We knew the church would be packed as Shelley had died so young. We knew the church would be freezing, as her funeral fell during the Arctic spell that whitened the bracken and iced over puddles the colour of Dairy Milk. When we drove into Simonsbath just after lunchtime, the sun was only grazing the hilltops, leaving valleys in deep shadows. We’d allowed plenty of time, but the lanes were already crammed with vehicles.

My husband and I had intended to stand at the back of St Luke’s so as not to take up precious places, but thanks to Ivo’s near-village-elder status we were ordered into the emergency seating in the chancel. This gave me the opportunity to study the fine stained-glass window, added in remembrance of local men who died in the Great War – many of the fallen, of course, decades younger even than Shelley.

‘It is finished,’ confirmed an inscription below the crucifixion. A single bell tolled in the bell-cote.

On the front of the order of service was a photograph of a joyous Shelley, aged just 36, on her wedding day only 550 days earlier, here at St Luke’s. The organist was playing ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’ and it was then I noticed there were three dogs held on pink........

© The Spectator