a convert), but Fr. Bosco welcomed all comers most warmly and openly. Noone should have been mystified - unlike yesterday evening: Caroline and I went to hear Professor Rich Pancost talking about the chemistry of past and future global warming. I felt well out of my depth, though the message was clear: our politicians need to do something urgently!

Argument rages meanwhile about whether or not Typhoon Haiyan was a symptom of man-made climate change. Does it matter? Agnes thinks not, and has undertaken to write 100 poems in a day next Wednesday, if people will sponsor her in aid of the Phillippines' victims. Brilliant!

The grave nearest their home

On Radio 4 yesterday Samira Ahmed asked, "What can we learn from a broken teapot?" According to legend, when a 15th century shogun smashed his treasured pottery, Japanese artists repaired it with gold. Kintsugi, as the practice is known, gives new life to damaged goods by celebrating their frailty and history. Samira considered how we might live a kintsugi life, finding value in the 'cracks' - whether it's the scars showing how we have lived, or finding new purpose through loss.

Today was a beautiful day for a joyous memorial service, the send-off for a grande dame, who had been blessed with eleven grandchildren and ten great-grandchildren. Eleanor had hosted many wonderful parties at her South Warwickshire home over 60+ years, so it was entirely right that the field by the house should once more be filled with cars: considering the few friends one might normally expect to have left at the age of 94, a huge crowd assembled.

Her youngest grandchild spoke of the emotion that in her final years her grandmother (happily never lady gaga) came to display - such a contrast to the twinkly, warm smile and stiff upper lip characteristic of the person I had known. Eleanor had herself lived through painful, kintsugi times.

Another granddaughter, Francesca Zino, read this most appropriate quotation, attributed to Emerson, the 19th Century American writer: "To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty, to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded."

St Weonards

We were here this afternoon, for Marius Gray's burial. There can't be many graveyards with a more beautiful outlook. Whereas we had emerged from the service in Belmont Abbey in a snowstorm, the sun was shining as the crowd of us surrounded a newly-dug grave. The vicar, Elaine Goddard, paid our last corporate respects to "a firm believer in an age of increasing unbelief" (Fr. Simon McGurk's funeral words), and the family let their individual handfuls of earth drop into the tomb. Raw emotions in a raw wind. Then we poured into the church for tea and sympathy.

Pam Lawrence

One of my mother's best friends died while I was away. Luckily, her memorial service only took place today. I recall during one of our usual family holidays in Seaview, my mother taking the telephone call which told us that Pam's son William had contracted polio. Strangely, this life-changing event was not referred to at all during today's service: Pam devoted a large part of her life and all her energies towards William's wellbeing: it was her greatest "achievement", alongside seeing to the happiness of her husband, Bill, a sweet man - he too never rated a mention. These day-to-day things deserve better celebration.

My photograph shows Bill's grave, strewn with flowers sent by Pam's friends and family, a lovely sight. And the weather has at last changed, a beautiful day for a funeral.

"She could be tricky"

This stained glass portrayal of Chipping Campden church by Henry Payne is a detail in the magnificent East window he made for the church itself 85 years ago. It symbolises Chipping Campden as a focus of the Arts & Crafts Movement. Twelve years earlier, a life commenced which a goodly number came together to celebrate yesterday afternoon in that church: Peggy Nelson had died aged 97.

When someone has attained that age, funereal faces are hardly necessary, and indeed my ears were met by a merry buzz (more like you hear before a wedding) as I entered the church. My task was to represent the family: the Nelsons (who ran Arden House, a prep school near where we lived, in Warwickshire) were old and firm friends of my parents, and Peggy had taught my sisters French at the pre-prep next door, Hurst House, a school I too attended for a year. It astonished me how many Arden House school ties were in evidence yesterday, showing the devotion which Peggy had engendered. Victoria Checksfield, in her address, brought her mother to life with a combination of masterly objectivity and the deepest affection: we all wanted to clap, but that wouldn't have been British.

In the 57 years since I left Hurst House, I don't suppose I had given the three form teachers a second thought. At that age I imagined them to be already old people, yet I learnt yesterday that not only were two of them still alive, but one was there. And so it was that I reminisced with Miss Jones, whose face I recalled clearly as soon as we were introduced, how she took us to look at the bluebells in Mayswood.

Most of those I met up with I shall never see again. None of them learnt anything about me as an adult; nor I hardly a thing about them: they were names and faces, with which I was making a fleeting reconnection. But somehow, the Spring sunshine pouring into St James' Church, it was not inconsequential.