Wreaths and silent grief. These are the abiding memories of the funeral of Adrian Lamph in Portadown, Co Armagh. Those who knew him say he was a "decent guy" who liked dogs, birds, music, get-togethers and parties, and had a sense of humour.
His coffin was carried from his father's home at Ballyoran Park on to the Garvaghy Road. The all-embracing silence contrasted with the last time the media were here, watching British soldiers fire plastic bullets at nationalists protesting against the Drumcree parade.
The television cameras yesterday focused on the cortege from the green mound where the women's peace camp was located last July, before it broke up in the face of an influx of police and military.
This was different. There was no noise, no clamour of strife, just the local people assembled in their thousands in a silent display of mourning for a neighbour who died long before his time.
At 29 years, Adrian Lamph was the same age as the Troubles. He worked only half-a-mile away at a recycling depot but crossing that short distance each day brought him, fatefully, to the other side of a 300-year sectarian conflict. He was reportedly on his knees cleaning up at the end of the day when the killer rode in on his mountain-bike.
It is a powerful image: the young man kneeling down, blown into eternity by the sectarian assassin's bullet.
The Garvaghy Road is a nationalist enclave in a sea of loyalism. The people who live there know if they are in the wrong place at the wrong time, they could be killed. It happened to Robert Hamill, kicked to death in the town centre, and now the victim was Adrian Lamph.
There was no wailing, no histrionics, but the outrage on the faces of the mourners was plain for all to see. Instead of rending the air with cries, they carried flowers: more wreaths than a cardinal would have at his passing.
There were no big-name politicians, just the ordinary people of the area. His fiancee Nicola, small son Jude and father, Tommy, led the mourners. Mates and older brothers took turns to carry the coffin. Young women flanked the hearse. It was hard to find anyone over 30 at the front of the cortege.
The bell at St John the Baptist church tolled long and slow as Adrian arrived on his last journey. Across the fields one could see the better-known Protestant church of Drumcree. The parish priest, Father Sean Larkin, recalled walking down the long hospital corridors to the unit where Adrian lay dying and seeing a trail of his life-blood on the floor.
He invoked Cain and Abel and asked, in the words of Bob Dylan: "How many ears must one man have before he can hear people cry?". He asked if the people who murdered Adrian had no ears to hear the cry of the people - "The killings must stop now."
Friends played and sang beautiful tunes and there was a haunting traditional air on the fiddle. No doubt memories went through their minds of a decent guy who liked dogs, birds, music, get-togethers and parties and had a sense of humour. And who was killed by someone who did not want peace.