Why Sodom and south Devon are a million miles apart

We gathered around in the sunshine and watched the coffin being lowered into the freshly dug trench. Stratifications visible on the interior sides of the excavation showed that she was being laid to rest in shallet (compacted broken slate) and I felt sorry for whoever it was who had volunteered to dig it by hand. The 180-year-old graveyard was perhaps seven eighths full; her allotted plot was in a pleasant, even beautiful spot, far away from the cold shadow of the church, with a small, wind-bent hawthorn tree close by and panoramic view of the blue bay. I think some of those present will remember this dazzling September and our joyful singing at her funeral service and our blinking, whey-faced silence as the coffin was lowered into the ground for years to come.

After the service, the larger-than-expected congregation trooped 100 yards down the hill to the village pub, which had opened early for tea, coffee, sandwiches or something stronger for those feeling the urge. Although I had faced the seated congregation when I read Psalm 121 — ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills’ — I hadn’t the presence of mind to lift up my eyes and notice who all the upturned faces were. And during the committal afterwards, heightened emotion precluded social curiosity. My eyes were, in any case, dazzled by the sun and tears made my vision faulty. So it wasn’t until I pushed open the pub door and plunged into the throng that I began the business of recognising, greeting and thanking people who in some cases I hadn’t seen for decades.