It was a typical spring day, cool and sunny, the kind of day Peter would have loved. My cousin had been such a great guy, full of life, charm and good natured humour. Now he was gone, eaten away by cancer in a most undignified way. He had fought long and hard but had lost his last battle while still in his prime.

The atmosphere was heavy to say the least. We were all standing around the grave, waiting to throw our small handsful of dirt while the priest said his final words. His widow was sobbing loudly and the rest of us were choking back the tears. Suddenly, from where I was standing, I heard a rattle as a trickle of earth fell upon the lid of the coffin. I watched intently as a mini-avalanche gained momentum, glad of something to distract me from the tears of the mourners. Two small feet and a soft, grey, furry snout came into view as a mole peered out of the side of the six foot chasm. I looked at him, at his squinting tiny eyes, and imagined his surprise that one minute he had been three feet underground and the next on the edge of a precipice! I prayed that he wouldn't tumble into the grave for that would have been too much to bear.

I waited. Eventually, after a struggle and with a wriggle of his tail, the mole managed to turn around and disappeared back into his gloom. Oh how Peter would have laughed if he had been watching! It is surely exactly the send-off he would have wanted - a handful of dirt from his mourners and one from the natural world he loved. I stood there and in my mind's eye I could picture Pete's handsome smiling face, saw his twinkling eyes as he threw back his head in laughter, and I smiled. In my grief I smiled.