Boduan, Pwllheli: A woodland burial reminds us that nature is the mirror and foundation for every resurrection myth
My dear old friend loved birds. They brought her joy. I’d spent many peaceful hours in her garden room, keeping her company, watching the nuthatches, woodpeckers, goldfinches and siskins at her bird table during these recent years of illness patiently borne. She died in the last minutes of the old year, at the age of 88. A woodland burial was arranged at Boduan Sanctuary. Waxy-white clumps of snowdrops reflected in the hearse’s paintwork as she left her home for the last time.
At the sanctuary wood’s car park we lifted her into a sturdy rustic cart with iron-rimmed wheels. On the narrow path into the wood, one of these ran over my foot. I imagined the quip this lively, humorous woman would have lanced my way, and changed position to push from the back. We held straps to lower her into the grave, and as we did so the sun’s barred rays threaded through the trees, traversed her wicker coffin, and illuminated the moss and the pale trunks of the silver birches.
Country diary: laying our friend to rest in the woods