Last Friday was the day of Madame Grimaud’s funeral, and it was a very hot, sunny afternoon.

By the time I arrived in the village there was already a large crowd gathered, all chatting and laughing, as they are wont to do, which still shocks me a little, even after all these years in France. They just don’t seem to be sufficiently solemn. Still, a funeral is not only the place to say farewell to a departed friend or neighbour, but also a very social event where inhabitants of the commune have a chance to get together with others whom they probably don’t often see. Another thing which is noticeable is the casual dress worn – these are farming folk in the main, and they don’t keep a special outfit for funerals. They come in what they wear to go shopping, or among the younger ones, jeans. No hats. No black. Don’t go to a French rural funeral in a swanky little black number and a hat with a veil.

As is the custom, we all waited outside the church for the arrival of the hearse, and those of us who could squeezed into the very narrow strip of shade given by the wall of the church. Now, unless I stood facing the wall, which would have looked very peculiar – as if I was having a Frenchman’s pee – I was forced to look directly into scorching sun. Currently I’m suffering from hay-fever; the pills keep it under control, but I’d forgotten to take the mid-day one. It affects my eyes very badly, and they are bloodshot and puffy. I also suffer from ocular photosensitivity which means that sunshine makes my eyes stream.

So, amongst a crowd of about 100 people, all chirping and smiling, one woman stands alone, sniffing, with tears streaming down her face. She constantly blots them with a bunch of tissues, but immediately they are replaced by others. From both sides of both eyes unstoppable cascades of salty water gush down her cheeks, which become crimson from the combination of salt and tissue-dabbing. Through her swollen lids she sees people staring curiously, wondering why she alone is showing such visible signs of unbearable grief when everybody else is enjoying themselves.

At precisely 3.00 pm the church bells peal, and the hearse arrives. As the coffin is removed and placed on a trestle in front of the doors of the church, the crowd presses closer. Madame Grimaud’s family stands in a small phalanx of grief. After the priest, very dashing in black and gold, has blessed the coffin, we file into the church. It is standing room only for a couple of dozen of us, and I wish I hadn’t worn high heels, because the stone floor is very hard and now my feet are aching. However, in the cool of the church, and away from the sun, I have at least stopped weeping.

The service is moving, and fairly short. The priest talks of Madame Grimaud’s family – her husband who was originally a baker, but had to become a farmer because of ill-health. Her devotion to him over the long years of his terminal illness. He talks of the beautiful roses that Madame Grimaud grew, and how she delivered them each week to the church. He talks of her kindness to others – she was always there in times of difficulty for her neighbours, and he mentions that she had been a dress-maker. He talks of her generation as one that placed different values on life, that was satisfied with little, far removed from the “must-have” culture of today, fuelled by greed. If he had known her personally, he would certainly have mentioned her twinkling eyes, her permanent smile, bright voice and the way she had of bending her head slightly and looking at you sideways when she talked.

When the service endS, we all file past her coffin, which is smothered in flowers and various ornaments and plaques. One by one, we take the small silver wand thing and use it to sprinkle holy water onto the coffin, and slip a few coins into the basket there for the purpose.

In such a small hamlet as ours, the death of one resident leaves a large space.