IT was the day that the heavens opened and Bolton wept. A favourite son was gone.

But thousands turned out in relentless rain to show that Fred Dibnah will never be forgotten.

The only great pity was that Fred himself was not there to see it because he would have loved every minute.

It was, after all, exactly as he had planned it - from the rousing music of the band of the Lancashire Artillery Volunteers in their black, red and gold uniforms undimmed by the deluge, to the rumbling procession of traction engines that led the cortege from his historic home in The Haulgh to Bolton Parish Church.

Fred's beloved - but ultimately unreliable - engine Betsy pulled his familiar green caravan followed by the unforgettable sight of an unnamed Aveling & Porter convertible engine bearing Fred's coffin.

The trailer had come up from Worthing, but the ladders were Fred's own reliables from steeplejacking days.

And the flat cap on top of the coffin was definitely his, recognised with a sweep of grief by the crowds.

And, absolutely right, there was a large statue of Bolton's coat of arms, with its lordly elephant, borrowed from the museum for the day.

Amid the billowing steam of the noisy Leviathans of a later age, the people of Bolton who had queued in Churchgate - sometimes five deep - now got a glimpse of their hero's final journey.

For this was their Fred. A bloke as likely to turn up in a local scrapyard as he would on the telly.

Someone who could be counted on to arrive on Betsy as VIP at a Bolton fete, eventually, having stopped to talk engines and industry with a dozen people on the way.

And their response to this wonderful, showman's spectacle was exactly what Fred would have wanted: spontaneous applause.

He had chosen Bolton Parish Church for his funeral, its Victorian Gothic splendour the perfect setting for the man who admitted that he was born "70 years too late".

Elaine Paige's voice soared through the vaulted ceilings to one of his favourite songs "Don't Cry For Me Argentina" in a church full of people, with dozens standing at the back just grateful to be part of this special day.

Fred's daughter Lorna set the tone for the service with Rabindranath Tagore's moving poem "Farewell My Friends" dedicated to all those who had known him, all those friends.

The words were poignant, but there were really few sad moments in this celebration of a remarkable life and a remarkable man.

The Vicar of Bolton, the Rev Michael Williams, conducted the service.

And the Rev Barry Newth spoke with personal warmth and affection of the man he first met in Clifton over 30 years ago.

His weather vanes needed repairing and Fred was recommended.

"Up went the ladders, as near as possible to the bell-cote and, horror of horrors, Fred invited me to join him up the ladder," he told the smiling congregation as laughter quickly spread through the pews.

"How could I say no, scared stiff though I was of heights. Young and enthusiastic I, too, was anxious to make a good impression."

This was obviously the start of another firm friendship. Yes, Fred had plenty of those.Another who became a friend was TV producer David Hall. He described Fred as "totally untouched by fame or celebrity", and heads nodded in agreement.

He recalled how "difficult" it had been to film with Fred because, as the crew set up, Fred would disappear, "and we would eventually find him with the engineers or the miners, where he really preferred to be".

The world of showbiz was just the means to an end for Fred.

And no one who knew him really believed that description of him in a national newspaper, just days before, as a 'champagne steeplejack'.

The people of Bolton are protective of him, and there were many cries of 'hear, hear' in the congregation at Roger Murray's defence of this perceived slur on Fred's memory.

He had chosen beautifully with his hymns, too. Great old traditional offerings: 'The Lord's My Shepherd', 'Thine Be The Glory' and that emotional anthem "Jerusalem" with its apt line about "those dark satanic mills".

Outside, the crowds had waited. Some bare-headed, some with flat caps, not out of artifice but, like Fred, because this is what many local lads wear to keep the rain off.

The coffin resumed its unique perch, and the trail of traction engines along Churchbank chugged along to more applause, winning new fans for steam-driven transport.

People knew the route. They knew where to wait to see their hero, so they stood quietly, listening for the whistles in the distance that signalled the coming of this almost festival funeral.

They clapped. Some wiped away the odd tear at the sight of Fred's final journey. Many smiled in memory of the man. Their man.

At Tonge Bridge, they watched once more in crowds as the procession trundled solemnly along Cemetery Road - where residents stood in the street to pay their respects - and through the cemetery gates where someone had tied an almost festive farewell shiny ribbon.

A steady stream of people made their way the half mile to Tonge Cemetery, where the crowd of 100 or so swelled to around 300 around the grave as the noisy cortege circled the perimeter.

From this family grave, when winter takes the foliage from the trees due north, it is possible to see Fred's home and his workshop. But this day, the landscape was full of people, quietly standing waiting to say this final goodbye.

Fred's wife Sheila - tall and composed throughout, wearing black leather trousers, black jacket and claret and black hat with her long, blonde plait falling over one shoulder - waited.

Suddenly, all the traction engines made their piercing whistle salute as Fred's coffin was lowered into the ground. Twenty seconds went by and everyone waited for this memorable salvo to finish.

Then, after brief prayers by the Rev Williams, Sheila threw a handful of soil onto the coffin.

She waved twice in a jaunty farewell, blew a kiss, and turned away as the tears finally came.

Fred's children followed her, 13-year-old Roger's light hair streaked with soot from the engine he had driven, and his cheeks as grubby as his blue boiler-suit.

Then, in another spontaneous show of affection, people surrounding the grave came forward to do the same. After all, this was their Fred. The people's Fred who knew him and loved him, and no one wanted to stop them.

The floral tributes waited nearby for them to finish, among them a small colourful wreath - surrounding a bottle of Guinness.

The official mourners were going on to wakes. And for the unofficial mourners - the thousands of Boltonians for whom the passing of this man was like a death in the family - there were no doubt plenty of toasts to 'our Fred' in pubs from Deane to Dimple.

As for Fred? If only he had been there, he would have no doubt had a typical response to the day. "Did you like that?"