Regarding Henry

Henry Allingham's funeral yesterday reminded me the time I briefly met him in April last year.

It was the 90th anniversary of the founding of the Royal Air Force and, together with some other local councillors, I was kindly invited to a ceremony at RAF Odiham. Nine trees, one for each decade, were planted at the base.

"Officially" planting a tree is a bit of a laugh. Someone else has done the hard work and, with the usual RAF meticulous organisation the soil was neatly piled beside the hole and the sapling placed inside, exactly vertical. So all I had to do was take the gleaming shovel (one per hole, handed over by perfectly presented personnel) and formally shovel in two or three spadefuls. I felt honoured and it was a bit of fun.

The real VIP was, of course, none of the councillors but Henry Allingham. He was 111 years old at the time, and wheelchair bound. It was a chilly spring day and he was wrapped up warmly. He was also a fund of cheerfulness and my abiding memory is what happened as he started shovelling soil onto the tree. We were all watching this World War I veteran with awe when he burst into tuneful song "I talk to the trees, but they don't listen to me."

If this was a cameo of his life, then what a remarkable life.

Dear Henry, you'll be missed.