A Dusty Undertaking

Countryside Column for 21 November

Ashes to Ashes; Dust to the Wind

Myrtle and I were walking on West Hill in Hastings the other day.  Or at least I was. She was running hither and thither, chasing balls and looking warily at other canines. I’d been gazing at the stunning view of the Old Town down below and the fishing-boat littered Stade when I became aware of a commotion on the slope behind. A group had gathered and smoke seemed to be billowing from within their circle. It seemed an odd place to burn stuff and unlikely to be a flare or firework. Then it hit me.  It wasn’t smoke at all. It was ashes being spread to the wind.

I wondered whose remains they were. How often had he or she tramped this very hill and spied the pounding shore below? What life had they lived? What death had they made? I nearly went over and asked. But I thought it might be intrusive. I envied them though for some part, even if only a memory, would forever remain on West Hill.

It’s curious this ashes scattering thing. A friend from my village recently took his mother’s out on a launch in Bosham harbour, complete with the Commodore and other dignitaries from the local yacht club. Apparent she’d often sailed there in her younger days.

And a year or so back the wife of an old and dear friend from California brought his ashes over to Europe on a plane and divided them up. Some were spread around the lake next to my house, mingling, in spirit at least, with my father’s from a decade or so before. Then we boarded the Eurostar with the remainder and travelled down to Taizé in Burgundy. After contracting brain cancer, Chris had found solace in the international religious community there. So a little outdoor service was held in the grounds with one of the Brothers officiating. 

Both friends recognised that the procedure was more for their sake than for the deceased’s.  And I suppose that must be the thing with memorial benches too.  When I’m gone I don’t expect I’ll be too concerned about whether my name is carved on a backrest or my ashes cast to the wind.

But now, after Myrtle has tired me out in the orchard or up on the West Hill, I like to sit on such a bench, and wonder on whose life I’ve imposed myself.