THE town seemed to stretch in the sun, as if awakening after a period of hibernation. Campbeltown on a Monday moved slowly but purposefully. There were obvious signs of life after what seemed an eternity besieged by a pandemic.

There was the smell of paint, the thump of hammers and that sharp buzz of the electric saw. The town was putting on its best face for the summer.

Those of us more attuned to a Campbeltown Monday where the wind would rip the paint off a radiator and the driving rain would force a polar bear indoors were both gratified and surprised.

The sun was out for the day – presumably the world’s media had been informed – and there were signs of, well, an embracing of the concept of chic. There is a restaurant on a corner that impresses even the locals. There is even a reassuringly expensive cafe that had the elan, the ineffable whiff of class, not to open on a Monday.

The tourists strode, pokey hat in hand, and looked upon the wonders of Campbeltown and rejoiced. At least this one did.

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There is an old Gaelic saying that it is better to travel hopefully than arrive in Campbeltown. It did not hold true on a Covid Monday when there was an optimism enhanced by an expectation that lockdown was to be eased even further.

On a Glasgow Saturday, it had produced the sort of scenes one witnesses on CNN when Hurricane Shuggie is approaching the Florida Keys and the highway is jammed in one direction.

Cars along Loch Lomond moved slower than a sloth with an underactive thyroid. The A83 did not need speed cameras. A portrait painter could have accurately represented the flow of traffic. The sun was out, the countryside beckoned and taps were aff on convertibles and more substantial vehicles, such as the middle-aged Glaswegian.

It was oddly moving, unlike the cars. There was a sense of people returning to old haunts, of punters expecting to find some relaxation, even recreation, under that unusual yellow orb and in harmony with the sort of scenery that reminds one that if Scotland has a glowering beauty it also scrubs up well.

I eventually washed up in Campbeltown. One task was to support the local second-hand bookstore by buying more books I do not need.

The other was more sombre. A black tie had to be purchased. A wee break in the Mull of Kintrye was to be broken by a dash back to Stirling and the funeral of a mate. The black suit and white shirt had been stowed in the boot but I had neglected to bring a tie in a needless tribute to my increasing dodderiness.

The bleak purchase was grasped in one hand while the other grappled with an ice cream so big a flock of seagulls sent for reinforcements before attempting to dive-bomb it.

There was, obviously, a crude contrast in the contents of opposing hands. While ice cream whispers of life going on, black ties shout that it’s not forever.

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The scene at a crematorium in Bannockburn the next day resembled Campbeltown in terms of a sunshine that was unremitting, reminding us that nature does not conform to mood or wish.

The personal loss was suddenly felt keenly. This seemed selfish in the face of the grief of widow and family. But it could not be denied. It hurt. It was shared out the side of my mouth with good mates. There were but a few good men. Covid had inflicted its routine, casual insult. There had to be a limit on mourners.

I have been to two funerals in Covid times. Both have been for good men who probably did not know how widely they were loved. Their families, too, seemed surprised at the profound and widespread tributes paid to their lost loved ones.

They knew that father, brother or husband had been loved outside the family circle. But this much?

A Covid funeral can be starkly beautiful and those limited numbers hold sincere and deep emotion. But families have been denied a true representation of the esteem in which their loved ones were held.

Does that matter? Can that be any consolation in a time of loss? My experience prompts an answer in the affirmative. I was gently buoyed by the presence of others in times of individual grief.

Death can understandably be seen as a destroyer, even by those who have a religious faith. The presence of family, friends – and, most gloriously, those whom one does not know – at the funeral shows that love and respect can and will survive.

This balm has been denied so many grief-stricken people in the time of Covid.

It was an honour to be one of the chosen few at those funerals during the pandemic.

But it was one that accentuated that gross injury that was added to the loss of the stricken family.

The relaxation of Covid rules mean restrictions on funerals have been lifted. The virus, though, has not gone anywhere. It will deliver further ills. But its past should not be forgotten.

We all know someone who has been laid to rest with restricted numbers and in defiance of rites and rituals that are as old as mankind.

I rushed to the sun, raced to the sea this week. I make no apology for that. In the midst of death, we are in life, after all.

But this blessed, personal circumstance prompted a thought. The lost friends can be remembered and honoured in larger numbers in due course. It should be done. It will be done.

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