THE man they called The Sheriff strode up to the lectern, touched the coffin of the recently departed, and fixed the assembled congregation with the firm, clear gaze of a man on a mission.

As if on cue, a shaft of late summer's sun pierced the stained glass of the Church of St Mary Magdalene, Alfrick, illuminating the sheaf of carefully folded foolscap, exposing the as-yet unread lines of blue ink.

Nigel Jones - "don't ask me why they call me The Sheriff, it's a long story" - began in a voice that although initially beset with a spasm of grief, soon gathered strength, warming to the theme.

John Barker, late of The Swan at Alfrick, longest-serving landlord in Worcestershire, beloved father and an English gentleman straight and true... we bid you farewell.

Yes. John Edward Norman Barker... this is your life.

And what an odyssey. Born of a London journalist and a nurse, we learnt of how he grew up in Martley and eventually took on the tenancy of The Swan.

But before that could happen, a certain little German corporal with a silly moustache started causing problems across the Channel. Soon, the shockwaves would be felt far and near, even deep in the faraway, beautiful countryside of the Teme Valley.

John Barker tried to enlist in the Army, but failed the medical. And so he joined the Home Guard, in 1940 a motley mix of old men, First World War veterans and farm lads.

The Sheriff had, by now, warmed to his theme, and it was not hard to imagine the scene as young John and his comrades paraded and drilled with pitchforks and hoes, eagerly awaiting the rifles that were always promised but never actually seemed to arrive.

These men, as their successors today, were drawn from the fiercely proud and independent people of England's Marcher counties. If the Germans had invaded, they would no doubt have given a good account of themselves before inevitably becoming overwhelmed.

John Barker was the kind of bloke who - in hopeless, suicidal heroism - would have fired his 12-bore shotgun at the first Tiger tank coming up the Bromyard Road, broken the stock over the turret, and then laid down in the road in a defiant, final attempt to impede its passage.

But then there was the John who was the most famous publican in Worcestershire. And what a wealth of stories poured forth. We heard of how the pub under the Barkers became the focal point in Alfrick, every week packed with activities ranging from traditional games to tug-o'-war and air rifle shooting.

Beating at the pheasant shoots, too... how he would retrieve a bird from the most impenetrable thicket, places that would deter even the keenest hound.

And then there was the famous "slate". Where would you find a pub with a slate nowadays? Could you imagine such trust existing in this suspicious age?

In the case of The Swan, debts were chalked on the beam over the bar. Many of these were settled, but a quite a few must have been quietly forgotten by both parties.

That was the kind of man he was...

The Sheriff paid a sterling tribute, Gray's Elegy In A Country Churchyard with a dash of Worcestershire Sauce.

Earlier, I joined the procession of mourners as they accompanied John on the first leg of his last journey. We walked in brilliant sunshine from The Swan to the church, and were met by the Rev Derek Sharples, who was to conduct the funeral service.

After the introductory prayer and the first hymn, it was my great honour to read the Lesson, taken from the Book of Isaiah. His daughter Diane later followed with a tribute and prayer from Shantideva's The Bodhisattva's Way Of Life, a Buddhist text.

This was a fitting touch, for although John was very much an English country gent with conservative values, he was a man of boundless understanding and tolerance.

In fact, many a time the regulars in the bar would mingle with Diane's Buddhist friends and no one would bat an eyelid. On several occasions, Tibetan monks wearing the traditional clothes of their faith could be observed in the front room at The Swan, enjoying refreshments of a non-alcoholic nature.

All people, regardless of faith, creed or colour were welcome at The Swan.

The passing of John Barker also marks the end of an era in the village life of Alfrick. When he took over the pub in 1948, he was serving a community of people mainly engaged in rural employment.

The outlying farms would have provided work for a number of labourers. There were the itinerant hop pickers boosting the local economy at certain times of the year, and the school, post office and shop supplied most of the people's needs.

Cars were few, carts still preferred for much field work, and the church combining with the pub as centres of activity. When he retired in 1997, motor traffic had increased beyond imagination, and Alfrick, like so many English villages, had become home for many urban incomers.

But The Swan, until the very last, remained a beacon for those who didn't want change. Although John would rustle up a ploughman's lunch if pressed, this was a pub that primarily served liquid refreshment.

When you drank a pint of Marstons in the snug, it was not so much a drink, more an event...

The sun was still shining as we filed out of the church and followed the coffin to the lychgate, from where it was to embark on its last journey to Astwood Road Crematorium, Worcester.

On either side of the path, the churchyard was packed with what appeared to be the entire population for miles around. Men stood grim-faced, some of the women openly wept. For a moment, it looked as if there was to be a spontaneous burst of applause, an appreciation of the man who had touched and enriched so many people's lives.

I thought of the next stage of the proceedings. After the service at Astwood Road, everyone was invited back to the Talbot Inn, Knightwick, for the wake. This hostelry, on the banks of the Teme was where John and Joan Barker had started their married life in the late 1940s.

It was fitting that the day should conclude at this place. It is what John would have wanted.

There are many images of the day that will forever remain in my memory, yet there is one in particular that lingers. It is of The Sheriff standing straight-backed at the entrance to the churchyard, his bowler hat clutched tight against his chest by way of salute.

This said it all. For we all salute John Barker, late landlord of Worcestershire. And I can't help but cast my mind back to those late-night conversations we used to have over a bottle of whisky after a music session at The Swan.

So if you can hear me, wherever you are, John, please don't drink the lot. Save some for when I next see you.