We said goodbye to Cormac Rigby this morning at his funeral Mass in Ruislip. His parishioners had clearly loved him - and they were there in their hundreds.

Cormac's great love was dance - and this love was handsomely reciprocated today. Monica Mason read the first lesson (Wisdom of Solomon 8,2-9, 13 "Wisdom I loved and searched for from my youth".), while David Bintley paid his personal tribute ("a mentor, teacher, kind critic and friend”). Poignantly, Cormac had written the programme notes for David Bintley’s new ballet Cyrano de Bergerac. He had planned to see it performed in Oxford (and on Robert Parker's final night with BRB) on the very day he died.

It was a fine leave-taking which drew together the threads of his life - his care for the liturgy; love for the spoken word; and, in particular, his passion for the dance. Cormac’s interests were indivisible - Bishop George Stack's homily recounted his intensely sacramental view of the arts. He remembered too Cormac's missionary zeal for dance - and how he would bring fellow Catholic priests, among them Bishop George himself, to Covent Garden to share with them his enthusiasm (he once brought Archbishop Derek Warlock to see Sylvia).

This was a requiem for a priest and aesthete; there aren't many such in today's Catholic Church (Benedict XVI is a rare exception). Among the readings was Ninette de Valois's Said the Child (also read at her own memorial service) After the recessional Salve Regina , the organist played the overture from Meistersinger. However, I lost my own composure as, after the Communion, we listened to an old 78rpm recording by the great Irish tenor Count John McCormack, accompanied by Gerald Moore. This was Cormac's envoi.

I'll walk beside you through the world today
While dreams and songs and flowers bless your way
I'll look into your eyes and hold your hand
I'll walk beside you through the golden land

I'll walk beside you through the world tonight
Beneath the starry skies ablaze with light
And in your soul, loves's tender words I'll hide
I'll walk beside you through the eventide

I'll walk beside you through the passing years
Through days of cloud and sunshine, joys and tears
And when the great call comes, though sunset gleams
I'll walk beside you to the land of dreams.

It sounds Victorian - actually it was written in 1936. For me, the sentiment is very straightforward and very authentic. Because it was McCormack, I wondered at first if the words might be Irish. They aren't. But the recording at once evoked Cormac's traces of Irishness and his distinct Englishness, his romanticism, warmth, grace, passion and idealism.

Cormac had told me, as he had told others, of his great friend at Oxford, John Eccles, who first introduced him to the ballet. John died in a car crash in 1964. It was the defining relationship - and tragedy - of Cormac's life. He had chosen ever since to live John's life as well as his own (Cormac's words). It was an extraordinary revelation, an intimate detail that I filed away in my mind when I heard it, but it recurred in Cormac's internal monologue. When I heard John McCormack's voice today (in the church's lovely clear acoustic), I remembered that friendship and that devastating loss. May they both have found peace.

Cormac requested no flowers, but, instead, donations to the Royal Ballet Benevolent Fund. On the day before the funeral, the Royal Ballet had dedicated a performance of Mayerling to his memory. David Bintley's and Kevin O'Hare's tributes are among many to be found on Damien Thompson's blog . Also see Father Nicholas Schofield's blog. He was one of the concelebrants at the Mass.

There is a recording of Cormac's voice, along with that of his contemporary, Patricia Hughes, on the BBC Radio 3 - Sixty Years On website