The account was written by one of Brooke's comrades, who has since been
killed in action:

We found a most lovely place for his grave, about a mile up the
valley from the sea, an olive grove above a watercourse, dry now,
but torrential in winter. Two mountains flank it on either side, and
Mount Khokilas is at its head. We chose a place in the most lovely
grove I have ever seen, or imagined, a little glade of about a dozen
trees, carpeted with mauve-flowering sage. Over its head droops an
olive tree, and round it is a little space clear of all undergrowth.

About a quarter past nine the funeral party arrived and made their
way up the steep, narrow, and rocky path that leads to the grave.
The way was so rough and uncertain that we had to have men with
lamps every twenty yards to guide the bearers. He was borne by petty
officers of his own company, and so slowly did they go that it was
not till nearly eleven that they reached the grave.

We buried him by cloudy moonlight. He wore his uniform, and on the
coffin were his helmet, belt, and pistol (he had no sword). We lined
the grave with flowers and olive, and Colonel Quilter laid an olive
wreath on the coffin. The chaplain who saw him in the afternoon read
the service very simply. The firing party fired three volleys and
the bugles sounded the "Last Post."

And so we laid him to rest in that lovely valley, his head towards
those mountains that he would have loved to know, and his feet
towards the sea. He once said in chance talk that he would like to
be buried in a Greek island. He could have no lovelier one than
Skyros, and no quieter resting place.