The day of the funeral was lovely. May suddenly stopped batting us back into winter. No cold north winds, but a rich abundance of spring flowers. Bryn was a leading farmer in Pembrokeshire and beyond. What made him special for me was his delight in the countryside and its inhabitants. As the practical work on the land grew beyond him so he had turned to the smaller stock, the cats, dogs, puppies and kittens.

A byre without a few cats soon pulls in another sort of quest. A shepherd without a dog is a man without an arm. They all need feeding. The farm has New Zealand contacts from young farmers who come over here to help the sheep shearing. Eventually a New Zealand back runner appeared on the farm. This fleet, sturdy, chestnut-coloured hound can run lightly over a flock of sheep to move them forward from behind.

As the farm jobs are re-distributed, one son going to feed the little ones was amazed by the response of the wild birds to his appearance. They flocked in to take tit-bits from his hand. I remember a friend's small boy glowing with pride and excitement going hand in hand with Bryn to inspect the lambs and ewes. When he returned he was a bigger boy, as if the gentle delights and concern of his shepherd had cast a good spell on him.

By the day of the funeral, the village was immaculate. Strimmers and lawn mowers, spades and wheelbarrows were all used to honour the man we'd lost. Built in 1690, the chapel has a graveyard dating from the same time. Grasses are in flower along with herb Robert, Canterbury bells, bluebells, wild garlic, speedwell, buttercups. From there you look out over the sweep of the Preseli hills. On the grave, from the immediate family were dextrously woven wreaths in white, gold, bronze, yellow, blue and green, with a rectangular one from the grandchildren: a plump little white lamb on a field-green background.