We buried my father here five years ago. Today I have returned to the lime trees and wreaths of Thirsk Municipal Cemetery. Sparrows chirp, they did then too. On that raw February morning, Lionel, a kind parishioner whose allotment overlooks the graveyard, had scattered birdseed so that my father, a keen ornithologist, would be accompanied on his final journey by the sparrows he loved, or “spuggies” as he called them.

St Bede would have appreciated Lionel’s gesture.