My father liked to cook. Laying out the food on the table he would say, “Too good for the likes of you”. He died without saying what he wanted for his funeral. I had intended to take his ashes out to Donegal, a place he loved, but they were eventually placed in a pot with a young yew tree that friends had given on his death. It stood for months outside my front door. One day after a storm it fell over, broken, but soil and plant still intact.

We asked our local vicar if they had space for a tree. Yes he said. So, in St Mary’s Church, Scarborough in a beautiful spot overlooking south bay, near Anne Bronte’s grave is a young yew tree growing in his ashes. The place is called Paradise. There is a street sign on the wall. I stand there sometimes. “Too good for the likes of you” I say to him.