Many people opt to put on funeral refreshments at their own home. But it can be overwhelming to cater for large groups of people on such an emotional day. However, we are here to help.
A database of possible venues
We know various local options, from village halls to hotels, tearooms to pubs. We can book the venue and take care of the catering for you, or you may. We also know about parking spaces, accessibility issues and catering options. Please ask us if you are unsure of something.
We’ll be holding the wake at home. Can you recommend a caterer?
Absolutely. We know some excellent outside caterers who can take care of your funeral refreshments. Whether you’re providing teas and coffees, a buffet or a full meal we will know someone who can help.
Do you have members of the congregation who are travelling from outside the area? You may want to let them know about the following links:
Accommodation in and around Snainton
- The Coachman Inn, Snainton
- B&B No. 23, Wykeham
- Downe Arms Country Inn Hotel, Wykeham
- Sykes Holiday Cottages
Other accommodation links
A Cricketer’s Last Boundary by Naveen Sai
Weeping willows formed an honour guard
For the cricket ball writ with a noble name
A team of ten, which had once been eleven
Would never be the same side again.
No bails united the forlorn stumps
Since this wicket had fallen some days ago
And as the bowler delivered to the lone batsman
The hushed crowd willed a six to go.
The magical sound… of leather on willow
The sweet smell… of freshly cut grass
The cricketer… crossing the last boundary
To a third innings that would forever last.
Sea Fever by John Masefield
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.