THIS is not easy to write, as it is about the recent death of the son of two of our closest friends. Indeed, we classed Nick as a special friend as we got to know him especially well when he worked for a summer on the farm during one of his summer vacations, although we have known him for almost all of his life, both as a classmate of our daughter Bryony, and as a family friend.

When he worked with us, he consumed an entire chocolate cake a day for his snacks, drank most of a cow dry to wash it down and ate more potatoes than John with his lunch. His was a big frame to fill. I searched for extra-large gloves to fit him, as tossing the straw and hay bales soon blistered the palms of his hands. I don't think that his record for tractor time from field to yard had ever been beaten.

Nick, as his dad said at the celebration of his life that we have just attended in London, was not one of those lads to whom qualifications had a high priority in life. Fun and living were Nick's priority. "Nick lived life on the edge," summed up another friend. Nick was more surprised than his mum and dad when he was awarded his degree in environmental science, but after trying a number of jobs, his farming background, and love of nature, led him back to the great outdoors, and for the last few years of his life he trained and worked as a tree surgeon

Engaged to be married to his "strawberry girl", Chrissie, she is left distraught at the loss of her soul mate, lover and friend. Always a traveller, Nick had revelled in the Far East and its cultures, soaked up Indian customs, seen all of Europe and visited "the big trees" in America in his Pontiac convertible.

To see Nick might be to assume a threatening nature lurked within his soul. At 6ft 8in, he towered over most people. Add to this dreadlocks, alternating with shaved head, tattoos (including a poem across his back), piercing and big boots, and he could scare most people witless on a dark - or light - night. But that was not Nick. A bigger, softer, more loving lad, would be impossible to find. He adored his parents, even though over the years he had driven them to distraction on many occasions. I always remember his mum and dad turning up for a parents evening at sixth form college to quiz the tutor as to how he was progressing on his course, only to find he had ditched the subject six months earlier but not thought to tell his parents.

As a middle brother, he was baby broth to Andrew and big broth to Ben. "I can't believe he's gone," they both said separately. "I keep expecting him to ring up and say - when are we off out then?"

Now that the organised celebration of his life has taken place, Liz and Dave have to pick up the life that was shattered by the policeman's call a fortnight ago. Before their isolated farmhouse was an idyllic retreat, now it will be a very lonely place.

At his family's request, Nick's celebration was a riot of colour, an extravaganza of music, haunting poetry, pounding drums, an actual oak tree, fluttering ribbons and branches of evergreens - Nick's axes and ropes were icons to his skill. His woven casket, threaded with twinkling lights and sprinkled with flowers and leaves, the heartrending focus of his wifey's, parents, brothers, and veritable legion of friend's, grief and love. We shall be planting an oak tree for him and nurturing the acorns we were given to remember his life. Nick, Biggie, Streaky Leakey, Tricky Nicky, we shall never forget you.

Updated: 12:28 Wednesday, December 10, 2003